by PD Martin
‘Morning,’ she says in a sing-song voice, filled with genuine high spirits and not merely a shopkeeper’s mask. ‘Long drive?’
‘That obvious, huh?’ Mum smiles and moves towards a display with pre-boxed chocolates.
‘I saw you stretching outside. Melbourne?’
‘Uh huh.’ Dad makes a beeline for the counter. ‘Do you do take-aways?’
‘Sure. What can I get you?’
I order a soy latte with the addition of some cold milk, Dad gets a long black, and Mum goes for her usual cappuccino. After looking at a few sweet options, Dad also asks for three chocolate-chip cookies.
While the coffees are being made, Mum looks at the boxed chocolates. I check out the individual gourmet chocolates for sale, and Dad leans on the counter making small talk with the woman. The little treats—truffles, soft centres, hard centres, nougats—all look gorgeous, but they’re also expensive, like most chocolates that are individually sold.
Back in the car, Dad takes a large sip of his coffee. It must be boiling hot, but Dad’s always had a high tolerance for hot drinks and food, unlike me. ‘So, what’s the plan?’ he asks between steamy slurps.
‘I go in. You guys wait in the car.’
Mum laughs. ‘Nice try, darling.’
I sigh. ‘It was worth a shot.’ Besides, I think Mum does need this. She genuinely wants to be there for Ted Strawasky’s mother and she must also be hoping Mrs Strawasky or her dead son will help me bring John’s killer to justice. Whether she wants that justice for me or for her is another thing.
‘From what you said last night, you’re in a tough position here, right?’ Dad takes another sip.
‘Yup.’
‘We should tell this woman the truth. Our personal connection to her son’s murder.’
‘I agree with your father. Honesty is always the best policy.’
I gingerly try my coffee. After a sip at the perfect temperature I say, ‘I need to approach this professionally. I need information as a profiler.’
‘Of course, darling.’ Dad starts the car. ‘So you tell Mrs Strawasky you’re an off-duty profiler whose brother was killed by this bastard thirty years ago.’
I wince, still perhaps delusional in my hope, my belief, that I can be an objective professional talking to the woman whose son was murdered. But no matter how hard I try to convince myself, we’re talking about the same man who killed my brother. Even if he was the submissive partner back then, this man had a direct hand in John’s murder. In that instant of realisation I’m swallowed up by pure vengeance. I don’t just want the monster dead; I want to kill him myself.
Mrs Strawasky lives on a large, though suburban-looking, block about one kilometre west of the main township. The house is bluestone, rather than the more traditional country-style weatherboard, and a yellow, waist-high picket fence borders the property’s front yard. Roses are evenly spaced along the fence-line, although they won’t be winning any botanical awards—rather they look thirsty and in need of a good pruning. An ornate archway curves up from the middle of the fence, with a wrought-iron gate that doesn’t match the fence. Original perhaps? Part of the front garden is hidden by a large For Sale sign. Something about the house makes me think it was once a bluestone shop, which was converted to a residence some time ago. We quickly finish our coffees and biscuits before getting out of the car.
Opening the wrought-iron gate, I notice it creaks loudly. Did the killer manage to open the gate unheard? It was the middle of the night, so it’s possible; and certainly more likely than jumping the fence, which is high enough that even someone of Dad’s height couldn’t scissor their legs over it. There may also be a back entrance that’s more private, but if not, the point of entry must have been here. From here he’d have easy access to both sides of the house and several windows, with at least six metres between the house and neighbouring fences on either side.
I lead the way down a bricked path and up two steps onto a rickety wooden porch. There’s a small, actual bell mounted on the wall next to the door, so I ring it a couple of times. It gives a melodic jingle and after about thirty seconds a small woman in her mid-thirties answers the door. Her long black hair is a little haphazard and in need of a cut, but you hardly notice it because of stunningly high and pronounced cheekbones, complemented by dark blue eyes and full red lips. She’s about five-three, slim but with an oversized bust, which is emphasised by tight jeans and a white figure-hugging T-shirt.
‘Mrs Strawasky?’
‘No. I’m her sister, Rose. You the police?’ She looks behind me, to Mum and Dad. We don’t look like the average cop contingent.
‘I spoke to your sister last night. My name’s Sophie Anderson and I’m a profiler.’
She shrugs, like it’s all double Dutch to her. ‘Come in.’ She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know why she has to tell the same story over and over. The left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing, huh? Our tax dollars hard at work.’
‘Actually, it’s not quite like that, Rose.’ Dad extends his hand. ‘Bob Anderson. I’m Sophie’s father and this is my wife, Jan.’
Rose knits her eyebrows together. ‘A family affair?’
‘Perhaps if we can all sit down?’ Mum offers Rose one of her most charming smiles. ‘With your sister? Then we can explain everything.’
Rose hesitates for a few seconds. ‘Look, Leah’s been through hell. Who are you people and what do you want?’
Mum takes Rose’s arm. ‘Please, I know exactly what your sister’s going through. I promise it’ll all make sense. Just give us a few minutes.’
Rose can see the pain and honesty in Mum’s eyes. ‘All right, but this better be good.’ She shows us into a living room while she moves towards the back of the house. ‘I’ll go get Leah.’
‘The protective sister,’ Dad says quietly once she’s out of earshot.
I nod. ‘But Mum got through the guard dog, no problem.’ During a tragedy like this families and friends form layers of protection. In fact, I was surprised to talk directly to Mrs Strawasky last night—she actually answered her own phone. Of course, the media is a little less intrusive here than it is in the States.
The sisters enter and we all stand up. Leah Strawasky is a few inches taller than her sister but sports the same facial bone structure, though made even more prominent by her shorter black hair. She’s more casually dressed in cargo pants and a loose T-shirt, and carries a few more kilograms of weight than her sister.
‘Mrs Strawasky, we spoke on the phone last night.’ I extend my hand. ‘Sophie Anderson.’
‘Yes, that’s right. And please, call me Leah.’ Lines are etched into the skin around her eyes, like perhaps she’s a smoker or has spent a lot of time outdoors. Or it could just be the events of the past few days aging her.
I give her a smile. ‘And these are my parents, Bob and Jan Anderson.’
Leah shakes their hands but she’s not really with us, hasn’t come up with the natural question—why are a profiler’s parents tagging along to an interview?
‘Please, sit,’ she manages.
We sit back down and Rose and Leah take a seat in the sofa opposite us.
Leah squints a little, like she’s got a bad headache. ‘You’re a profiler? For the Victoria Police?’
Rose’s gaze hardens a little, waiting for the promised explanation.
‘I am a profiler, but I don’t work for the Victoria Police. Not any more at least.’
Leah and Rose stare at me expectantly for a few beats before Rose says. ‘The detectives said they were calling in a profiler. Is that you?’
‘No. I used to work in Vic Police’s Homicide Department, but then I relocated to the US, where I currently work as a profiler for the FBI.’ I know I should just be forthright, rather than taking part in the guessing game, but I can’t bring myself to say it…to tell them about John.
‘The FBI? I don’t understand.’ Rose shakes her head. ‘And to be honest, we don’t have the energy for t
his.’ She shuffles forward on the couch, like she’s about to stand up—and probably ask us to leave.
‘Oh, Soph, stop pussy-footing around, darling.’ Mum leans forward and addresses Leah. ‘The man who took your son,’ she takes a deep breath, ‘who killed him, has been linked to three murders thirty years ago.’
‘We know all this,’ Rose interrupts, probably thinking she’d let us slip through her guard too easily.
Mum nods. ‘The third victim that they know of…’ She takes a deep breath. ‘He was our son, John. Sophie’s come back to help find John’s killer, to find the man who killed your son and ours.’
Rose’s mouth is slightly open and Leah sits with her face frozen for a few seconds before she drops her head into her hands and starts crying, guttural sobs of pain. It’s just what I feel like doing and seeing Leah’s grief pulls the lump in my throat higher.
Rose immediately starts stroking Leah’s head, and Mum’s soon at her side, kneeling down next to her and rubbing her hand up and down Leah’s arm.
‘That’s right, my dear,’ Mum says softly. ‘Let it all out.’
I fight back the tears, still unwilling to give in, but it’s not long before slow tears start. They’re not the raspy tears of Leah’s, they’re tears of old, repressed pain.
Mum puts her head in closer to Leah. ‘I know what it’s like, sweetie. You’ll never be the same again, but the pain will ease eventually.’
Dad grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze, but I can’t bear to look at him. I had always presumed Mum’s pain has eased, but we’ve never spoken about it. I’ve never asked.
Mum keeps running her hand up and down Leah’s arm and after several minutes the sobs start to ease a little.
Eventually Leah looks up at me, her face blotchy and nose running. ‘Can you find him? Can you get the…thing that did this?’ Her voice is gravelly—hoarse from crying and harsh with anger.
I take a deep breath and wipe away a stray tear. ‘That’s the plan.’
She nods, seeming to understand that while I didn’t and can’t say yes, I’m in this one-hundred percent.
‘Sophie’s extremely good at what she does, Leah.’ Mum’s voice is soothing, the voice of a mother comforting a child, and apparently just what Leah needs. ‘If anyone can do it, Sophie can. She helps people like you…and me…every day.’
Fresh tears well up at the corners of my eyes and I wipe them away before they can escape.
Leah nods and sits back, dabbing her face with her hand before leaning forward and grabbing a handful of tissues from a box on the coffee table. She takes a couple of minutes to compose herself, before meeting my gaze. ‘What do you need?’
‘Everything you’ve given the police and more. My presence here is unofficial and for a variety of reasons I’m not particularly welcome.’
Rose shakes her head. ‘Bureaucrats.’
I give a little shrug. ‘What can you do? I’m not on the Force, not even based in Australia any more. Luckily, I’ve still got friends here, people willing to talk to me and help me, under the radar. Yesterday I spoke to Detective Brad Shaw, but his hands are tied when it comes to my involvement. However, I did get a lot of information from the Coroner’s Office and I will be working with the official profiler on this case, Lily Murphy.’
Rose and Leah both absorb the information and Mum takes the opportunity to move back to the sofa.
‘Do you know much about profiling?’ I ask.
Rose shrugs. ‘I watch Criminal Minds. Does that count?’
‘Yeah, it’s similar. The Bureau doesn’t have a jet that the BAU team flies around in, but the program shows you the general gist of profiling and how it can help to catch an offender. Although, it’s not as easy or as fast as it is on TV.’
They nod for me to continue.
‘My starting point will be the five major profiling inputs.’ I’m immediately back in my comfort zone, back to the objective profiler. ‘First off, the crime scene. In your son’s case, this house and where they found his body. Then the victimology, which is information about Ted and the other victims that may tell us why the perpetrator chose them. Third, forensic information, although that’s scant in this case. Fourth, the preliminary police report, and, lastly, the photos.’ I’m hoping I’ll have access to all this information via Lily Murphy, but I’ll know for sure tonight. ‘Once I’ve gone through all that information, I’ll start to come up with theories on the crime and perpetrator, before actually reconstructing the crime, focusing on the interaction between the victim and perp. Then it’ll be time to draft the profile.’
‘Sounds complicated.’
I shrug. ‘Mostly it’s just time consuming.’ I grab a pen and notebook from my briefcase and open it, ready to start writing. ‘For now, I need you to tell me about John.’ I look up at Leah and notice the strange, frozen looks on everyone’s faces. ‘What?’
Dad rests his hand on my shoulder. ‘You said John, not Ted.’
I scrunch my face up. ‘Really?’
Everyone nods.
I force a smile. ‘Sorry…Ted.’ After a moment, I plough on. ‘He was fourteen years old when he disappeared?’
‘That’s right. It was only a month after he’d turned fourteen. But he was young for his age, mentally and physically.’ She shakes her head. ‘Euroa’s a small, farm town. He would have chatted to an older guy without thinking twice about it.’
I nod. ‘Stranger danger isn’t as applicable out here. We used to live in Shepparton…we understand that.’
She rubs her hands together. ‘Maybe I should have told him to be more careful. To always be wary of strangers.’
‘Even though I haven’t drafted a profile, at this stage I believe the type of man who took Ted isn’t the sort of…’ I stop myself from saying paedophile. ‘…offender who gets to know his victims over time or lures them with the promise of sweets, or, in the case of boys this age, cigarettes or alcohol. I doubt Ted ever spoke to this man.’
She nods, her guilt appeased a little. There are all sorts of ways we can make our kids more street savvy and help protect them, but it’s hard to guard against something as random as a sadistic paedophile abducting a boy from his home and then killing him.
‘How was his mood in the few weeks prior to his abduction?’ I ask.
She shrugs. ‘He hadn’t been the same since his father left.’ She takes a deep breath and blows it out. ‘I came home from work one day and there was a note on the hall table. Dear Leah, It’s not working with us and I’ve met someone else. I’ve taken all my things and am moving to Brisbane. I will send money and divorce papers soon. Sorry. Rod.’ She recites it off by heart.
‘Charming,’ Mum says. ‘And he left you with a teenage son.’
A son who was taken away from her eight weeks later. And for six agonising months she had no idea if he was alive or dead. This woman’s been through more in the past eight months than any person should have to bear.
‘Uh huh.’ Her voice is monotone, her face flat.
Mum stands and gives Leah’s arm another maternal stroke. ‘How about a cup of tea or coffee?’
Rose stands up. ‘I was just boiling the kettle when you arrived. Come this way.’
Mum doesn’t ask what Dad and I want—she knows we’ll have coffee if it’s not instant, otherwise tea.
‘So how did Ted respond to his father leaving?’
‘At first he was quiet, sullen even. Then he turned on me, blamed me. Said I was a bad wife and that’s why Rod had left us.’ She dabs at a few tears. ‘And then he started getting into trouble. First his teacher called to say he’d been skipping classes and that his work was suffering. Then two weeks later he had a fight with a kid at school and was sent home with a black eye and was suspended for a week. But he would have been better off at school. I was working, trying to make enough money to keep this place…’ she glances around her living room. ‘And he was at home or hanging out in the streets doing God knows what.’ She sighs. ‘I even searche
d his room once for drugs, but I don’t think it was that. I guess he hit the teenage rebellion stage with a vengeance once his dad was gone.’
‘Did you show him the letter?’
‘Not at first, no. But he kept badgering me about it. Asked me exactly what Rod said, and wouldn’t believe me when I told him. Eventually I showed it to him, but I think it made things worse. You see, the letter didn’t even mention Ted. Not even a say goodbye to Ted for me—nothing. Rod did call on his birthday, though. At least he remembered that.’
I nod. ‘So it’s fair to say that Ted was upset and angry around that time?’
‘I guess, yes. But you don’t think that had anything to do with it, do you?’
‘Probably not. But it’s important to find out everything we can, and then compare that information with what we know about the other victims. Any similarities between the victims could give us a lead.’
She gulps and looks at Dad. ‘Was your son…was he upset or angry just before?’
I turn to Dad. I’d never thought to ask—I certainly don’t remember John being anything but his usual happy self, but then again I don’t remember much from that age.
‘No. If anything, the opposite.’ Dad smiles, the memory warming him. ‘He’d just qualified for a big swim meet in Melbourne.’
That’s right…I’d forgotten all about that. A few days before his abduction he’d won a race in Bendigo and was an automatic qualifier for the big Melbourne meet.
‘Did Ted swim?’ I ask, thinking of a possible connection.
‘No. He used to run, one-hundred metres, but he quit training a couple of weeks after Rod left.’
I nod and move us on. ‘The night he disappeared…did you hear anything?’
‘I’ve been over and over that night so many times. If I’d heard something, I’m sure I would have remembered it.’
‘The front gate creaks. Was it like that back in February?’
‘Yes, but probably not as bad.’ She folds her legs up underneath her on the couch. ‘Rod used to keep it oiled and I’m afraid I’ve let it slip.’
