Voodoo Doll jj-2

by Leah Giarratano

  Was this guy for real? After what they'd just heard? What they were going to see? Regardless, he was on a roll. She sat back and listened, finally realising that he was explaining to her how to cook the okra.

  'You gotta have boiling water ready, or you can use stock if you want. Salt and pepper and plenty of tomato paste in with the meat. Add some sugar. A big spoonful. Then you throw the bumya in – you know, the okra – and cover it all with the water. And you have to cook it for an hour. You eat it with rice. But don't do that crappy boiled rice. You've gotta cook it absorption method. You can put lemon and chilli in at the end if you want.'

  Was he done? Jill waited.

  'Some people eat it with yoghurt,' he said.

  He sat silently. Seemed satisfied.

  'Right.' she said. 'Um, thanks.'

  There were trees on both sides of the road now, large houses thrown around the hills surrounding them. The scrub grew more dense as the car ahead indicated right. Within a kilometre they were on a wide road, sealed, but without curbs and gutters. Jill was amazed at the rural outlook – they were so close to built-up suburbs, but around her were bushland, orchards, grazing cattle and sheep. On the horizon, the Blue Mountains shimmered, opalescent; the sky beyond stretched away forever.

  Delahunt was taking everything in, head moving from side to side; at one point, hands on the dash and face pressed against the windscreen, he seemed to stare at something directly above the car. He wound the window down, sniffing the air outside. Jill watched him from the corner of her eye.

  She braked with the sudden red lights of the car ahead. They were turning right into a gated roadway. A sign ahead indicated their arrival in Capitol Hill, also announcing that there were acre lots still available for sale.

  Jill stared when the first house came into view. It looked like it had been dropped there from Vaucluse, or Hollywood or something. Despite one of the worst droughts in the state's history, manicured emerald lawns and verdant foliage surrounded the gated property. There must be two hundred rose bushes lining the drive, she thought. As they rolled though the suburb, she swivelled her head from side to side. Each home competed with the next for opulence, size, lushness of the gardens.

  'Can you believe this?' she asked as they passed a walled two-storey mansion with single-storey wings either side, each annexe as big as a large home in its own right.

  Gabriel murmured something, totally absorbed.

  'What do you reckon these people do for a living?' she wondered aloud.

  'Tradies, a lot of them,' said Gabriel. 'We've passed electrician vans, building trucks…'

  'Mercedes, Ferraris. We're in the wrong job.'

  'So, that neighbour who noticed the white van at the victim's house last night wouldn't have thought it out of place at all,' he said. 'Most of these people would contract out their cleaning and gardening.'

  'Looks like most of them would have live-in help.'

  They heard the circus before they saw it. As they rounded a wide bend, the Superintendent's vehicle came to a sudden stop, and Jill hit the brakes hard. Cars and media vans lined the road. Clutches of people stood talking and smoking. A television crew filmed a suited woman gesturing gravely behind her as she spoke. A news chopper droned in the sky up ahead.

  The lead car began rolling again, gestured forward by a uniformed officer. Jill buzzed down her window to speak to show him her ID, but he waved her through. The film crew turned cameras in their direction and Jill gave them the back of her head as she motored past the uniformed cop.

  A hundred metres in front, unmarked and regular police vehicles indicated the victim's home. Jill pulled up in front of the next-door neighbour's house; behind a wide circular driveway, a curtain moved back into place when she glanced in its direction. She stared at the window a moment longer, then followed her colleagues towards the crime scene.

  Nobody bothered to speak; a descending chopper thumping overhead drowned all other sound. The morning was heating up already. Record temperatures were predicted for Sydney this spring and summer. Global warming. It made Jill feel guilty; she loved the heat.

  An elaborate intercom system stood beside the open motorised gate and around fifty full-sized palms lined the sandstone drive. A circular fountain the size of Jill's bathroom fluted jets of water into the air. When they reached the open doors, twice as wide and tall as doors on any house Jill had ever entered, she noticed that Delahunt was no longer by her side. She looked back and saw him at the gates, squatting by the fence line, rifling through the dirt with his hands. She followed the others into a marble foyer two levels high.

  The cacophony from outside was instantly muted. Jill felt her edginess dissipate slightly. What would it be like to actually live here, she wondered idly, looking around at the opulent furnishings. Given the horror that had unfolded here, she wondered how it could feel so serene.

  The superintendent herded them into a room off the foyer, a library. They gathered around him, waiting. David Tran leaned on his walking stick, his face pale. He seemed to be in some pain. Derek Reid, in contrast, almost vibrated with fitness. He brushed unnecessarily close to Jill and she thought she caught the sweet steroid smell body builders often emitted. He gave her a smug smile when he caught her looking.

  'The murder took place in the media room.' Last spoke in his usual hushed tone. 'Of course, the body is no longer here. Video footage and photos will be available by the time we get back to the House,' he said, referring to the police station back in Liverpool. He glanced at his watch. 'The autopsy is in progress right now. I wanted you to be here, rather than there.'

  Last looked around the group, and finally seemed to notice Gabriel's absence. He did not comment.

  'I have no set objective for any of you this morning. Forensics are still collecting prints and trace. Just do what you do. Get a feel for what happened. Take notes.'

  From a manila folder, the superintendent handed each of them a three-page photocopied floor plan of the home. He pointed out the murder room.

  'We'll meet back here at 1200 hours. If anyone questions your presence, please refer them to me. Good luck.'

  Last moved away from their group and Jill was left staring at Reid and Tran. David Tran seemed about to say something. Reid grinned at them and left the library before he could speak.

  'Jill,' said Tran, 'you may be best off without me this morning.' He seemed to be still out of breath. 'I'm afraid that walk has already taken a lot out of me. I'll be moving at a slower pace.'

  'Sure,' said Jill. She wanted to ask if he was okay, but wasn't sure of the words to use, didn't want to offend.

  He seemed to sense her unease. 'I'm supposed to still be at home,' he said. 'Sick report. HOD.'

  Hmm. Hurt on duty. She wondered what had happened. Well, this would be the time to ask, Jill, she told herself. But the moment passed while she was thinking of something to say. She nodded at Tran and left the room.

  Jill figured Reid would go straight to the crime scene, so she made her way to the garage. She didn't want to see the murder room with Derek Reid.

  The MO in three of the home invasions had been access through the garage. Donna Moser, the victim's daughter, had been asleep when her father arrived home. She'd awoken to a black balaclava. So far, she hadn't been able to give the police anything about how the offenders had gained entry. Jill figured if the offenders were onto a good thing, they'd probably stick to it.

  Orienting herself using the map in her hand, she walked across marble, granite and thick carpet until she reached the internal entry to the garage, in a room next to the kitchen. The room held a plush couch and large television, and Jill glimpsed a bright, gleaming expanse where a door opened out to a backyard entertainment area and pool.

  The door ahead of her stood open; beyond was the darkness of the garage. Jill realised that her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. Maybe she should get some water before going in there.

  She was halfway back to the brightness of the kitchen wh
en she forced herself to turn around. It's not the basement, stupid, she told herself. This place is crawling with cops. You're okay. Dark rooms always reminded her of the place she'd been held captive as a twelve-year-old, and it was only six months or so ago that she'd been locked in the same basement, this time fighting for her life.

  She stepped down from the living area into a black, cavernous room. Despite its size, it was warm and airless. Her shirt stuck to her back – the air-con obviously didn't reach this room. She smelled fuel. A dark four-wheel drive squatted ahead of her, ghostly smudges glowing from its panels in the gloom. She couldn't see beyond the car. Anyone could be there. Memories of waiting in the dark for the pain to begin crawled from her stomach into her mouth, and she closed her lips tight to keep them there. Heart thudding, she walked backwards until she felt the wall behind her; she slid her hand upwards, seeking the light switch, eyes always focused ahead.

  Scrabbling at the wall now, her hand brushed the light panel, and she stabbed the switch on. The lustrous smudges on the Porsche Cayenne were just the chalky residue left behind by the fingerprint team. She stood against the wall a moment, blinked away the memories, already scornful of her weakness. Her contempt gave her the impetus to push away from the wall, and she moved towards the car.

  If it had gone down like the others, she thought, Eugene Moser had stepped out of this vehicle into his garage and the point of a machete. The masked man would have led him back into the house, threatening to kill him if he did not comply quietly, and from there would have let in the rest of the crew. Jill imagined the man's terror, the impossible choices: Should I scream, stay here and fight? My daughter's inside – I can't let this man in! But if he stabs me now, he will get in anyway. I have to be in there with her. Maybe he'll just take what he wants and leave us alone. The options would have raced through his mind; his captor aggressive, masked, would have left him no time to think. Ultimately, he would do what he had to do to keep the knife from his throat, to try to placate his assailant.

  On tiptoes, Jill peered through the tinted windows into the car's interior. Would they get any prints this time? To date, no fingerprints had been found at any of the crime scenes, and the DNA testing of hair and fibres was still jammed up in a queue with other cases. They'd prioritise everything from this case, she thought.

  She walked through the rest of the triple-car garage. Along one wall, a floor-to-ceiling shelving system held every type of tool she could imagine. Drawers and cupboards were labelled and colour-coded; hooks held spades and small shovels, brushes and trimming shears. Each had been stencilled in paint onto the backboard. Jill appreciated the order, opened some of the drawers. Suddenly, she stopped walking. A tool was missing. A circular stencilled shape the size of a basketball signalled the outline of the tool that should be docked there. Close by, the hand saw's hook was also empty. She took out her camera, her lips a thin line. Along with the horrendous machete wounds found on a few of the previous victims, Eugene Moser had been dismembered with some kind of saw. Or maybe more than one kind, she thought, figuring a power saw would fit the first stencil perfectly.

  The mechanised whirring of her camera droned through the stuffy silence as she snapped the rest of the tool shelves. There was no fingerprint dust on the shelving. She wondered whether the others had noticed that the saws were missing. No weapons had been left at the scene. She turned and stepped straight into Gabriel Delahunt's chest.

  Her sharp intake of breath muffled a yelp. You scared me, she wanted to bark, but instead she just glared at him, not wanting to give away more than she already had.

  'The others were waiting up the road,' he said.

  If he had noticed her alarm, he gave no indication.

  'Who?' Jill tried not to convey her irritation. Did this man ever speak in full sentences?

  Gabriel held up a sealed evidence bag. 'Forensics missed these.' The bag held cigarette butts.

  'Why do you assume they belong to the perps?' Jill stared into the bag.

  'These hadn't been there more than a day,' he said, also looking into the bag. 'It rained a little out here the day before yesterday. But these haven't been wet. And a vehicle had been parked off the road next to where I found them. There're ten butts in here. Someone waited there a long time, smoking, yesterday at the latest.' He shrugged. 'Might not have been them. But it probably was.'

  Jill stared at his profile as he scanned the tool shelves. Maybe Delahunt had just found their best bet for DNA from at least one of the perps.

  'Two saws missing.' He pointed his chin at the stencilled patterns.

  'Yeah,' she said.

  'You wanna check out the murder site?' he asked. Like he'd asked if she wanted to get a pizza.

  'Okay,' she said.

  Jill could physically feel Eugene Moser's suffering in the room in which he died. His blood shrieked from the walls, ceiling, floor, demanding the witness understand the horror he'd endured. She stood in a vortex with the screaming, turning slowly in the middle of the room, buffeted by each arc of blood, drenched in the pain.

  'The safe's through there.'

  Gabriel stood at her shoulder, and she started at his voice, pulled from the nightmare. She glanced around again. The room was every bit as grotesque, but at least it had stopped howling.

  The floor plans referred to this room as 'the media centre'. Ten reclining leather armchairs sat in two rows in front of a wall. On the ceiling above the wall, Jill could see a recessed opening where the screen must drop down. In the middle of the house, the room had no windows, and the doors sealed completely to shut out all light. The artificial lights rendered the scene somehow more garish. She could see no surface unmarked by blood.

  She followed Gabriel through the room towards an opening in the wall – some kind of door – which stood slightly ajar. It was the same colour as the wall and she could see no handle. Were it closed, she doubted she could have found it again.

  'It's not on the floor plan,' said Gabriel. He walked inside.

  The size of a large walk-in robe, this room had obviously housed the guns. Display racks were empty, their black bolts open. A small safe stood ajar, some papers scattered on the floor in front of it. A monitor at the back of the room depicted four views of the house and grounds, each scene changing after thirty seconds or so to exhibit another part of the property. On the screen, Jill watched Derek Reid walk into one of the quadrants; in another, two uniformed officers stood guard at the front door.

  'So this is a panic room,' said Jill, speaking her thoughts aloud. 'First time I've seen one. Except for that movie, of course.' She looked down at a computer under the monitor. Everything had already been chalked. She noticed the time display on the electronic equipment.

  'Shit,' she said. 'It's already gone twelve o'clock. We'd better get back to the library.'

  Gabriel was on his hands and knees. Was he sniffing the floor? Hearing her words, he stood and followed her out.

  Outside the media centre, Jill made straight for a set of French doors at the back of the house. She needed air that did not reek of blood.

  In contrast with the starkly modern media centre, this room held a chaise longue and several ornate cabinets full of trinkets. Jill opened the glass doors onto a pretty courtyard, sheltered from the rest of the yard by flowering shrubs. A semi-circular stone love-seat watched over a fishpond; two fat golden carp swam lazily. Jill followed their movements and saw that the pond flowed under a small bridge and out of the courtyard, apparently to a larger pool elsewhere.

  'This is pretty good,' said Delahunt.

  'Yeah,' she answered flatly.

  'At least one of them can't handle what's going on.'

  'What are you talking about?' She realised he was not looking at the fish.

  'Vomit.'

  'Huh?'

  'Here,' he said, pointing to a shrub behind the folded-out doors. 'Someone was sick.'

  On the ground, in the bushes, someone had thrown up.

  'Could have been
one of us,' she said.

  'Could have been one of them,' he countered. 'Saw what his buddy did and couldn't take it.'

  He watched while Jill photographed the area, and moved the bushes aside for her.

  'And that would make it all very interesting.'

  He sounded delighted.

  7

  'I'D PREFER THE movies to the counsellor,' said Joss, falling back on the bed against the pillows. He watched the top of the tree moving outside their window.

  'You're bloody hopeless!' said Isobel, dropping down next to him. 'What if I want to go?'

  'Do you?'

  'I don't know,' she answered. 'But you made me take a day off work for nothing.'

  'Well, not for nothing,' he said, wiping drops of water from her bare shoulder, missed when she'd towelled off after their shower.

  'But Joss,' she said, pulling away a little and looking him in the eye, 'your nightmares have been worse than ever since the robbery.'

  'Haven't you been dreaming about it?'

  'Yeah. A few times. I dreamed last night that they broke in here, and we were running, and we couldn't find Charlie.' She paused, pain in her eyes. 'And then there was Andy being cut again, except then it was me getting cut, and you were holding the knife.' She shook her head.

  'Shit. Sounds like mine,' he lied. 'Maybe we should go to the counsellor.'

  'Would you say anything this time?'

  'I think you need it more than me. Talking about shit with a stranger has never helped me. I'll wait outside.'

  'It was just so horrible, Joss.'

  'I know.' Thwack. Aaarrgh! The sound was on loop tape. 'Do you think we should use today to go out to the hospital to see Andy?' Please say no, he thought, hating himself for feeling that way. He wasn't sure that he could handle seeing Isobel's boss again just yet.

  'I thought I told you. Sorry,' said Isobel. 'I called Lucy last night. The doctors are allowing immediate family only. He's still unconscious.'