The Shadow Maker

by Robert Sims

  There was one odd similarity - the offender’s car had been identified as a black Mazda MX-5. But with nothing in the way of MO to link this new attack to the Scalper, and with no other obvious candidate in the database, the probability was that a new offender had struck, and the existence of any DNA on file would be down to sheer luck. Without it he would be difficult to trace, unless the victim could provide some lead to his identity. That seemed unlikely given the initial report from the patrol car officers. All they got from the victim, apart from uncontrollable hysterics, was that she had no idea who he was. Perhaps she would come up with something when she was questioned more closely.

  As she sat there pondering, one of the squad’s hard men heaved into view, Detective Sergeant Derek Higgs. He came over and leant on her desk.

  ‘Strickland’s given me the job of hitting the town tonight and interviewing street pussy,’ said Higgs. ‘So whatever you can find out from the blind hooker, anything about this prick, will be greatly appreciated.’

  ‘Okay,’ nodded Rita, though she didn’t really need to be told how to do her work.

  Higgs was an old-school cop - blunt, opinionated and the most streetwise in the squad, with a reputation for taking shortcuts to get results. He was jowly, sharp-eyed and a chain-smoker, and his clothes bore a permanent aroma of stale tobacco. Although he shared the same rank as Rita, he was fifteen years her senior, and while her cerebral methods and rapid rise baffled him, there was no animosity between them.

  ‘It won’t be easy,’ he added. ‘Her recall could be completely fucked. So take it slowly.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice,’ she said.

  ‘No sweat. I’m off for a beer.’

  Emma Schultz lay in a hospital bed propped up by pillows, her ribs strapped, a wad of bandage and surgical tape covering her eye sockets.

  She was conscious now, but heavily sedated, which was just as well.

  Her mother sat beside the bed, gripping Emma’s hand, tears streaming down her cheeks. Along with being traumatised by the attack on her daughter, she had been shocked to learn that Emma was a prostitute.

  Emma’s arrest sheet and medical record revealed charges for shoplifting and drug possession, and she’d been hospitalised before with beatings.

  Yet until today, the mother had been none the wiser. Behind the tears, there was a pleading look in her eyes as she watched Rita questioning her daughter about her movements the previous evening

  - when she’d left home, how she’d travelled into the city, where she went - a portable mini-disc recorder rolling across the answers.

  ‘You must be completely honest with me, Emma,’ Rita said gently.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you did, but I need to know everything if we’re to catch this man.’

  ‘I scored some crack in Chinatown,’ said the girl in a slow monotone, her voice thick from the medication.

  ‘And what did you do next?’

  ‘I went down an alley and sat in a doorway.’

  ‘Is that where you took the drug?’

  The girl nodded. ‘I heated and inhaled it.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘About ten-thirty.’

  ‘Good. Every detail helps.’

  Rita worked on maintaining professional detachment as she went through her list of questions. Strickland remained silent. The last thing Emma Schultz needed to hear was a male voice. Reminding herself to breathe calmly, Rita paused between each question.

  ‘Where did you go from there?’

  ‘I took a slow walk around the block, but there was no action on the street.’ Emma squeezed her mother’s hand. ‘So I went to a club that’s usually good for business.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘A Greek joint - Plato’s Cave.’

  Rita raised her eyebrows at Strickland but he shook his head, as if warning her not to get distracted. Just the mention of the nightclub sent a chill through her. Only six months ago she’d arrested owner Tony Kavella for running a vice ring that used date-rape drugs on its victims, mostly young models. The girls were lured to an isolated villa along the Great Ocean Road with a promise of auditions for a movie company. Instead they were drugged, beaten and gang-raped by underworld thugs, who filmed the assaults and paid Kavella for the privilege. The victims kept quiet through sheer terror and the threat that videos of their ordeal would be released on the internet.

  Several associates were jailed but Kavella walked free from court, his involvement not proven. His evasion of justice was a sore point, but Rita had been told to accept it and move on.

  After a pause, she continued. ‘Is that where you picked up your client?’

  ‘No,’ said Emma. ‘It was quieter than usual. A couple of blokes bought me champagne cocktails, but they weren’t in the market so I left.’

  ‘How late was that?’

  ‘After midnight, about twenty past.’

  ‘So where did you go?’

  ‘I just walked towards Southbank and watched the flame show along the river, so it must have been one o’clock. I went over the bridge and was standing near the casino when a car pulled over.’

  ‘Was it a sports car?’ asked Rita. ‘A black Mazda MX-5?’

  ‘That’s right. He was driving with the top down.’

  ‘Did you get a look at the numberplate?’

  ‘No,’ said Emma. ‘I was too busy checking him out.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d seen him before somewhere,’ said Rita. ‘At the club, for example.’

  ‘It’s possible. He was definitely a regular punter.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He was ready for action and completely cool with it. I never guessed he was a wrong ‘un.’

  ‘What do you mean by cool?’ said Rita.

  ‘The way he acted - laidback, confident. And the way he dressed

  - black jeans, silver T-shirt, silver glasses - the reflecting sort, mirror shades.’

  ‘Was there a design on the T-shirt?’

  ‘A picture of Ned Kelly - the one in the mask.’

  ‘At any stage,’ said Rita, ‘did this man mention his name, or where he lived or worked - or any location?’

  ‘No,’ came the flat response.

  ‘How old was he?’

  ‘About my age,’ said Emma, ‘or maybe a bit older. Early thirties at the most.’

  ‘I need to know more about his appearance,’ Rita pressed her.

  ‘Anything distinctive.’

  ‘There wasn’t anything. He had dark hair. It wasn’t short or long, just neat, like the rest of him. He was clean-shaven, okay build, average height - and seemed like a nice, normal guy.’ Emma sighed.

  ‘Until we were on the way to the hotel.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I offered him sex in the car for seventy bucks, but he wanted a private room, so I said for another thirty we could use the Duke of York. On the way he asked if we could do role-playing. I told him bondage would be an extra hundred, and he said no problem. I just didn’t spot what was coming. After I paid at reception and took him upstairs to the room I noticed he was carrying a laptop case.

  While I stripped, he opened it and took out a mask and chains and put them on the bed. Then he looked around and said something really weird - that the place was perfect but he wasn’t ready for it.

  He asked me if I had matches. I did, so I handed them over. Then he started ripping up a stack of old hotel magazines and shoving them in the fireplace, and he found all these wooden coat-hangers in the wardrobe and put them on top of the paper and lit it. I asked why we needed a fire in the middle of a heatwave, and he told me we had to play by the rules. I said, “Rules of what?”, and he said, “The cave”. I don’t have a clue what he meant.’

  ‘What did he do next?’ asked Rita.

  ‘He switched off the light,’ Emma answered. ‘Then he got undressed and laid his clothes out at the foot of the bed, and that’s when the shit happened. He put the mask on and grabbed me. I pushed h
im off and said I wanted my extra hundred bucks. He told me I was a prisoner. He said the first one fought him off that night, but not me. I was going to be defeated. It was freaky. I went for the Mace in my handbag but he hit me before I could get to it. I fell against the bed and felt my ribs go - then I was out of it.’

  ‘Did you ever see his eyes?’ Rita wanted to know.

  ‘No. He kept them hidden behind the glasses, then the mask.

  I never got a really good look at his face.’

  ‘The mask,’ said Rita. ‘What sort was it?’

  ‘Like those ancient theatre ones.’

  ‘Ancient, as in Greece or Rome?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it - bronze coloured.’

  ‘All these details are good,’ said Rita. ‘They’ll help us track him down. Is there anything else you remember?’

  ‘No, not till I woke up and felt what the bastard had done to me. Tell me, please, I’ve got to know - are the doctors going to be able to save my sight?’

  Rita swallowed hard and couldn’t answer. Strickland looked away and the girl’s mother bowed her head, weeping again. The doctors hadn’t broken the horrific news to their patient. They wanted to keep her calm and sedated for as long as possible, to help with her recovery. They hadn’t told her that her eyes had been burnt and gouged out - and that she would never see again.

  A uniformed constable nodded gravely to the two detectives and closed the door of Emma’s private room before resuming his seat on a nearby chair. As they walked from the ward, Rita flipped through her notes before shoving the pad and mini-disc recorder in her pocket. Something was bugging her, and Strickland knew what.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘Are we going to question Kavella?’

  Strickland sighed and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day.

  ‘Look, I want to go after him as much as you.’

  ‘Then we’ve got a perfect excuse,’ Rita insisted. ‘Emma was at his club. Her attacker even mentioned “the cave”. Surely that’s no coincidence, and we know Kavella’s into designer violence, organised rape. For God’s sake, did you know he was selling tickets to that vice ring he was running?’

  ‘I know you take the injustice personally because you were the arresting officer. The girl was at his club, yeah, about an hour before she was picked up on the other side of the city. Where’s the connection?’

  ‘She could have been followed.’

  ‘It’s possible. But you know as well as I do we’ve got to be careful.

  At this stage we’re only justified in checking out the club’s customers.’

  He pressed the button for the lifts. ‘We can’t make a move against Kavella without evidence or his lawyers will have us for harassment.

  It’s as simple as that.’

  They rode to the ground floor in silence, but the lift doors opened on a clamour of voices.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Strickland. ‘The dingo pack.’

  Journalists. They’d invaded the hospital’s reception area - radio reporters, photographers, newspaper hacks, a couple of camera crews

  - and it was too late to avoid them. Among them was someone who was more unwelcome than the rest: TV crime reporter Mike Cassidy. He winked at Rita as the media scrum converged on the two detectives.

  ‘I’ll do the talking,’ said Strickland from the corner of his mouth.

  The arc lights came on and the cameras flashed - along with the questions.

  ‘Is it true a woman’s eyes have been put out?’

  ‘Is she a prostitute?’

  ‘Has anyone been arrested?’

  Strickland held up his hands, ‘Okay, okay. A brief statement, that’s all.’ He waited for the microphones to jostle into position. ‘I can’t give many details at this stage, so let me just confirm a woman has been the victim of a vicious attack in the early hours of this morning. It’s one of the most sickening I’ve had to deal with in more than twenty years on the force. And yes - she’s been permanently blinded as a result. As you’ll appreciate, she’s traumatised and heavily sedated. We’ve just come from talking to her. As yet she’s unable to identify her attacker but she’s given us a description which we’ll make public later.’

  That brought another barrage of questions.

  ‘Does that mean there’s a maniac on the loose?’

  ‘What are the police doing to catch him?’

  ‘Is he likely to strike again?’

  ‘Let me assure you,’ said Strickland firmly, ‘the investigation is already well underway and we’re doing everything in our power to track down the assailant.’

  Then Mike Cassidy asked, ‘Is that why Detective Sergeant Van Hassel is here? Has she been brought in to profile the attacker?’

  Strickland glared at him and gave Rita a sideways glance. He was fully aware of the history between them.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Van Hassel is part of the team working on the case. And it’s clear that profiling can give valuable insights when we’re trying to trace anonymous offenders. But at this point in the investigation, she’ll be concentrating on basic detective work, like the rest of my officers. And that’s all I’ve got to say. No more questions. Our press office will issue further details.’

  As the journalists began to disperse, Strickland drew Rita to one side.

  ‘I’m going back up to the ward. I want uniform clear the media’s banned from going anywhere near the victim.’ He leant closer. ‘What I want you to do is put the heavy word on your boyfriend.’

  ‘We split up months ago.’

  ‘Whatever. Just tell him to back off. We’ve got enough to worry about without him doing a beat-up.’

  She watched Strickland go back into the lift and deliver a stern jerk of the head as the doors closed. This was a chore she could do without.

  She caught up with Cassidy as he was trotting down the steps outside the hospital entrance, his cameraman beside him.

  ‘Thanks for nothing, Mike.’

  The two men stopped and turned.

  The cameraman grinned but Cassidy waved him on. ‘See you back at the office.’ He waited until the other man was out of earshot. ‘Nice to bump into you too, Rita. I’ve missed you chasing after me.’

  ‘In your fantasies,’ she said. ‘What were you trying to pull back there?’

  ‘Lighten up. It was a valid question.’

  He said it without a trace of deceit. It reminded her of how disingenuous he could be, and why their relationship had survived only a few stormy months. Like many journalists he was plausible and witty. On top of that he possessed the chiselled good looks of a professional charmer, which in a sense he was. She’d fallen for his brazen approach, along with the handsome profile and the dark eyes with their hint of danger. Even now she only partly regretted it. If nothing else, their time together had been worth the entertainment value alone.

  He turned on a lopsided smile. ‘I get it,’ he said. ‘Strickland is still needling you for being a woman on the make. He told you to have a go at me.’

  She sighed. ‘Well, you’ve given him more ammunition. And he wants me to curb your tabloid approach. So what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Tell him to fuck off.’

  ‘I certainly will not.’

  ‘Then tell him I’m uncooperative. That I’m ready to hype the story - and I’ll only reconsider over a drink with you.’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to achieve?’

  ‘It’ll achieve a drink for a start.’ Cassidy chuckled. ‘And it might make me reconsider the virtues of gutter journalism. It’ll also give you the chance to explain why you dumped me.’

  ‘That’s easy. Your lack of ethics.’

  ‘But I’m a reporter. Ethics is a grey area.’

  ‘Not when it comes to cheating on me with that lawyer.’

  ‘It was research. I was working on an expose.’

  ‘Exposing your cock in the process.’

  ‘Come on, we’re both adults,’ he protested. ‘It
was a big exclusive.’

  ‘Not so big, as I remember.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘And anyway, it proves my point. You’d sell your soul for a scoop.’

  He shrugged and leant back on a railing of the disabled access ramp. ‘Only with global TV rights.’

  She tried to look at him with contempt, but couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘Which would make you a global arsehole.’

  ‘Good to see your sense of humour’s intact,’ he said.

  ‘Exactly what my friends said when I went out with you.’

  ‘Your girlfriends were jealous you’d got me into bed. I was an impressive catch.’

  ‘It’s the size of your ego that’s impressive,’ she laughed. ‘They wanted to arrest you.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘Perverting the course of justice.’

  He conceded the point with a grunt.

  Around them moved the daily traffic of the hospital - visitors going in and out, kids with their arms in slings, old people in wheelchairs. Rita stepped aside for a woman with a pram.

  ‘Look, Mike, seriously,’ she said, ‘I can do without the coverage.’

  ‘Well, well. What a surprise. Rita Van Hassel, publicity shy.’

  ‘I’m not even fully qualified as a profiler.’

  ‘Pull the other one,’ he said. ‘You’ve been profiling cases for more than a year. I remember the tedious hours of homework.’

  ‘It won’t help me do my job.’

  ‘Tell it to the other boys and girls.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s too late, mate. The TV cameras were rolling. The snappers were grabbing shots of you. See it from the hacks’ point of view

  - a criminal profiler who also happens to be a sexy blonde. That’s too good an angle to miss.’

  ‘Oh, shit.’ She scuffed the ground with her heel. ‘Like I said -

  thanks for nothing.’

  Rita found Strickland in the hospital car park, his face reflecting a mood of futility.