by Robert Sims
‘Well she’s a write-off,’ he said at last, his cigarette smoked to the butt. ‘As a witness, I mean,’ he added uncomfortably.
‘I’ll question her again tomorrow,’ said Rita.
‘She won’t be able to identify him. This is gonna come down to forensics.’
‘So what do you want from me?’
‘Follow up what evidence we’ve got,’ he said, grim-faced. ‘But I think your ex has got a point. Start doing a profile as well. I know it’s early but I’ve got a feeling we’re in for the long haul on this.’
‘Okay. She’s given me enough to work on.’
‘Good. Anything that’ll narrow the field.’ He dropped the cigarette butt and ground it under his heel. ‘Time to start the donkey work.’
Mike Cassidy’s TV channel headlined the story on its early evening bulletin.
A newsreader introduced the segment:
A young woman is being treated in hospital after falling victim to a horrific attack in which she was blinded. The twenty-five-year-old, who is believed to have a conviction for prostitution, has not yet been named by police. The attack took place in a hotel room overnight. A team of detectives is hunting the man who carried out the assault.
Reporter Mike Cassidy is at the scene.
Rita winced inwardly as Mike’s face filled the screen.
The full details of what happened in the hotel behind me have not yet emerged. What we know so far is that the woman checked in to a second-floor room after midnight, apparently to engage in sex with a male client. Sometime later the encounter turned violent. Among other injuries inflicted in a savage assault, the victim’s eyes were deliberately put out.
The man leading the police investigation, Detective Senior Sergeant Wayne Strickland, has expressed his disgust at the sadistic act.
Now Strickland was on the screen, and Rita heard again his brief statement of that afternoon.
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.
The camera cut back to Cassidy.
This evening she remains under intensive care in hospital. Although she can’t identify her attacker, she’s been able to give detectives details of his appearance. A short time ago, police issued a description. The man they’re hunting is in his mid twenties or early thirties, white, clean-shaven and of medium build with dark hair. He was wearing a silver Ned Kelly T-shirt, black jeans and a distinctive pair of silver-rimmed glasses with mirror lenses. He drives a black Mazda MX-5 convertible.
Any member of the public with information should contact police or ring Crime Stoppers. And while detectives are hoping to make an early arrest, they’re also preparing for what could be a difficult investigation by drafting in a criminal profiler.
Rita groaned on hearing Strickland’s words used out of context.
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.
Rita’s face appeared on the screen as Cassidy summed up.
It’s an indication of what the police are dealing with. Somewhere in the greater metropolitan area this evening a dangerous predator is on the loose. Women working in the city’s sex trade have been warned to be on their guard. The implication is obvious. Unless there’s a quick breakthrough, this maniac could strike again.
As Van Hassel’s close-up appeared on the TV screens, an ironic cheer went up around the squad room, accompanied by wolf-whistles.
‘Who’s the cheesecake?’ ‘Nice crime bust!’
‘Get knotted,’ was her response. The attention was unwelcome
- though she was pleased to see that she looked professional on camera - now that her name, face and reputation were associated with the case. This left another bone to pick with her ex-boyfriend, but that would have to wait.
Rita was concentrating on a vital piece of information Emma Schultz had given them. According to Emma, she was the attacker’s second target of the night, after the first one had fought back and managed to break loose. Assuming the account was correct, the first victim was a crucial witness. So where was she? Rita was doing a running check on police reports, the emergency services and the hospitals, but so far not a single case of attempted sexual assault had emerged. A few domestic incidents had been reported in the past twenty-four hours, though none was consistent with the facts of the investigation.
With the line of inquiry getting nowhere, she phoned the police forensic services centre. Her call was put through to a crime lab scientist, Dale Quinn.
‘Hi there, Van Hassel, so they’ve put you on the hooker mutilation, eh? I’m in the middle of processing the evidence bags.’
‘What have you got so far?’ she asked.
‘There’ll be DNA from the semen and perspiration we got. He sweated a lot - not surprising given the circumstances. I’ve also got sets of fingerprints off the poker, chains and ashtray, but I’ve checked and his prints aren’t on record.’ Quinn cleared his throat.
‘The substance we recovered from the floor was corneal and vitreous tissue. There were burnt traces of it on the tip of the poker. So that’s what he used - after he’d had sex. There were traces of semen on the grip.’
‘What about the hooker’s stuff ?’
‘That’s what I’m examining now - the contents of her handbag.’
‘Anything significant?’
‘You mean aside from the crack, the can of Mace, strawberry-flavoured condoms and lubricant?’ said Quinn. ‘There’s a mass of receipts, coins, cards, cosmetics - the usual female clutter. Why don’t you drop by in the morning? We’ll have it done by then.’
‘I might do that,’ she said.
Rita put down the phone and resumed her series of checks, but there was still nothing coming up. Eventually she sat back and watched her fellow officers going off duty, listening to their banter and laughter as they headed to the pub to put the frustrations of the day behind them. They’d spent hours in the company of some of the lowest forms of urban life as they’d interviewed known sex offenders, or trawled through the files for more suspects. It had been depressing and unrewarding. There was already the shared sense of a difficult investigation, with no obvious leads. The longer that went on the more pressure Rita would feel to come up with psychological insights into the perpetrator.
Erin Webster came over, pulling on her jacket.
‘Found your witness?’ she asked.
‘No.’ Rita grimaced. ‘And you - any joy?’
‘What do you reckon?’ said Erin. ‘Since lunchtime I’ve been stuck in an interview room questioning suckholes with a history of violence.
Not one fits the bill. Tomorrow I’ll do more of the same, and I’m not looking forward to it.’
‘Think of it as broadening your social life.’
‘Broadening my arse, more likely. I’ve got a feeling the guy we’re after isn’t on file, and the investigation will be a sticker.’ Erin sighed.
‘Which is where you come in, of course.’
‘And I might as well get started,’ said Rita, as she stood up from her desk, ‘while it’s still fresh in my mind.’
‘You off to your cubby-hole?’
Rita nodded at the reference to the small, converted storage room that the head of the squad had assigned to her to use as an office, study and squad room retreat. It was in there that she did her profiling work.
‘By the way …’ Erin grinned. ‘Nice pose on the box.’
‘Bloody Mike,’ said Rita. ‘He set up Strickland with a trick question then edited the answer. He’s still pissed off that I dumped him.’
‘He wants you back,’ said Erin. ‘Men can’t take rejection. Makes them schizo.’
‘Maybe you should be the profiler.’ Rita reached into her ba
g as her mobile started ringing. She checked the caller ID. ‘Speak of the devil.’
Erin whispered, ‘See ya,’ and headed for the lifts.
‘Hi!’ said Cassidy. ‘Did you catch my lead story?’
‘ Story‘s right,’ Rita replied. ‘It was full of fiction.’
‘Don’t be like that. It’s modern journalism - informed opinion from a correspondent with authority.’
‘Putting you and authority in the same sentence is like finding a whore in a church.’
‘Tut-tut,’ said Cassidy in mock reproof. ‘Not very charitable - but the sort of comment I should expect from a sinful Dutch Protestant.’
‘Is that more of your informed opinion?’
‘Absolutely. I’ve observed your foibles intimately. I know what you’re like in bed.’
‘Shut up, Mike.’
‘You’re also driven and career-obsessed. You need me around to lighten you up and stop you being so hard-edged.’
‘How thoughtful of you to act as my therapist,’ said Rita, ‘when I’d mistaken you for a sleaze-bag.’
‘No problem,’ said Cassidy. ‘Which is why I’ve phoned - to see if we’re still on for a drink.’
‘I’ve got work to do - as you’ve pointed out to about a million people.’
‘Oh, well,’ he said. ‘Career before carousing.’
As she hung up, Detective Sergeant Higgs loomed up. He was on his way to a red-light district.
‘Your boyfriend’s done my team a big favour,’ he said.
‘He’s my ex,’ Rita corrected. ‘But what’s the favour?’
Higgs gave a cruel smile. ‘The street snatch will be scared shitless now. They’ll fall over themselves to cooperate.’
For a police office, Rita’s glass-panelled room had a slightly cloistered feel to it. Along with the desk, computer gear and grey metal filing cabinets stuffed with printouts and case files, there were stacks of academic magazines and shelves of scholarly books. Psychology, criminology and forensic science rubbed shoulders with texts on art, mythic symbols and philosophy. The range reflected her depth of interest as well as the demands of her specialised work - something she could take too seriously at times, to the detriment of her personal life.
As Rita sat amid the comfortable clutter, poring over glossy crime scene photos, police statements, the medical report and her own notes, she was already jotting down the sequence of events and the first broad outlines of a profile. The crime was horrendous, but it presented her with the kind of challenge she liked to deal with. She had to look at the act of blinding and traumatising the victim as an expression of personality. The sexualised nature of the violence pointed to a deviant whose sadistic fantasies were extremely rare.
Unless his DNA was on file, the unknown suspect would not be easy to trace, and she’d have to call on all her expertise to focus the investigation and help track him down.
She turned to her laptop and began drafting the crime sequence.
TIMELINE (Summary - timings approx.)
21.00: Emma Schultz leaves her flat, takes a train into the city and walks the streets without picking up any clients.
22.30: She scores some crack cocaine in Chinatown and inhales it in a back alley.
23.00: She walks to a regular pick-up haunt in the Greek precinct
- Plato’s Cave nightclub.
Rita paused. It was barely three months since the club’s owner, Tony Kavella, had eluded a guilty verdict on a series of sex crimes.
No matter what Strickland said, if there was a second chance to get him she wasn’t going to miss it.
She took a deep breath and resumed.
00.20: Emma leaves the club after drinks with two men, and walks the streets again.
01.00: She crosses the river and is standing near the casino when a client pulls up in a car.
01.30: Emma and her customer arrive at the Duke of York hotel.
01.40: In the hotel room, the client produces bondage equipment, lights a fire and puts on a mask. When Emma resists he hits her with a glass ashtray.
Rita glanced at her copy of the medical report before continuing.
01.45: The offender manacles his unconscious victim to the frame-work of the bed and shackles her neck. He rapes her violently, as indicated by bruising to the inner thighs and vulva. He also achieves full penetrative sex, as indicated by the vaginal swab. His final act, according to the initial lab report, is to put out her eyes with a hot poker.
03.00: The offender leaves, making no attempt to conceal or tidy the crime scene.
Rita scrolled back and read through what she’d just written.
Deciding it was sufficient as a guideline, she opened a fresh file on her laptop. From her perspective the crime was an expression of the offender’s social background and personal psychology. Her job as a profiler was to pin down what he was revealing about himself - his mind trace. Only then could she evaluate what type of sex attacker he was - whether he was deliberate or spontaneous, whether he was calculating or mentally ill.
She resumed.
OFFENDER PROFILE (Preliminary)
White male. Mid 20s to early 30s. Articulate. Intelligent. Affluent
- smartly dressed & drives a sports car. Single, or committed to an unrewarding relationship/marriage. Socially and sexually competent, but needs to dominate. In his work role, this man is in a position of authority. He issues orders and expects to be obeyed. As well as exerting power over others, he imposes a high level of self-control on himself. The resulting pressure is relieved by the use of prostitutes.
If he is defied, it can also be released as physical and sexual violence.
His family background was oppressive, with an overbearing father and a passive mother. In a social context, he has overcome the negative influence of his upbringing to establish his success, although he still carries an enduring sense of resentment. It is possible that he has vented aggression on prostitutes before, but he has now moved to a more intense phase by inflicting an injury unnecessary to the sexual act (burning out eyes). This would seem to fulfil a revenge or punishment or empowerment fantasy. This offender has crossed a psychological line and will strike again.
Rita was reading through what she’d formulated when the head of the Sexual Crimes Squad, Detective Inspector Jack Loftus, knocked on the door and walked in.
‘Strickland says he’s got you working on a profile,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Just getting started,’ she said, swivelling around to face him.
Loftus was more than her boss - he was also her mentor. At twenty years her senior he had the experience to recognise flair and intelligence when he saw it. That always deserved a helping hand.
Her ability to maintain fierce concentration for hours on end was one of the reasons he’d chosen her for the profiling role. And even though it intimidated some of her colleagues, he also saw her intellect as a valuable attribute. Another reason - which he didn’t discuss with anyone - was her dark imagination, rooted in a disrupted and unhappy childhood. Before she’d started the course in profiling, he’d asked her if she could cope with focusing so closely on damaged minds. She’d replied flatly, ‘We’re all damaged, Jack.’ That’s when he knew she was the right choice to be a profiler. It was clear she had her own demons - and you needed a few on board to do battle with the devil.
As well as admiring her policing abilities, he also found his protege attractive. It wasn’t an issue, because a stable marriage, large family, Catholic guilt and no free time ensured he made no attempt to make their relationship anything other than strictly professional.
This was probably just as well, because the attraction was mutual.
Rita saw Loftus as a man of depth, who managed to steer his own course through the jargon and the regulations while still being respected. While there was something world-weary about him, like a man who carried too many burdens on his shoulders, or had put in too many years with what he called the Human Depravity Squad, behind his h
eavy-lidded eyes was a mind full of insights only partly blunted by cynicism.
‘I don’t want you to feel you’re under time pressure with this,’
he said.
‘What’s your point, Jack?’
‘We should work the case and see if it bottoms out before factoring in a profile. I don’t want premature assumptions to impact on the investigation.’
‘Then let’s hope we catch this guy quickly.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because the man who carried out this attack needs to inflict extreme violence on women. If we don’t stop him he’s likely to do it again sooner rather than later.’
Loftus didn’t say anything. He shoved his hands in his pockets and sat back on the edge of her desk.
‘You’ve gone pensive on me,’ she said.
He didn’t reply, but got up from the desk and peered at the clutter of items tacked to her pin-board. An A4-size sketch in black pencil caught his eye. It was a picture of a man standing alone under a streetlamp at night. The image was unremarkable except for one thing. The look in the man’s partly shadowed eyes was too intense, ferocious even, psychotic. At the foot of the page was the inscription Hell is otherness.
‘This is new,’ he said. ‘Where’s it come from?’
‘An agent I studied with at Quantico. Thought I might find it instructive. It was drawn by one of the serial killers he interviewed.’
‘What’s “Hell is otherness” supposed to mean?’
‘Well, this particular killer suffers from a dissociated personality …’
‘Remind me.’
‘It’s the pathological coexistence of more than one centre of consciousness in one mind.’
‘Multiple personalities.’
‘Yeah. And he’s in a psychiatric prison undergoing therapy. So one way of reading it is this man’s personal hell of dissociation.’
‘No,’ Loftus shook his head. ‘The guy in this picture’s alone.’
‘Interesting,’ she said.
‘Don’t try to play the shrink on me,’ he said sternly, catching the analytical tone in her voice. ‘The guy’s alone and apart - that’s the message.’
‘Then perhaps it’s what we all feel at times - the hell of alien-ation.’
