Voodoo Doll jj-2 Read online

  'You seem a little distracted today, Isobel,' Bob Shields said, close to her ear. 'I'm not giving you too much work to do, am I?'

  Isobel kept walking, aiming for the bright hallway flanked by offices outside the boardroom. She worked hard to keep plenty of people around when she talked to her boss.

  'Well, yes, as a matter of fact,' she smiled, facing him, her back to the wall. 'I think I'll go to lunch.' It was 10.30 a.m. She strode purposefully in the direction of her office.

  Shields's loud laughter followed her. 'I expect the Donatio report on my desk this afternoon,' he called to her back.

  She waved her arm in reply. She wasn't sure how much longer she could bear working for that sleaze. She'd known about Shields's reputation for wandering hands before she started working for him – everyone knew – but that didn't make it any easier dealing with the man. She knew she could take it to antidiscrimination, but she wasn't ready to give up working in the legal industry just yet. Though he wasn't her direct line manager, Andy Wu looked out for her, and would assign her duties that kept her away from Shields whenever he could. She shuddered, remembering the last time she'd seen Andy, and wondered how the hell Lucy was bearing up. She and Joss should go out to visit her soon, she thought guiltily, but they had to get on top of this new threat first.

  At last she reached her office, shut the door, and began the searches that made her services so highly prized round here. It wasn't the Donatio file she was working on, though. The name she typed into her search engines was Nguyen.

  As always, she started wide and worked her way inwards. The Vietnamese name was one of the most common, and the programs hauled in thousands of hits. She narrowed the fields continually, honing in on his approximate age, geographic location, the nickname 'Cutter', and other small details she'd gathered from Joss. She roughly sifted court reports, quickly discarding mismatches and corralling possibilities to explore more carefully later. She downloaded Freedom of Information applications for credit reports, lease agreements, criminal record history, insurance claims, motor registrations, phone contracts, Medicare and Centrelink records. For the average person, these applications could take months to process, but there were back-entrances for certain groups: finance and insurance institutions, various welfare departments, lawyers acting on behalf of their clients. For her job, Isobel had carefully cultivated contacts with some of the most powerful people in the country – the clerks who held the records to personal information.

  She started to dial.

  13

  JILL FELT LOST in the sterile corridors of the Liverpool police complex. Constructed perhaps twenty years ago, it sat next to the busy courthouse and the mostly deserted public library. An attempt had been made at a contemporary construction, but the bright modern art, glass and stainless steel were at once too slick for the Liverpool streets and too tacky for good taste. A twenty-year coating of grime didn't help. Her boots squeaked over shiny floors as she made her way to the foyer, where she'd agreed to meet her new partner.

  Gabriel leaned on the customer service counter. His face appeared serious, but the dark-haired girl behind the barrier inclined towards him, laughing, her fingers twisting a lock of her glossy hair. The girl turned a flushed face and narrowed eyes towards Jill as she approached. Jill felt those eyes on her until they left the building.

  A small crowd waited for their turn in front of the court building to their left. Cigarette smoke hung in a pall above them. A couple of ill-looking trees, hopelessly under-equipped to transform the toxins back into oxygen, drooped over the footpath. Two or three man-boys pulled irritably at bright-coloured ties, standing next to resigned parents. Several men in cheap, shiny suits bared tennis socks and skinny ankles. Some of them clustered together, comparing gaol cred, making deals. Others stood too close to their woman, who would today reverse the Apprehended Violence Order protecting her from him; would insist that she would not press charges over the assault that had left her hospitalised and her kids in the care of the state.

  Jill and Gabriel passed the courthouse, closely observed by most of those waiting outside, studiously ignoring the news crew on the footpath opposite. She imagined they would do anything to be able to sit in while she and Gabriel interviewed the daughter of the man murdered yesterday. Jill took a deep breath when a breeze momentarily freshened the air. The sun was out on their side of the street; it was another hot day.

  Gabriel half-turned to her. 'So, nice place out here,' he said.

  She smiled wryly.

  'I don't think we'll have much luck with Donna Moser today,' he said next. 'It sounds like the hospital kept her sedated all day yesterday.'

  'Worth a shot,' said Jill.

  They walked in silence for a while, nearing the sprawling Westfield shopping centre, which had recently undergone major renovations. Its shiny commercial happiness contrasted with the customers and staff who waited at the lights to enter it.

  Jill's thoughts turned back to the interview yesterday with Justine Rice. 'I wonder whether Donna was sexually assaulted as well. She's not a great deal older than Justine.'

  'It's possible,' Gabriel said. 'But I doubt it. The scenarios are too different. At the Moser house the perp got all his sexual gratification from the torture and the kill.'

  'Freak,' she said. They turned off the main street and the huge hospital complex came into sight. 'The violence has escalated so dramatically. It's a wonder we haven't come across this guy before. It's possible he's done a lot of time inside. We should probably look into violent sexual assaults in prison.'

  'Good idea. There is some kind of sexual sadism going on, even if we've only seen it expressed in an overt sexual act with the Rice girl.' He stood aside to let a woman with a stroller pass them on the narrow footpath.

  When he caught up, he continued.

  'Traditional sexual assault doesn't have to take place for these people to get off. Think about it. In a sick way, stabbing flesh simulates the sex act.'

  'Yeah, I've heard of that. What do they call it?' Jill felt sweat at her hairline.

  'Piquerism. It's a paraphilia common to sexual sadists. Jack the Ripper was a piquerist. And you know what's typical with these guys?' He didn't wait for an answer. 'They also often stab themselves in some way. When they caught the serial killer Albert Fish, an X-ray showed he had more than two dozen needles inserted into his groin. They're sick mothers, I tell you. When I was training, I got called to transport a stiff from this small hospital in the sticks. Bloke had been brought in about ten times previously with self-inflicted stab wounds to the stomach. Would never tell the surgeons what he did it for. When he realised he wasn't going to make it this last time, he told them why he did it.'

  Jill looked up at him as she walked.

  'He told them,' he continued, 'that he believed he had vaginal tissue in his stomach. When he whacked off, he'd stab his gut to reach the tissue, effectively fucking himself.'

  Oh, for God's sake. Jill stared into the gutter, waiting to cross at the lights. Of course she knew they were dealing with a monster in this case, but it was hard to fathom the depravity of a human who could not only deliberately inflict pain upon himself and another, but also become sexually aroused by the suffering. Inevitably, with such thoughts, her own traumatic memories shuddered into view, haltingly illuminated, as though by a fluorescent light stuttering to life. Screaming in the basement for the sexual pleasure of two men. Why did any aberrance surprise her?

  Jill lifted her eyes from the ground. Gabriel stood slightly ahead of her. Unshaven again, with his hands in the pockets of his dark cargos, today he wore a light blue tee-shirt. The trucker cap sat low on his forehead. A marked police car passed them, and Gabriel lifted his chin towards the driver in acknowledgement. She saw the gesture returned.

  He spoke again, eyes on the hospital across the road. 'The violence is highly addictive,' he said. 'And it has to escalate to satiate their desires. The other thing…' He paused, blinking in the sun. 'They never stop until t
hey're caught or dead.'

  The nursing unit manager walked Jill and Gabriel towards Donna Moser's room, but warned them that they probably wouldn't be able to get her to speak clearly. The only time the girl had awoken during the night, the nurse told them, she'd become hysterical, waking the whole floor with her screams. They'd sedated her again, and when the psych registrar had visited this morning, he'd authorised another intravenous dose of Valium. A general medical unit was the wrong place for her, in the nurse's opinion.

  'Some family friends have arranged to have her moved out of here as soon as possible,' she said softly as she ushered them into the victim's room.

  Jill looked down at the young woman sleeping in the bed. She would have guessed her age at maybe sixteen or seventeen, rather than the twenty years Jill knew to be correct. Other than her very white face and some pale shadows under her eyes, Donna appeared unharmed. They waited while the nurse tried gently to rouse her, calling her name, smoothing her hair back from her face. The young woman's eyelids fluttered, but the drugs pulled her back under.

  Jill gestured to the nurse to let it go. I wouldn't want to face the world either, Jill thought. She moved one of the heavy bouquets of flowers on the nightstand to leave a card by the girl's bed, and she and Gabriel made their way out of the hospital.

  Back on the street, Jill moved towards the pedestrian crossing, but Gabriel pointed in the other direction. She shrugged and followed.

  'We'll have to find out where she's moved to when they discharge her,' said Jill, falling into step next to him. 'I'll follow it up.'

  He nodded.

  Their new direction led them past a large park. Specialists' buildings occupied the other side of the road.

  'I didn't expect her to look so young,' she said.

  When Gabriel again didn't answer, she stared up at him, slightly annoyed, but then noticed that he seemed focused on something ahead. She followed his line of vision. Action exploded immediately ahead of them. A youth wrenched at the handbag of a middle-aged woman as she stood at the side of a vehicle a few metres away. The woman screamed, and Jill tensed to move, but Gabriel held her arm and signalled her to follow him. He stepped off the footpath and into the park. Within seconds, the offender had ripped the bag from the woman's grasp and run straight into the park. Jill stood back slightly, aware she could give chase if she needed to, but that was Delahunt's call. Let's see what he's got, she thought.

  Gabriel didn't identify himself as the youth ran towards them; in fact, he seemed to make barely any preparatory move at all. At the last moment, as the offender bolted towards them, he turned side-on and swung his arm out into the runner's path at throat-height.

  The kid hit the ground hard.

  'Get your hands flat on the ground,' Jill yelled, moving quickly towards the youth, now sprawled on his back. 'Face down,' she instructed him.

  She followed procedure, but there was really little need. The kid was sucking air, eyes closed in pain. Kicking the bag away, she rolled him over and cuffed his hands behind his back. He was still breathing hard, but managed a couple of hoarse 'motherfuckers'. She kept her hands on the cuffs and looked around at the crowd that was gathering. Gabriel's eyes danced as he watched.

  'Up,' Jill ordered, hauling on the handcuffs, and the kid got quickly to his feet, pulled upwards by the pressure. Gabriel had his radio out, but she could already see a uniformed foot patrol running towards them, and a marked car, sirens on, arriving at the scene. Jill had heard that there were several snatch and grabs a day in Liverpool, and units typically responded quickly.

  On their way over to the car, Gabriel spoke.

  'Door job,' he said, looking at the perp. His smile was huge.

  She couldn't help smiling back. Door job: cyclists collected when a motorist opens the car door without looking. Same principle, I suppose, she thought, and shook her head.

  Standing out the front of the Liverpool police complex with the two other lackey journalists, Chloe Farrell had held her breath when she'd seen the man and woman come out of the building. She'd seen these two yesterday out at Capitol Hill, arriving in an unmarked car behind the taskforce commander, Lawrence Last. Slinging a camera around her neck, she'd taken coffee orders from the others and headed off to follow the cops. She did not want passengers.

  She kept a reasonable distance behind them. They were easy to tail. Headed to the hospital, she guessed, as they made their way down George Street. She knew the victim's daughter was in there.

  Chloe had waited outside the main doors of Liverpool Hospital, wondering whether she should go in and try to find them. They could be in there for ages. Well, one thing's for sure, she promised herself, I am not standing out here any longer than five minutes. Although she was outdoors, she thought she might as well have been in a pub – so many patients and their visitors had come out here to smoke that her eyes were watering.

  When the tracksuited drug dealer who'd been staring at her finally walked over to chat, Chloe decided to leave. As she turned to go, she spotted the detectives coming back out of the front doors.

  'Hey, princess,' the man in the tracksuit stood in her path, his voice a nasal drawl. 'Do you want to go for a drink or something?'

  'Actually,' she said, 'I've just got to catch up with my colleagues over there.' She saw the man clock the detectives. His eyes widened and he began to slink away. 'Maybe later,' she called after him. 'Could I get your name?'

  Her would-be suitor broke into a jog, heading back down towards Speed Street.

  Chloe smiled to herself and hurried to catch the cops ahead of her. She made a sudden decision that she'd approach them, identify herself and try to get some intel on the case. The worst they can do is brush me off, she thought. I've got to take risks if I'm going to get anywhere in this job.

  She'd almost closed the distance between them when she noticed the male stop. The hairs rose on the back of her neck and she took the lens cap off her camera.

  It all happened so quickly. Chloe had taken a dozen shots before she even knew what was happening. She got everything. The lot. This would run with the lead story tonight – she knew it. When she tied the two detectives to the taskforce and the murder in Capitol Hill, they'd link it all into one sensational story, with pictures.

  I'm gonna get a lead reporter's job out of this home invasion story, thought Chloe, trying to run back to the news truck in her stupid new shoes. Hang in there, Mum and Dad.

  14

  ISOBEL FIGURED THAT if she could give Cutter to the police on a plate, Joss might be able to avoid having to tell his story to them. He'd always shied away from telling her much about his childhood, but she had known that he'd run with a gang until his grandparents had intervened. His account this morning of a robbery in which a boy called Fuzzy had been killed had been vaguely familiar to Isobel. However, the story she remembered hearing as a kid did not match what Joss had told her.

  She remembered her parents talking about it after the evening news bulletin. It'd been a big story, back then. Late one night in 1984, fourteen-year-old Carl Waterman – affectionately known to all his classmates as 'Fuzzy' because of his blond afro – had investigated a noise in his father's bike shop. The shop sat underneath the two-bedroom apartment in North Parramatta that Carl shared with his father. Mr Waterman, waking to a crash, had found his son speared through the throat by a shard of glass from his shattered front window. He'd been unable to save his son. The man's desolate face on the news, pleading for the offenders to come forward, had brought Isobel's mother to tears. Her father had sworn that they should hang the bloody mongrels.

  Actually, Joss had told her, what had really happened was that Fuzzy had let him, Cutter and Esterhase into the shop to steal the bikes. They figured insurance would pay for the robbery, and Mr Waterman would be no worse off. The plan was that they'd wheel a bike out each, and hide one for Fuzzy in the flats around the corner. It had gone perfectly until they shattered the window of the shop to make it look like a smash and grab. The
y knew Fuzzy's dad would sleep till the cops got there – he went to bed with Jack Daniels and nothing could wake him.

  They were right. Mr Waterman didn't wake when the huge front window broke inwards and impaled his son. He didn't even wake when Cutter and Esterhase bolted from the shop, knocking over a rack of bike wheels.

  Only Joss's screams had woken Fuzzy's dad from his drunken sleep. Joss had done his best to hold Fuzzy's throat together, but his best friend had drowned in his own blood right there in Joss's lap.

  By the time he got downstairs carrying a baseball bat, Mr Waterman's son was dead, and Joss was gone.

  15

  THE CONDENSATION CAUSED by the spring rain combined with the steam of rice and soup cooking in the kitchen. Sweating, Cutter could imagine himself in the Vietnam of his grandfather's era. He rolled onto his side and reached for another tissue, coughed. The routines and rituals of the room comforted him back to his pillow. His aunt fed his cousin's baby on the floor next to him. His grandma sat in her favourite chair rolling sticky rice balls, just as she had every day of his life. He coughed again and groaned quietly, and his grandma glanced up, giving a cluck of alarm. His ma poked her head out from the doorway of the small kitchen and instructed him to drink more of the fish soup that was sitting in a bowl next to his mattress on the floor.

  Cutter always came home when he was sick. He'd grown up in this humble house in Cabramatta, as had nine of his cousins and most of their children since. At times, there were up to twenty people sleeping in the house, and it had always been full of delicious smells, laughter and babies.