Expectant, page 5
My anxiety levels had almost reached the ‘I might have to have a puke’ tipping point, when said man marched into the room, a scowl plastered across his face and foul mood radiating like an Imperial Death Star force field. Despite the scowl, I launched myself at him for a hug – professionalism be damned. As was common sense, I realised, as I hit the solidity of his BAS vest. Despite clunking against his body armour, I must have diffused his mood a bit, as he wrapped his arms around me and gave me a tight squeeze, crushing me even harder against the chest plate. The small squeak I let out made him realise the error of his ways, and he quickly released me.
‘How about I get this damned thing off and we try that again.’
I stood back and watched as he un-zipped, un-velcroed and manoeuvred the bulky thing off his shoulders.
‘So, are you going to tell me what happened?’
He let the vest drop to the ground with a thunk.
‘Stupid, stupid, idiot.’
The way he looked at the vest made me suspect he would quite like to have thrown it, or at the very least kicked it.
‘Are you referring to yourself or…’
‘Stupid dickhead, weasel-faced idiot fuckwit.’
That was my usual description of The Boss, so I required a bit more clarification.
‘Which one?’ The Earth almost tilted from his eye-roll.
‘Your fucking mate.’
‘Oh, he ain’t no mate of mine.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I take it things didn’t go well.’
‘It depends on what you define as well. No one was harmed, so that went well.’
‘I feel a but coming.’
‘But…’
He let that hang longer than strictly necessary.
I gave the little winding-hand signal to hurry him along.
‘But we didn’t quite achieve the objective.’
There was only one objective that was important, besides the no one getting hurt thing.
‘So, where’s the baby?’
He stood there, looking at me, steel-faced.
‘There wasn’t any baby.’
‘What do you mean there wasn’t any baby?’
‘Didn’t have it, never had it. The stupid bastard had seen all the hoo-ha in the media, and in whatever chemically induced haze of stupidity he was operating under, he decided here was a way to make a quick buck, so thought he’d try and screw the family out of a ransom.’
‘Sorry, so you’re telling me he didn’t have the baby, but decided to extort money anyway?’
‘Yup.’
‘Shit, what a stupid bloody idiot.’
‘Shit indeed.’
CHAPTER 13
‘For fuck’s sake, Marty, what the hell were you thinking?’
The crew had left me to deal with Martin McAndrew – AKA ‘The Fly’ to the police, due to him being a low-irritant pest who always seemed to hang around, regularly got himself into shit but was generally fairly harmless. Unfortunately for him the pile of shit he had gotten himself into this time was of epic proportions, and even the most creative social worker and legal-aid team were unlikely to keep him from spending some time under state hospitality. He looked uncomfortable enough under the hospitality of the station’s cells. I stood in there with him, a concern for my safety nodded at by the presence of a rather burly constable glowering a few metres away. Not that I felt threatened in any way by this dopey specimen. If anything, he should have been afraid of me, because even the most unperceptive of human beings would have been able to tell just how pissed off I was right now.
‘Look, Detective Sam, I didn’t think it would blow up this big. Honestly I didn’t.’
We had had enough dealings over the years that we were practically on a first-name basis, and up until this point I had kind of tolerated him because of his usefulness as an informant. But unfortunately for him, all amassed pity points had been redeemed.
‘I don’t think you thought at all.’ It also meant I felt free to be very blunt.
He looked abashed and suddenly became very concerned about the state of his fingernails, which to be honest had enough gunge under them you could probably crop some potatoes. I winced as he dug a chunk out and flicked it to the floor.
‘You do realise the seriousness of this, don’t you?’
‘Well, I do now,’ he mumbled. He was a study in abject misery, not helped by his bloodshot eyes, what looked like three-day stubble, and shoulders permanently drawn up around his ears.
‘You’re looking at being charged with blackmail and threatening to kill. That’s jail time, Marty, serious jail time. You fucked up big time.’
His shoulders drew up and in even more. The green high-necked jumper he was wearing made him look like a turtle trying to pull its head in.
‘And it’s not just because you tried to deceive everyone by demanding a ransom as a quick way to get a buck.’
I banged my hand against the wall and made him flinch. The shooting pain up my arm was worth it.
‘You do realise your actions have now put that baby at serious risk? Not only have you completely wasted our time on your ridiculous wild-goose chase, whatever the kidnappers had in mind has probably been scuppered by your actions – your selfish, stupid, opportunistic actions.’
As my voice rose, he cringed further into the corner of the wall.
‘And if anything bad happens to that wee girl because of what you have done, anything at all, by God I am going to rain down on you like radio-fucking-active hail, you got that?’
Even the constable’s eyebrows raised.
I fired the last volley.
‘You should be bloody ashamed of yourself.’
CHAPTER 14
After dealing with the stupid piece of shit that was Marty, I needed to do something on this case that at least felt like constructive activity. The postmortem results had come in, and after reading them I wanted to talk them though. Fortunately for me I had a bit of history with the local pathologist. Not in a romantic kind of a way – more in a sisterly kind of a way, despite his best efforts to make it otherwise. Alistair, who liked to be called Alistair and never Al, was in the same class as my brothers at Southland Boys’ High School. We had the pleasure of his company on the farm over many a school holiday, as his over-achieving parents seemed to value their work more than their kid, so he was offloaded on our family more often than not. I liked to think that we had a positive influence on him, and that, courtesy of the love shown by the Shephards, he showed less of his latent psychopathic tendencies than he may have if under the loving care of his parents. Then again, it did mean he spent time around my mother, so it could have swung either way.
I picked up the phone and hit his cell number.
‘Sam,’ came the familiar drawl. ‘What can I do you for – I’m assuming you want something. It’s the only time you call. You know a man could get a complex about things like that.’
He had me pegged.
‘You know me too well, what can I say?’
‘Yes to a date would always be nice.’ Bless him, he still tried.
‘Sorry, but I think the ship has well and truly sailed on that one.’
‘Yes, let me extend my congratulations to you both yet again. When are you due to pop?’
‘Theoretically, around three weeks, but the way I’m feeling at the moment I hoping earlier, because if this thing keeps growing it’s going to explode out of my chest like an alien.’
‘Ooh, if it does that can I be the one to do the autopsy? That would be fascinating.’
The thought of Alistair trawling around in my deceased innards was a bit off-putting, no matter how fascinating he’d find it.
‘You’re a sick puppy, you know that?’
‘Yes, thank you very much. I can attribute that to you and your family’s fine influence.’
‘Touché.’ He had a point.
‘Ah, those were the days. How is the old battle-axe by the way?’
‘Mum’s mum.’
‘Enough said.’ I could hear the smile in his voice. ‘I assume you’re calling about our unfortunate recent arrival.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. Even after a few days of getting used to the case I still had a visceral reaction whenever I thought of what she must have gone through. I had to breathe away the shudders.
‘Was there anything specific you wanted to know?’
‘Not really. I was just wanting a general run-through and…’ How did I phrase this carefully? ‘…anything you thought was amiss, besides the obvious.’ I knew Alistair well enough to know he actively sought out the unusual – the outlier things. Sure, it was part of his job to be systematic and thorough, pay attention to detail, but he was very good at looking that step beyond, at solving the puzzle, which was one of the reasons I respected him so much as a pathologist. Maybe it started on the farm when he seemed to get too much enjoyment poking around the insides of smelly dead things. It wasn’t just a job to him, it was a calling.
‘Cause of death was acute blood loss and shock from being cut open. The cuts themselves were clean; there was no dragging, so performed with a very sharp implement – a knife or perhaps even a scalpel – but they weren’t what I would call proficient, and they were large.’
‘They?’ I asked. ‘There was more than one?’
‘Yes. In a normal caesarean section there will be an abdominal cut first, to get through the muscles etc, and then when the uterus is exposed, the cut through the uterus. Normally these would be just enough to fit a baby’s head and body through. In this case the cuts were much, much larger, twice the size a surgeon would make, and, like I said, messy. Also, the uterine cuts were more hesitant, like they were trying to make sure they didn’t cut through and wound the foetus.’
‘So we can pretty much rule out an obstetrician as the perpetrator.’
‘Unless they were a rubbish one and a bit of a butcher.’
The thought of all this was making me fervently hope Bubs here decided to exit my womb courtesy of the opening nature provided. My hand had automatically started to rub my belly. The kid responded with an obliging kick.
‘Along those lines, they had also managed to nick the bladder, so yes, very confident it wasn’t done by a surgeon.’
Not even a back-alley surgeon. Whoever did this performed under extraordinarily crude circumstances, without the luxury of a sterile environment, operating table and lighting, with an anaesthetist on hand. It begged my next question.
‘No one would sit still or silent for that kind of treatment if awake. Surely she would have had to have been unconscious at the time?’
‘She had a blunt-force trauma wound to the back of her head, which externally looks quite severe, and resulted in a fractured skull and internal bleeding. Looking at the shape of it, to me it looks consistent with an impact from, for example, the edge of kerbing or a ledge of some kind, rather than a weapon, and would likely have rendered her unconscious. We’ve taken bloods for a toxicology screening in case she was given some sort of sedative or anaesthesia to ensure she stayed unconscious throughout, or was under the influence of any drugs or alcohol. I wouldn’t expect the results back for a couple of weeks.’ Knowing full well the list of no-nos a pregnant woman constantly had rammed down her throat by health professionals, family, friends, and even the occasional stranger, who seemed to think they had a right to put in their two-cents’ worth, I doubted there would be alcohol or illicit drugs in her system. But, hey, you never knew. The most illicit thing from the no-nos list I’d indulged in was a cold chicken sandwich, and my mother had even told me off for that.
‘And she didn’t have any signs of defensive wounds, or evidence she’d tried to fight someone off?’ I asked.
‘No, nothing like that. Nothing under her fingernails, and apart from the major trauma to the back of her head, and of course the make-shift caesarean section, she had no other sign of injury.’
‘So you think she was pushed, or tripped over something and fell backward.’ I was going to have to look at the site reports and see if there was blood and tissue evidence on any of the angular edges around where she was found.
‘Well, I can’t speculate on the circumstances, but certainly she struck her head, going backward with enough force to do some serious damage.’
I thought about what he said about toxicology reports.
‘You didn’t find a site of injection?’
‘She had evidence of recent needle puncture to her median cubital vein, but that could have been due to a routine blood test. We will follow up with her medical records to see if any had been taken in the previous few days.’
I remembered his earlier comment about the person being cautious not to cut the baby.
‘Is there any way to know if, when they were cutting through the uterus, they did accidentally cut the baby?’
‘No way to tell. We took blood samples from a number of sites in case there was evidence left by the perpetrator, but to be honest, given the immense amount of blood lost by the victim, that is needle-in-haystack territory. Also, at this point we don’t know the blood type of the baby. Again, we will check the victim’s records for any ante-natal investigations. If she had amniocentesis or any other tests, that could help us there. Oh, and in addition to the baby, they took the placenta.’
‘Pardon?’ I asked.
‘Yup, they took the whole kit and caboodle.’
‘Why the hell would someone do that?’
‘Good question. Maybe they were in a hurry.’
Maybe indeed. I guess if you’d just sliced open a woman in a back alley in the middle of the night to snatch her probably crying baby, you wouldn’t be sticking around to tidy up the mess.
CHAPTER 15
The reception I got from the Felipos could not have been in starker contrast to the last time we met. Granted it was a civilised time in the afternoon rather than a very uncivilised 1.00am in the morning, and likewise we were in the comfort of their home rather than the unwelcoming halls of Dunedin Central Police Station.
On the drive over here I’d marvelled at how Dunedin busted out the spring fever. The cherry blossoms were in full flower, the last of the season’s magnolia blooms still clung onto branches, and carpets of daffodils and spring flowers blanketed the roadsides, parks and gardens. Of course, this being Dunedin, it could turn winterish at the drop of a hat. Today the daffs were waving their cheery heads in the sun. The next thing they could be poking through a blanket of spring-time snow, that other random feature of Dunedin’s southern latitude and proximity to Antarctic blasts. I mentally did a hat tip to the Daffodil Man, as I did every year when the city got to enjoy the fruits of the two million bulbs donated by local millionaire and philanthropist, Les Cleveland. Glad I didn’t have to plant them though.
Walking up to their home I had admired the display of spring flowers cheerfully erupting all around their garden, providing fresh bursts of yellow and white beneath the reds and purples of rhododendrons and azaleas. Like many houses in Mornington it was a multilevel brick number, arranged to maximise space within the contours of their hilly section. The lawns look recently mowed, and someone had kept on top of the weeds, which were proliferating at this time of year. Our garden had a bumper crop. After climbing the stairs to the front door, I had noted the porch filled with carefully paired shoes and gumboots. I pressed the doorbell, heard the bing bong from within the depths of the house and then proceeded to deal with my footwear.
Sina must have been waiting nearby, because within seconds the door opened and she was standing there, gloriously cheerful, dressed in a vivid, orange, floral puletasi.
‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Please, leave your shoes on.’ I had been trying to lean down over my belly to reach them. If advanced pregnancy had taught me anything, it was Velcro had its place, and I would never dis shoes featuring the fastening ever again. Or Crocs for that matter. Although Crocs and socks was a step too far.
She led me down the hallway, through the kitchen and into a sunny and warm lounge beyond. A large woven-flax mat covered a large proportion of the very busy, red-patterned Axminster carpet, and was surrounded by a mismatched array of comfortable-looking sofas. A veneer coffee table that came straight out of the seventies graced the centre of the room and sported a vase holding a bouquet of happily imperfect daffodils, which looked cut from the garden. There was an eclectic mix of ornaments and books on the shelves, along with mementos from the Islands, but it was all carefully arranged and house proud. Family portraits graced the walls, beautiful faces smiling down on the room. Some had shell necklaces hanging around the frame, and others gloriously garish fake-flower leis. It reminded me an awful lot of our family room at home on the farm, with the exception of the mat and the leis, and also the substantial portrait of Jesus that took pride of place in the centre of the wall.
‘I’ll go get Timi for you. Would you like a tea?’
I was reaching the mid-afternoon sleepies time of day, and tea sounded wonderful. ‘Yes please, medium strength with milk would be great.’
I sank down into the corner of a sofa and contemplated the information I’d gleaned during the day. It didn’t feel like much, and research by computer didn’t spin my wheels. Talking with people was a much more effective way of finding not only the solid evidence that made the foundation of an investigation, but also those little gems that could put a stalled case back on the right track. I was hoping that would be the case here. When I’d last questioned Timi he was still overwhelmed by what he’d seen and done. Hopefully a little time and space would have helped him to recollect other aspects of that night.
