bit?'
Emma flipped her straight black hair over her shoulder and shot Scotty a sneer, but she looked stung by his tone as she sashayed back to her own desk. Everyone was used to Scotty being a good-natured clown, and Jill knew that Emma rarely took her grey eyes off him when they were in the same room.
Jill knew it was probably her fault Scotty had no patience left for any more negativity on this case. She'd been making smartarse comments since they'd escorted Carter's body to the morgue, intimating, just as Emma and half the unit had done, that they shouldn't make any real attempt to find the killer. At first Scotty had laughed along, but when it became clear that Jill was serious, he'd seemed worried – Jill was usually the most conscientious on the job. By now though, he seemed fed up with Jill's constant comments that she was glad Carter was dead.
'Don't you say anything,' he warned her as she stared at him when Emma walked away.
'Huh? No,' she said, distracted. She'd been searching the database for new crimes in the metro area. 'Scotty, look at this. There are two other bashing deaths with similar MOs in here. Both male, alone, head beaten in with a blunt instrument. The cops who caught the cases thought there was something off about each of these guys,' she said thoughtfully.
'They're rock spiders too?'
'They could be. Listen to this.' She read: ''Victim: Dennis Rocla, River Road, Lane Cove, DOB 11/11/1955. Victim's wife reports finding victim near garbage bin in front of garage, deceased with head injuries. Victim's wife reports that they had been separated and victim had not been welcome at their home. States she was not aware that victim had apparently come to the home the night before when assault took place. Victim's details known to police.'
'And this one – 'George Manzi, a.k.a. George Marks, 56.' Again deceased, assault, head injuries. Says here, 'Items of interest to police recovered from scene.''
'Well of course they've recovered items from the scene. It's a freaking homicide investigation.' Scotty stretched and yawned, his limbs sprawling, his elbow almost taking out a pot plant on a desk behind him.
'Exactly. So why even add that bit in there?' asked Jill, pensive. 'They've got something on him.'
She rocked back on her chair, its front legs in the air, her feet up on the desk. Scotty knew better than to tell her to be careful, sitting like that. The one time he'd tried, Jill had smirked at him and balanced the chair on just one leg, using a toe to steady herself as the chair swayed slightly, three of its feet in the air.
'And in both of these they also got no prints,' she read on, chewing her pen. 'Killer wore gloves; they got smooth glove marks from each crime scene. Don't you think that's unusual?' Jill and Scotty both knew that bashing deaths were usually crimes of passion or, more often, were committed by drunken youths in gangs. Gloves weren't typical in such cases.
'Yeah, well, we've got enough to do with Shitbag here,' said Scotty, indicating the murder book, pulling his hand through his thick blond hair. 'We've got a couple more fathers of his past victims to talk to. Could be one of them got sick of waiting for us to lock him up. And we've also got to interview that shrink, Dr Merris, who was treating Carter's daughters from his first marriage. She might have something to say about them or someone they're involved with. The oldest daughter, Hailey, is nineteen now.'
'Yep, okay.' Jill still felt distracted. She stared unseeingly at the flyspecked, dung-coloured wall of the squad room.
'Let's go get lunch, Jackson. I'm starving. I swear I'm gonna die if I don't eat soon.' Scotty half-lifted her from her chair with one arm.
'Yeah. You're fading away, fatso,' Jill laughed, woken from her reverie. She manoeuvred from his grasp, and in the same fluid movement aimed a roundhouse kick at his flat abdomen, deliberately just missing.
'Cut it out!' shouted their boss, Inspector Andreessen, as Scotty tried to lunge at Jill again, knocking over a chair as she easily sidestepped him. 'Go do some work for godsakes!'
Pushing each other through the office, Jill paused when she heard her name.
'… you watch. Everything will get buried with that Carter case anyway. Deviants like that always stick together. Jackson would think of him as part of the homosexual scene, like a brother.'
She stopped dead; blood suffused her face. She couldn't care less about Elvis spreading rumours that she was a lesbian, but she couldn't believe that he could even joke that she would somehow protect a paedophile. She didn't hear Scotty say her name, couldn't feel his hand on her arm. She didn't try to think of a comeback. Elvis had his back to her as he talked to two of his cronies, obviously aware that she was just then walking past. With no warning, she exploded into movement, shoulder-charging Calabrese. The heavy man sprawled forward, his gut connecting with a desk corner before he dropped to his knees, sucking air.
'Oh shit! Sorry, man,' Scotty offered his big hand to Elvis, who stayed where he was on the floor, his face black with rage. 'No really, sorry, man, and I'm sorry for pushing you like that, Jackson. Andreessen's right, we gotta stop mucking around.'
He steered Jill, who was standing rigid, out of the office.
'Just keep walking, Jill,' said Scotty tightly. 'You're gonna get a bullet in the head in some laneway one day, I swear.'
5
Mentally exhausted,Jill was tired of fighting the nightmare that started rolling as soon as she slipped into sleep. She gave up trying and walked, eyes closed, down the hall towards her gym. She was used to nightmares, but they were so real lately; last night she'd woken screaming twice, her pillow sour with sweat.
Jill had spent two years after the kidnapping waking every night from these dreams. She'd stayed hidden in her home, her mother by her side day and night. She wouldn't sleep alone and stopped eating. She was racked by paralysing panic that left her hyperventilating and sure she was going to die. As a way of blocking the pain, she took to scratching deep welts in her arms using her fingernails, and progressed to a Stanley knife on her thighs. She hated the burn scars left by the rapists, but revelled in the blood-red warrior marks she made herself.
After three days in the basement, Jill had learned how to turn the physical pain off, mentally leaving her body when the two men were in the room. Sensory deprivation had heightened this ability to disconnect from reality – in the dark she could not see her attackers and they never spoke. After the police had brought her home, she'd found this capacity to become numb would take over involuntarily, and would smudge its way over everything, leaving her feeling empty, like a puppet.
At fifteen, Jill had given in to her mother's tears and agreed to see a counsellor. To her surprise, this time something clicked, and she began clawing her way back into her life. She returned to school, swapped cutting for tattoos, and starving for exercise. She swapped crying for control and order, and set about harnessing her ability to numb any pain. She found that ignoring fatigue meant that studying all night was nothing for her. She quickly caught up with her peers in her schoolwork, and soon overtook them.
She then set about finding a method to defend herself, vowing that if anyone ever again tried to hurt her, she'd make them bleed too. She took up kickboxing, and found a gym that taught the sport using full-contact, gutter fighting. At first her instructors were bemused when Jill insisted on fighting others blindfolded. She was beaten constantly, and soon most at the gym refused to fight her blind and defenceless. She would inwardly curse as those who did get in the ring with her tapped her lightly, instead of connecting properly, or told her verbally where they would strike next.
One afternoon, blindfolded in the ring, Jill was sparring with one of the trainers. The woman was walking through her moves, easily dodging most of Jill's strikes and, every now and then, half-heartedly throwing a light kick. When the trainer began a conversation with an apparent bystander, Jill swallowed her frustration. She wanted a focused, determined enemy. She remembered the helplessness of being blindfolded in the basement, and she was determined to conquer her fear of the dark. The grunting and panting of her speechless abductors also taught her a lesson; by the time she'd been released, after three days, she was excruciatingly aware that sound and movement could predict future agony.
The male voice at the side of the ring was scornful. 'If she wants to get flogged, Kaylene, you should give it to her.'
