She turned and faced the body. “My guess is that the killer was on the bed, probably straddled on top when he stabbed her.” She lifted her fist above her shoulder with a slightly bent elbow. “He used a lot of force because he’s pulled the knife out and up. The blood’s come from the knife and traveled backward through the air. And he’s done it more than once.” She looked over at the bear.
Zimmer smiled again. “Top of the class. Why can’t my officers be more like you?”
“Then they wouldn’t sleep with you,” Kate quipped. She turned to Anya. “Your lot don’t usually bother with blood spatter patterns.”
Jeff Sales joined in. “Can you blame us-if it’s not in the report to the coroner and directly relevant to cause and manner of death, there’s no point. And some lawyer will tear us apart in court anyway for going beyond our level of expertise.”
Anya knew he was right, but she had been around enough crime scenes to learn a lot more than study and exams had taught her.
“Ah, might have just found the missing item of clothing.” With latex-covered hands, Zimmer reached down behind the set of drawers. Wedged between the wall and the back was a pink piece of material.
Zimmer carefully unfolded the item. It turned out to be a small cropped top.
“Jackpot! Look at the size of this little beauty.”
Liz whacked Zimmer’s back with her hand. “For Pete’s sake, show some respect-”
“I was.” Zimmer held up the top indignantly. “I was merely worshipping at the altar of good fortune. What we have here is akin to perfection. A bloodstained fingerprint.”
Liz blushed. “With your track record, what was I supposed to think?”
“Don’t sweat it. If I didn’t deserve it this time, you probably owed me one anyway.”
Anya knew Zimmer had a point. He frequently pushed the boundaries of decency with female officers and techs. She also knew how seriously he took his work, which was how he redeemed himself.
He proudly clutched his find.
“If the bastard’s on file, we’ve just nailed Rachel’s killer.”
7
Anya signed over the forensic specimens to Shaun Wheeler who dropped her home on his way to the crime lab.
She appreciated not having to make conversation in the car when every muscle in her ached with fatigue and her mind still raced with the details of Giverny’s death. Inside, she locked the door and switched off the alarm. Everything was as she had left it. The unworn leggings and sloppy joe protruded from the opened suitcase on the floor. She grabbed them and headed upstairs to the bathroom.
After a hot shower she felt even more exhausted, but had at least washed the smells and horror of the Goodwin house from her skin and hair. Back in her Ugg boots, she scuffed downstairs. A message on the machine from her ex-husband explained that the plane had been delayed another day due to electrical storms at LAX airport. Ben excitedly shouted something about loud thunder before the message cut out.
She had to smile. Even a delayed flight was an adventure for her child. Martin probably didn’t see it as quite as much fun. Traveling with a child was challenging enough without flight complications.
The instructions for the bookshelf kit were where she had left them on the kitchen bench. So much for a day off to rest and recuperate. After tipping the morning’s tea into the sink, she boiled the kettle again, this time opting for a strong black coffee and scrambled eggs whipped up in the microwave.
Smelling the toast and eggs made her realize that she hadn’t eaten all day. She devoured the eggs while standing at the kitchen bench, then washed down another antibiotic dose with the coffee. Thankfully her cough was less frequent already-the only positive thing in the last two days. Feeling miserable and sore would improve with more sleep.
Back in the lounge room, the television blared with news updates of a vicious knife attack on two sisters that had left one dead and the other in a critical condition. Anya moved onto the couch and blew breath across her coffee with relief. At least Sophie was still alive at the time the show went to air. Maybe the Saint Jude medal was lucky for her. God knew nothing else had been that day.
She pressed record on the DVD remote just as photos of the girls smiling and embracing filled the screen. What struck Anya was how pretty the girls were, and how much alike they looked. Nothing like what she had seen today.
Elderly neighbors were reportedly “shocked” by what had occurred in their “quiet” street and spoke about the family keeping to themselves. Reporters implied there was something odd about that, but Anya believed privacy should be respected. Having grown up with incessant media interest in her family, she fully understood the desire to mind only your own business. She wished more people shared that view.
She wasn’t sure whether it was the effects of the chest infection, seeing Sophie or being overtired and missing Ben that made her think about Miriam. Little Mimi, the one who loved to run around outside. Two years older, Anya was asked to watch her little sister at a local football match while their mother tended to an injury on the field. One minute they were playing chasings, then Mimi was gone. She was only three years old. Vanished.
No one ever saw her again or found clues as to who had taken her. Each year meant less chance of finding out.
Media accused their father of killing Mimi, stories of sex slaves and pedophile rings abounded in the state and national press. So much so that Anya changed her surname to avoid the scrutiny-Crichton was her grandmother’s name. Even thirty years later, the speculation and media interest persisted.
The next news story brought her back to the present. Noelene Harbourn, with a frilly blue apron this time, embraced four solid men, her sons, while announcing that she would sue the police.
The brothers were remarkably alike in build, coloring and facial features. They all had short necks, which made them stockier and more thuggish-almost Neanderthal. One had a mole on his chin that distinguished him from the others.
The reporter declared that the popular local identity, Mrs. Harbourn, had held a well-attended street party last night to celebrate her sons’ release from custody after the department of public prosecutions decided not to pursue the case.
Anya sat forward in disbelief. The department of public prosecutions had dropped the charges against the brothers. What the hell was Natasha thinking, after promising to go on with the trial?
Anya tried to study the brothers’ faces, as if they could reveal what they had done to Giverny, but they just smiled and laughed while they talked to reporters; they were dressed in suits, as if that made them respectable and therefore innocent. Earlier footage showed one with a beard, another with a mustache, but all four were clean- shaven this night as they picked up younger children to present a loving family image.
Anya almost gagged on her coffee. An “exclusive interview” with the devoted mother would be aired on the tabloid news show that followed. “Police persecution and false allegations,” the heavily made up anchor declared.
Anya’s thoughts turned to Bevan and Val Hart. Hopefully, they wouldn’t see the show and have to endure more grief, if it was possible.
The chime of the doorbell startled her. Whoever it was could come back another time. The chime continued. Anya pulled herself off the lounge and checked the peephole. Kate Farrer. She opened the door to her friend who proffered a plastic bag. The fragrant aromas had to be Indian food.
“Can I come in? Thought we could have a chat away from all the madness. Besides, if the spices in this lot don’t send your germs packing, there’s no hope.”
“Smells wonderful.” In honesty, Anya appreciated the gesture, and the opportunity to catch up. “I was just about to throw something through the TV anyway.”
Kate walked straight through to the kitchen. “Guess you already know the media’s all over it.”
Anya watched the detective pull plates from the cupboard and forks from the drawer. For the first time, she noticed the shorter hair and coppery tinge. “When did you change your hair?”
“While I was on leave. You’re lucky you didn’t see it before it grew back.” She tugged on strands at the base of
