had to be the prime suspect.
With a diagnosis of diminished responsibility, he could use it as an excuse for raping other patients. Even better for him if the police doubted the victims’ stories. It was the perfect set-up for his sick, violent attacks.
Temple’s color faded. “There is a police guard at each end of the ward, but he’s free to come and go within those parameters.”
“Do the other voluntary patients know they’re in with a gang rapist and murderer? What would that do for your reputation?” Hayden hitched up his trousers. “Now, where can Doctor Crichton examine this patient, whose name, by the way, Anya, is Lydia Winter.”
Lydia twisted a handtowel around her wrist and crushed it between her fingers. The nurse helped her into a backless gown; her ribs protruded beneath stretched skin.
Anya explained who she was and what she was here for, but Lydia barely acknowledged her presence. “We don’t say much, do we, Lydia,” said the nurse as she tied the gown at the back. “This is a lovely doctor, who wants to make sure you’re all right.”
Lydia clung tightly to the handtowel.
Anya asked the nurse to collect the panties Lydia had been wearing, along with the sheets from her bed, and placed them in paper bags from her kit.
“Lydia, can you tell me what happened to you this afternoon, after you fell asleep?”
“I had a bad dream. I couldn’t breathe and was being crushed. Then I opened my eyes and he was on top of me, hurting me. I tried to tell him to stop, to call for help, but his hand was over my mouth.” She twisted the towel even tighter, blanching her knuckles.
“Did you see who this man was?”
Lydia shook her head. “I could smell his sweat but couldn’t see his face. It all happened so fast.”
“It’s okay, you’re doing really well, Lydia.” Anya felt for this woman who appeared so fragile, physically and emotionally. “Are you in any pain, does it hurt anywhere?”
“Down below,” she said. “Doctor Temple says there’s nothing there, but it’s sore.”
“Would you mind if I had a very gentle look? The nurse might even hold a light for me.”
Lydia pleaded, “Please don’t hurt me any more.”
“I won’t,” Anya promised, and began the examination.
An hour later Anya emerged from the room. Lydia had gone to sleep on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, still clutching the towel. The nurse stayed with her.
Hayden had spoken to the staff members and some patients and now waited in the next room, while Doctor Temple had gone to notify Lydia’s parents.
“What do you think?” the detective asked after closing the door behind her.
“It looks like intercourse probably took place. There’s a superficial abrasion on the vulva, but my guess is he used a condom. Like lots of young women, she’s had her pubic hair removed-waxed-recently, but there weren’t any odd hairs to sample.” She sat, elbow on the desk, propping up her temple. “With the amount of medication she’s on, sedation included, it’s going to be difficult to verify anything.”
Hayden rubbed his forehead. “It’s not the usual level of violence, but Gary Harbourn has to be our prime suspect. If we can get him to admit that he had sex with her, can’t you say that she was too doped up to have given consent? Therefore it can’t have been consensual.”
“Good try. He’s supposedly on medication and sedation, too, remember? His judgment could be said to be impaired.”
A knock on the door interrupted them. Dan Brody stood in the doorway.
“Temple told me where to find you. Just got your message.”
“What are you doing here?” Anya was confused. She hadn’t even known about the clinic call when she left her message for Dan.
“That’s what I was going to tell you,” Hayden mumbled.
“Judge Pascoe personally ‘requested’ I take on a pro bono client who apparently sacked his lawyer. I didn’t really have a choice,” Dan said, “given his friendship with my senior partner.”
Anya wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but pulled him aside for a quick word. “I got a call today from Jeff Sales at the morgue. You still haven’t buried the baby.”
“My father wanted to wait until the brain had been fully studied, which they tell me takes weeks. He won’t cremate her without all the body parts.”
“Fair enough, but they do have a diagnosis. The retro-orbital tumor was a retinoblastoma. By the size and extent of it, the baby had no real chance of survival. I’m going to visit your father to tell him, I promised I would.”
“He’d like that. Maybe I can come along. Your son isn’t in town, is he?”
Anya smiled. “No, and I promise not to vomit as well. What’s your client being charged with?”
“I gather you already know him. It’s Gary Harbourn.”
31
Natasha Ryder hastily pulled on her clothes and carried her shoes to the door, careful not to wake Brian, or was it Baden? On the way out, she stole some cigarettes from the jacket he had worn half an hour before. So much for litigators, she thought. One climax led to an instant coma. Like many lawyers, the concept of afterplay or prolonging the moment was completely foreign.
Damn it. She’d managed twenty-nine days without so much as a craving. It was just a matter of self-control. This time the rush of sex made her covet it more. She could taste it on his lips and in his hair. The sex was average but the anticipation of a cigarette afterward kept her interested.
Rolling it between her thumb and index finger, she enjoyed the familiar feel of the paper, the smoothness, the sleekness. Just knowing it was bad for her made it so much more tempting.
The last few weeks had been some of the most stressful of her career. If she made the slightest mistake in prosecuting the Harbourns, her job could be on the line.
For God’s sake, the whole police force had done a collection for Sophie Goodwin’s medical treatment, after already offering to pay for the sister’s funeral. The public appeals had received over $50,000 in the last week. Every ghoulish reporter, makeover show and magazine wanted to do a story on Sophie, the miracle survivor. Public demand for justice exceeded anything she’d seen before.
It didn’t hurt that Sophie was a stunning-looking teenager in the photos of her before the attack, or that her sister had a smile every parent could be proud of. The girls next door who had tragically lost their mother but pulled together as a family only to have their lives shattered by the most heinous crimes. The grieving father who buried his ex-wife, a beloved daughter and kept a bedside vigil, praying his other child would survive. She couldn’t have scripted it better for public sympathy.
Natasha grabbed her briefcase and let herself out the front door of the unit. Outside, she lit the first cigarette with his lighter. The smell of burning tobacco made her salivate.
Instead of a taxi, she decided to savor the cigarette and walk the rest of the way home. Four blocks and a mild night might just make her feel alive again. Not numbed by the politics of prosecuting, or the lame stunts pulled by defense lawyers.
She thought about Anya Crichton and envied her in some small way. Life was simple when you could afford to be self-righteous and principled. She wasn’t answerable to the public the next time another victim appeared.
If the doctor had been willing to say she had seen marks on Giverny’s face before performing CPR, everything would now be different. She could have laid charges against the Harbourns for conspiracy to murder and kept them in jail. The others could have been rounded up and the Goodwin girls would never have suffered. Sophie would be enjoying being a teenager and her father would be looking forward to the next family Christmas.
How the hell could Anya claim to be ethically superior by sticking to her principles? Those principles had got Rachel Goodwin killed.
The cigarette was burning down too quickly. Natasha sucked every molecule of smoke into her lungs.
The streets were quiet, except for the occasional lovers walking along arm in arm. Restaurants and cafes had
