Blood Born Page 19

  Natasha moved forward and pulled back a sheet from a chart.

  Anya was given permission to step down and describe the extent of the external and internal injuries.

  “And in your opinion were these injuries caused by consensual or nonconsensual intercourse?”

  Rachel’s injuries and vaginal tears were most probably the worst she had seen. “I believe that these injuries were caused by nonconsensual sexual intercourse.”

  Stilton objected. “The doctor was not present and is in no position to state whether the bruising occurred without consent. Plenty of people within the population participate in vigorous consensual sex.”

  Some snickers came from the public gallery. Anya noticed Noelene Harbourn cover her mouth with one hand as if shocked. With the other, she pulled the pre-teen daughter beside her to her breast, blocking her ears from the supposed vulgarity.

  It seemed ridiculous that the description of the injuries didn’t shock her enough to protect her daughter, but mention of sex did. It was obviously meant to suggest that Gary Harbourn came from a sheltered home, with an innocent and protective mother. What else but insanity would drive him to commit such a horrible crime? She was playing to the jury at every opportunity.

  The judge immediately asked the jury to be excused for legal arguments.

  Once they had filed out, Pascoe turned to Anya. “Doctor, I don’t believe that you can unequivocally state that these vaginal injuries could only have been caused by nonconsensual intercourse. Mr. Stilton has a point.”

  Anya glanced at Natasha in disbelief. She was unsure where the judge was going with this.

  Stilton interjected again. “Your honor, consent is an issue that is yet to be established in this case. And one that the deceased is not in a position to verify. The suggestion that nonconsensual intercourse took place is highly prejudicial to my client.”

  “Your Honor,” Natasha said, “Rachel Goodwin did not consent to being stabbed multiple times or murdered. We accept that as fact. In terms of nonconsensual intercourse, the witness is expressing an opinion based on the severity of injuries. The defense has accepted she is an expert in this area and, as such, perfectly qualified to provide that opinion.”

  “Your Honor,” Anya tried to appease his desire for semantics, “these sorts of injuries are more commonly seen in rape cases. I have never seen anyone with injuries like this sustained from consensual intercourse.”

  The defense lawyer wasted no time. “Again, Your Honor, I am concerned by the issue of nonconsensual sex. This is an erroneous argument because women sustaining those types of injuries following consensual injuries would not seek out Doctor Crichton’s medical expertise.”

  Anya chose her words carefully. “I liaise with casualty and emergency departments and have worked in those areas over many years. Never have I seen injuries like this, which would require urgent medical treatment for anyone participating in consensual intercourse.”

  The judge scratched his broad nose. “This troubles me. A jury will be swayed by your opinion, and yet you have failed to prove beyond reasonable doubt that every one of these injuries would have occurred solely without consent.”

  Natasha Ryder placed her hands on the bar table, fingers splayed. “The severity of the injuries must be evidence in itself of nonconsent. They would have caused significant pain, which would have compelled the victim to request any consensual activity to stop. In other words, this degree of pain would lead to withdrawal of consent if it had in fact been prior given.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily follow,” Stilton declared. “Otherwise there would be no industry in sadomasochism.”

  After a further half-hour of debate, the jurors were allowed back in.

  Natasha compromised by altering her original question.

  “Were the injuries you saw on the body of Rachel Goodwin consistent with nonconsensual activities?”

  “Yes, the genital injuries were consistent with an absence of consent, as were the stab wounds to her torso and abdomen.”

  “Could the sexual injuries have been self-inflicted, for example by attempts at self-stimulation?”

  “Not with the victim’s hands tied tightly to the bed.”

  Someone in the gallery scoffed and drew the ire of the judge’s good eye.

  “Have you ever seen a sexual assault victim survive with the severity of injuries you described on Rachel Goodwin?”

  “No, I have not.”

  It was the best Natasha could do. She had planted the notion of rape strongly in the minds of the jurors. Motive was important to establish, and a sex crime provided a motive to permanently silence the victim. It also provided the opportunity to introduce previous histories of rape, if they fitted within the bounds of similar pattern evidence.

  Despite the surprising challenge of the judge, who seemed to be guided by the defense, Anya hoped that Natasha had scored a major win for the prosecution.

  “Pascoe may be preventing grounds for an appeal, but he’s going to make my life hell for the next few months,” she said, as they left the courtroom for the day. “Fancy a drink?”

  Anya had found the testimony grueling. She hoped the rest of the trial would be smoother.

  “Just one. I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on.”

  They walked across the road into a cafe and sat at the bar. Court finishing at four o’clock meant plenty of seats were available inside. Natasha flicked her hair off her shoulder and removed her glasses. “A gin and tonic and…”

  “Lemon, lime and bitters, thanks.”

  Natasha paid with a credit card before the pair chose a table at the window, out of hearing range of other diners.

  Anya spoke first. The rash on her chest and neck was fading, but her disbelief at what had occurred in the courtroom had not. She felt like breaking something. Anything.

  “How are the victim’s family and friends meant to feel, hearing that garbage about painful sex? And poor Bevan Hart, I saw him in there as well.”

  “Afraid I suggested he come along, given the charges involving his daughter’s assault are temporarily on hold. He knows that if we get this conviction, there’s a better chance of successfully prosecuting them for Giverny’s rape.”

  The drinks arrived and Anya placed hers on a coaster.

  “I can’t believe Pascoe supported the defense. Is he going to sit back and let Stilton suggest that Rachel injured herself masturbating, then Sophie came in, tied her sister up and stabbed her multiple times? Oh yeah, then went outside, interfered with herself and cut her own throat.”

  “Maybe Stilton’s hedging his bets to get Harbourn acquitted, in case diminished responsibility fails. I wouldn’t put anything past Pascoe. Being one-eyed isn’t just physical with him.”

  Anya glanced around to make sure no one was listening. Mocking a judge within earshot of other lawyers wasn’t a wise move.

  “Was he seriously supporting the concept that pain and sex are compatible?”

  “Afraid so. He always gives the defense much more room than us, even if it means the victim is violated over again.”

  Anya wondered how long it would be before judges with archaic views, many of whom seemed far removed from modern reality, would die out. “Judges like Pascoe are on borrowed time. He’s close to retirement.”

  She sipped her drink and noticed a well-dressed man at the bar watching Natasha.

  “Not our old ‘Unsinkable.’ Philip Pascoe would have survived the Titanic. With his archaic attitudes to women, he probably did.”

  “Why Unsinkable?”

  “Apparently he survived a rare childhood cancer and lost that eye.” She ticked off on her fingers. “Then he was in a car accident years ago that completely mangled the car, but he walked away without a scratch. He’s just back from time off. He had part of his leg amputated for some obscure kind of bone cancer. Old boy looks stronger than ever. If you ask me, he’s got some deal going with the devil.” She took a sip from her gin and tonic.

 
; People in suits filed into the cafe. A man Anya had noticed greeted some of the newcomers but kept an eye on Natasha in between conversations and bouts of laughter.

  “Do you know the guy at the bar, dark suit, silver tie?”

  Natasha looked around. “Met him once or twice. From what I hear he’s a pretty good litigator.”

  “Well, he’s been watching you since he got here.”

  “Really?” Natasha finished her drink, pulled a compact out of her purse and fiddled with her hair.

  As if on cue, the lawyer approached their table and offered to buy them a round.

  Natasha smiled and gestured for the man to take a seat. Anya waited for an introduction, but suspected the prosecutor didn’t remember his name. He reeked of cigarette smoke, and that alone would have been enough to put Anya off staying.

  Still fuming from the judge’s comments, she grabbed her bag and stood to excuse herself. There had to be another way to make the judge and jury see sense.

  At that moment Natasha’s phone rang. After muttering “Yes,” then “No,” then “Right,” she hung up and gave a wry grin.

  “Who’d have thought? Harbourn must have figured he took a decent hit today. He’s just fired his lawyer. We’ll find out in the morning if the trial’s on hold.”

  For someone claiming diminished responsibility, Gary Harbourn was proving pretty adept at using the system to his advantage, holed up in a cushy private psych hospital instead of prison while he delayed the trial with legal games.

  Anya left, wondering how she could support a system that catered to the Harbourns at the expense of people like the Harts and Goodwins and lauded judges like Pascoe.

  She thought about Natasha’s comments about the unsinkable judge and decided what she had to do.

  Outside the cafe, she dialed Dan Brody’s number. The call went to voicemail.

  “Anya here, please call me as soon as you get this, it’s urgent.”

  She noticed a message from Hayden Richards. Damn. Her phone was still on silent after court.

  There had been a female sexual assault. She pulled out a notepad to document the address and recognized the street name. It was Saint Stephen’s Private Clinic.

  30

  Anya was greeted by a nurse who quickly ushered her down the corridor, past the gym, toward the consulting room. Doctor Temple stood outside, in jeans and a striped shirt, hand on his chin.

  Hayden nodded at her. “Thanks for coming so quickly. We have a female inmate-”

  “Inpatient,” the psychiatrist corrected. “This is a medical facility.”

  “She says she woke up and found a man on top of her. She screamed, but he covered her mouth until he’d finished having nonconsensual intercourse with her, then ran off.”

  This wasn’t Anya’s first call-out to a hospital or clinic. She’d attended sexual assault victims at elderly nursing homes and facilities for the severely intellectually and physically disabled. This was her third psych clinic. In previous cases, members of staff routinely preyed on society’s most vulnerable.

  “What’s her medical condition like?”

  “She’s stable and as far as I can tell there are no signs of her having been assaulted.”

  Anya tried to remain calm. If the psychiatrist had already examined her genitally, without collecting forensic specimens, he may have ruined any chance of her collecting physical evidence, and traumatized the patient further, making all of their jobs far more difficult.

  “As you know, Doctor Temple, in sexual assaults there is often no physical sign of injury.” Hayden put his head down. He looked as frustrated as she felt right now. “What’s her background and mental state?”

  “Schizophrenia since the age of eighteen, with severe psychotic episodes. She’s had numerous admissions for violent behavior associated with treatment cessation and substance abuse. Her parents admitted her when the police picked her up for urinating in public. Prior to this episode, she’d held down a clerical job for three months. She is, however, something of a fabulist, which is why I have to question whether or not she really was assaulted. She is delusional. This isn’t the first time she’s reported something like this.”

  Anya put down her bag. A woman suffering delusions would never have her claims taken seriously, so was the perfect victim for a sexual predator. It’s possible she had been sexually abused before, rather than just imagined it.

  “What about cameras?”

  “Privacy prevents us from having cameras in the rooms or private areas. This corridor isn’t monitored either.” Doctor Temple was pleading for something from Hayden and Anya. “Our patients are voluntary and we’ve never had anything like this happen before. There hasn’t been any need for cameras except in the gardens and entry foyer.”

  “In other words, something like this getting out could ruin this place’s reputation,” Hayden said. “And you’re telling us the woman is unreliable as a witness.”

  “That’s correct.” Temple seemed to relax.

  “If you don’t mind, we have our jobs to do. I need to speak to whoever was on duty this afternoon and get the names of any visitors, delivery staff or kitchen hands, and I’ll need to talk to the other patients.”

  The psychiatrist stiffened again. “I’m afraid that is fraught with confidentiality issues.”

  “Rest assured, Doctor,” said Hayden, “I won’t be telling anyone unless we find out one of your patients committed rape under your watch. No amount of privacy can stop me charging whoever did this.”

  “Where was Gary Harbourn when this occurred?” Anya wanted to know. With his history of sexual assault, he 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 bla
nket, 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.”