Morgan Tully listened to Anya’s plea, but sat at her desk, stony-faced.
“I appreciate what you’re saying, but the area doesn’t have the funds to go chasing cases that were closed decades ago. We’re struggling to keep up with the samples taken from current crime.”
She pushed back her chair, stood up and closed the office door. “It can take eight months to process a sexual-assault kit as it is. I’m afraid this isn’t a priority.”
Anya put the brown paper bags on the desk. Judging by Morgan’s response-a sneezing spasm-she was allergic to dust. When Charlie Boyd souvenired them after the trial, the world forgot about them-until now. It had not been the first time that a policeman had squirrelled evidence from a trial away, particularly in the biggest case of his career. Thankfully, he had been forthcoming, believing that Willard’s guilt could be proved with modern science. The retired policeman had not considered the possibility of science exonerating an innocent man.
“These have been kept in a police-officer’s shed for twenty years, while Geoffrey Willard served time for a crime he probably didn’t commit. There’s at least enough doubt to hold another inquest.”
Morgan took a tissue from the counter and turned away to wipe her nose. “You need to talk to the DPP.”
Anya had already tried that. The official line from the office of the director of public prosecutions was that a jury had convicted Geoffrey Willard on the basis of evidence, motive and opportunity. Since DNA hadn’t been operational back then, he had not been wrongly convicted based on DNA evidence.
She had hit a brick wall. They wouldn’t test Eileen Randall’s clothing unless someone else was found guilty of the Dorman and Turnbull murders. By that time, the killer would be serving two life sentences. It would be a waste of time testing the Randall evidence because no one would spend money trying a killer for another murder if it made no real difference to the sentence he would serve. Crime and justice were about money and practicality.
Twenty years might have been wrongfully stolen from Geoff Willard’s life, but nobody cared because it was in the past. He would have a better chance of being exonerated if he were still in jail for that crime.
“The DPP don’t want anything to do with it,” she admitted.
Morgan sat down again. “I can see why. I’d need a better reason to hold another inquest into Randall’s death.” She clasped her hands, as though about to pass judgment. “Do the family want it?”
Anya stood head down with both palms flat on the desk. “There’s no family that we know of.”
“I see.”
“There are two other murders with similar pattern injuries, one of which was committed while Geoffrey was in jail. If Barry Lerner’s DNA turns up on this underwear,” she put her hand on the dirty bag, “it’ll go a hell of a way to proving Lerner’s guilt in the recent murder too.”
“And therefore Willard’s innocence.”
The coroner pushed the bags to the edge of the desk and wiped her hands on another tissue. “And therein lies the problem.”
“Pardon?” Anya lifted her head, confused.
“After serving twenty years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit, then being rearrested for another crime-again, that he didn’t commit? Imagine the compensation.”
Finally, Anya understood. Conveniently, exonerating Willard was a low priority, which also saved the government millions of dollars and extreme embarrassment. How could she have been so naïve?
“I can’t hold an inquest until you have something more substantial on the Dorman killing.”
“How about another body? Maybe, if we’re lucky, the killer will stab someone else.”
Morgan took a deep breath. “Don’t do this to yourself. The system isn’t perfect and never will be. With people like you on the job, there will be fewer people going through what Geoffrey Willard has endured.”
That wasn’t much consolation. If testing was about money, she had a better idea. “How about I wipe the bill for my reports on the Carney cases?”
The coroner sneezed again and delicately dabbed the tip of her nose.
“That should just about cover the cost of examining the clothes, I’d say,” Anya persisted.
Both women smiled and understood.
Anya reached over and shook the older woman’s hand. “I owe you for this one.”
“Take those dusty bags off my desk and we’ll be even.”
Back at the SA unit, Anya felt victorious. Finally, something was going in a positive direction. Then she saw Mary Singer’s solemn face.
“Did you get my message?”
Anya checked her mobile phone. She’d forgotten to charge it overnight. “Sorry, it’s flat.” With annoyance she realized that in her haste to see Morgan Tully, she’d left her pager at home as well.
“There’s a woman in the waiting room. She’s been here two hours and hasn’t said a word. It’s like she’s catatonic.”
Anya followed the counsellor to a room filled with lounge chairs. It served as a waiting room and was used for counselling sessions as needed.
A young blonde woman sat staring out the window. Dressed in trackpants and a windcheater, she had her bare feet on the chair, knees pulled up to her chin. The disturbing thing was how she rocked. Not much, but repeatedly.
Outside the door, Mary whispered, “She’s been like this since she got here.”
“Do we have a name?”
“Her license says Emily Mirivac. She’s eighteen.”
Anya entered the room first, and knelt down on the floor in front of the young woman.
“Emily, my name is Anya. I’m a doctor, and I’d like to help you.”
Emily stopped rocking and turned her face toward Anya. A bruise on the left side took in part of her eye, but most of the impact had been taken by the cheekbone.
“That looks sore.” Anya shifted her weight onto the other knee and reached over to a bar-fridge. In the freezer section she pulled out a gel ice-pack and wrapped some paper towel around it from the tea-tray on top.
“This might help,” she offered, and Emily made eye-contact. As she took the ice-pack, their hands touched, and it was enough to break Emily’s emotionally frozen state. The young woman blinked back tears.
“Will you pray with me?” were the first words she spoke.
Anya flicked a look at Mary, who had sat down in a chair across the room.
All three women bowed their heads and Emily asked for forgiveness for what she had done, and the strength to go on. Anya wondered what she had done to the person who attacked her.
She concluded with “Amen,” and the two others in the room echoed the sentiment.
“Emily, can you tell us what happened?” Anya moved to a position next to the teenager and tried to straighten her stiff knees.
Clutching the ice-pack with one hand and Anya’s with the other, she began to explain. “Mum and Dad had gone away for a couple of nights, on a church camp. My little brother was staying with a friend. I got home from scripture at about nine-thirty. I remember locking the doors before bed. Next thing I knew, I couldn’t breathe. There was someone on top of me, holding me down.”
She squeezed Anya’s fingers tighter.
“He hurt me. I was so scared, I didn’t move. I told him I was saving myself for marriage.” She blinked a few times and a lone tear escaped down her purple-red cheek.
“He raped me,” she managed, “and told me it was for my own good. He said that if I can’t be hurt, I can’t be loved.”