'Mmm.'
Mercy reached down and pulled a mass of bedraggled notes from her tote bag, the cluster of which had also caught up a parking ticket, pharmacy script and a broken hair clip.
Carole stared for a moment at the mess on her polished side table and then opened a drawer beneath it and slid the paperwork in. She'd have to straighten that out before the CEO arrived.
She turned anxiously when a knock sounded at her door, but it was just Kim from St Brigid's unit, first-aid kit in hand. Carole ushered her in and closed the door.
'Shit, Mercy, how'd ya do this?' grinned Kim. Dr Merris was a favourite with most of the ward staff, working long hours, helping out on the units, and always taking the hardest patients.
Mercy looked perplexed as she stared down at her hand.
Kim threw Carole a glance; Carole stared flatly back, and Kim was suddenly all professional nurse, firm and gentle, tending to the wound.
'You know, Mercy, this needs a stitch or two. I have what I need right here. Let's fix this up properly.' The nurses on St Brigid's unit were more than used to suturing wounds like this; there were at least two and up to ten self-harm incidents each week.
Kim cleaned the wound on Mercy's hand and after applying some anaesthetic spray began to stitch the skin together. Mercy was silent during the first two sutures. Then, without warning, she screamed, and Kim jumped. Her first-aid kit crashed to the floor.
Kim stared at Carole as Mercy scuttled into the corner of the room. She squatted there, rocking, holding her hand and sobbing. All day Wednesday, Jill and Scotty worked almost exclusively on the murder of David Carter. No-one in the unit was co-operative when they needed help investigating the case, with Emma Gibson even suggesting that they lose evidence so the killer would never be found.
'You're not seriously going to try to catch whoever took that arsehole out, are you?' Emma asked Jill and Scotty as they pored over the murder book. They were adding details from people they'd talked to about Carter's life and activities in the lead-up to his death. 'You know it's just going to be one of his victims all grown up and back for justice. It always is in these cases.'
'Really, Emma? Damn. We hadn't thought of that,' Scotty said sarcastically. 'And we're just loving that we caught this case. You think we want to help this shitbag? I just want to get it done, so could you back off a 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.'