Good Girl, Bad Girl(23)
“Any news?” I ask.
“The more we dive, the more shit we stir up. If she dropped her phone it could have drifted downstream or be deep in the mud by now.”
He points to a tarpaulin that is covered in a pile of trash retrieved from the pond. There are bicycles, a shopping trolley, broken concrete, metal pipes, half bricks, and nondescript machinery parts, all caked in mud.
“Forensics are coming to take a look. Maybe we’ve stumbled upon a murder weapon, although I doubt it.”
Someone yells from the van. His colleagues are cold and want to go home.
Jack holds up a thumb. “You working this one?”
“Yeah.”
“I’d wish you luck, but you don’t believe in it.” He grins.
During our sessions I talked to Jack about the difference between chance and luck. Chance is a random outcome in the real world whereas luck is the value we place upon it when we label it good or bad. Whether the police find Jodie’s phone isn’t lucky or unlucky, it’s the same chance event.
Slinging the tank over his shoulder, Jack makes the embankment look easy as he rejoins his team. I walk to the footbridge and lean over the side. The brook, swollen by recent rain, is running freely and foaming as it enters the pond.
In this quiet, lonely place, two people came together and one of them died. There must have been an interaction, however brief or violent. What did they say to each other? How did they spend their last moments together? What relationships and experiences shaped their personalities?
No two people respond to the same situation in the same way. If Jodie met a stranger on the path on Monday night, would she automatically see him as being dangerous, or would she smile and say hello? Would she start up a conversation or respond to a question? Would she turn her back? Would she run? Fight? Plead?
Perhaps it was someone she knew. She could have been brought here, or lured by somebody she trusted. She was picked up in a car earlier in the evening. She had a second mobile phone. This suggests a secret liaison—a boyfriend or a casual hookup.
At some point Jodie was struck from behind, most likely without warning. She had turned her back. She either trusted this person or she was trying to flee. Barely conscious, she fell or was pushed off the bridge. The cold water shocked her awake. She swallowed some of it. Almost drowned. Her attacker dragged her from the pond or followed Jodie after she saved herself. She ran, disorientated by the darkness. Branches and brambles tore at her face and skin. She collapsed, close to death. Dying.
He undressed her hurriedly, clumsily. He unwrapped a condom . . .
No! It doesn’t make sense. Use of a prophylactic by an attacker suggests forensic awareness. He wanted to conceal his identity. But why use a condom and then ejaculate into her hair? That’s an act designed to humiliate or mark his territory or signify unconditional acceptance.
Maybe they had sex and she denied him a second round. More likely he couldn’t maintain an erection and grew frustrated? Which means he’s not experienced around women. He’s a loner. Socially inept. He wants a girlfriend, but nobody wants him. He knows this area. This place.
Some rapists panic and kill victims to protect their identity. Others take pleasure from abusing a victim at the moment of his or her death or afterwards. The timing of the penetration reveals clues about them. I don’t know the exact sequence of events, but this man and his corrupt lust sacrificed a human life for an orgasm. Afterwards he left her to die, or he watched her take her last breath. He covered her body with branches, trying to hide what he’d done.
He went home. Showered. Changed his clothes. Tried to forget. But he won’t stop thinking about this. Part of him will be horrified, but another voice will tell him that she deserved it, that she led him on, that she was like all the other women who ignored him, belittled him, laughed at him . . .
My knees are hurting. I’ve been squatting on my haunches for too long. I straighten, drinking in the cold air, and begin to move away from the footbridge, walking in a widening circle, feeling the softness of the ground beneath my feet.
Everywhere I see signs of the police search—evidence markers, broken twigs, boot prints—but I’m not looking for the same things they were. A psychologist views a crime scene differently from a detective. Police search for physical clues and witnesses. I look at the overall picture and the salience of certain landmarks and features. Where are the obstacles and boundaries that alter behavior? How quickly does someone disappear from sight? How far can I see in each direction? What are the vantage points and the shortcuts?
Ahead of me, I glimpse something straight-edged through the trees, embowered by ferns. It’s an old ground keeper’s cottage or hunting lodge, which has fallen into disrepair. Grey with age, the walls are streaked with rust from the downpipes, and creepers have twisted around the spindle wood railings that fence in a small front veranda.
The path is overgrown but not unused. There are muddy boot prints and torn cobwebs. The police must have searched here yesterday. Stepping inside the derelict cottage, I take a moment to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. The wooden floorboards are splintery with age and stained by innumerable spills and leakages. Trash is strewn across the floor and the walls are covered in graffiti, none artistic, some of it obscene or as harmless as initials inside a heart. An old mattress yellowing with age has been positioned in front of a hearth, which is full of crushed beer cans, blackened by a recent fire. A half-drunk bottle of apple cider is within reach. Two more empties are nearby.