Crime Scenes: a short story

Criminal lawyers see things you just shouldn't. You remember the photographs mostly. Broken things. Injuries. Bodies. Always blood. Like you've never seen it. Crusty, the red life gone from it. Later, black and thick as tar. And you remember the crime scenes. If you practice long enough they become part of your landscape. I've practiced long enough and decided to write about it. There's a twist of course.


Nick passed his crime scenes every day. The Chemmart robbery, taxi rank stabbing, Boundary Street car smash.

In the beginning they unsettled him. He thought about leaving West End for another part of the city, but decided it would be the same wherever he lived.

And in time he grew used to them.

‘Crime scenes come with the territory,’ he told himself, ‘if you’re going to prosecute criminals then you’ll collect them, like doctors collect diseases.' Now he took a guilty pride in them, pointing them out to friends and lovers. The boarded-over window, stained footpath, gouged power pole. He’d interpret their features, the evidence left behind. All except for Vulture Street. That had been different.

That crime had reduced the man to soulless flesh and left the girl despoiled. He recalled hearing the news when he arrived at work Monday morning. And seven months later his boss slapping the brief of evidence on his desk. Nick was turned to the window and the noise startled him. His boss laughed.

He read the brief that night. The trial would commence in a week. It would be straightforward: the accused men were caught at a nearby flophouse soon after the crime. The victims’ blood was crusted on their boots, their DNA left in the woman. Still the accused had elected to roll the dice and plead not guilty. Nick arranged to meet the woman. He was not looking forward to it.

He had the crime photos when she appeared at his office door. The victim liaison officer introduced her and left. He turned the images down and marched across to her. Took her coat and saw the blue scar at her throat.

She rubbed her fingers absently across the raised skin.

‘It’s cold out,’ she said.

He offered her coffee; she wanted tea.

He gave her statement to her.

‘Read it,’ he said.

She watched him as he left the room. Perhaps she knew.

He returned with her tea and she told him how it was. It had been late and she and her boyfriend were walking home from the West End restaurants. She had gone down the lane to pee. It was dark and private. There was a vacant lot rank with lantana. Her boyfriend waited on the footpath.

Three men approached him and asked for a light, then money. They pushed him into darkness and damaged him. She was still crouching in the lantana, petrified, when they saw her.

A fourth man came later. Not one of them. He stood above the others and swore. Then two of the three stood up. One had a knife, the other a bottle. The fourth man left. The others chased him their boots crunching gravel. Then they returned. She remembered the blood in her mouth, the stink of lantana and piss in her nostrils.

Later, sirens and flashing lights woke her. Grotesque shadows swallowing the blood and dust.

When she finished talking Nick told her what would happen. She would tell her story in court. He would lead the evidence from her; ask questions and show photographs and clothing. Defence lawyers would cross-examine her; push and prod, testing her evidence. Afterwards he would urge the jury to convict the men. The defence lawyers would urge them to acquit. Finally the judge would explain the law and the jury would decide.

‘Will they convict?’ she asked.

‘There are no guarantees.’

She smiled and took her coat from him. He rode the lift and escorted her from the building. It was blustery outside. She pushed hair from her face and turned up her collar. She shook Nick’s hand, stared into his eyes. She held his hand longer than was needed and stared longer than was polite. Nick was sure that she knew and prayed she would not speak. Hair whipped across her face and she let Nick go to pull it away from her mouth. She smiled and left.

Nick watched her go towards the mall, small in the crowded street. He remembered that night. He was walking home alone from the Boundary Hotel, skin-full of Coopers and happy. He remembered the darkness and the stink of lantana and piss. She knew.