Chapter Eight #2
There were three apartment buildings on Garton Street, but only one of them was art deco.
Judith parked outside in the only available spot, which was, at this time, in full sun.
Squinting, she looked at Chloe’s videos again, trying to make out details of her apartment and the outside view through the windows.
The building looked expensive. Chloe must be doing bloody well out of her Instagram and TikTok.
It was also clear that her flat was on the eastern end of the building.
You could see the park through the open balcony doors in the background of the positive-sex-as-feminism video.
Judith got access to the building by buzzing a ground floor flat and flashing her ID at the camera.
She walked up the stairs to the second floor, then to the door she was sure was Chloe’s, where she knocked three times.
Judith had guessed correctly. The girl who answered the door was definitely Chloe, though the low-cut tank top, carefully tousled hair and heavily glossed lips from her videos were not in evidence.
Chloe was dressed in baggy jeans and a cardigan over a long-sleeved T-shirt.
She wore no make-up and her hair was tied back in a ponytail.
She had half a chicken sandwich in her left hand.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I think I’m the one who can help you, Chloe.
Got a minute?’ Judith flashed her badge again, and took a half-step forward.
But Chloe was not like Sophie. She did not step back.
Instead she caught hold of Judith’s wrist with her free hand, and pulled the ID closer, squinting to read it. Her eyebrows went up.
‘You’re a detective?’
‘That’s right. Free for a chat?’
‘I suppose so.’ Chloe stepped back, making enough room for Judith to enter, and closed the door behind them.
The flat was bright and airy, though it was smaller than it appeared in the videos.
It was essentially a very large studio. The bed was on the right hand side of the room, the kitchen and dining on the far left, and there were two large couches in the middle.
There was no TV, as far as Judith could see.
The flat was messy. There were discarded clothes on the bed, on the floor and on the back of the couch.
The other half of Chloe’s sandwich was sitting on a plate on the coffee table, and empty Chinese take-out packages kept it company.
On the dining table was an open laptop, a small stack of textbooks, and some notebooks and pens.
Chloe’s iPad was open on the coffee table, frozen on a scene from the American reality show, Survivor.
‘Busy day?’ Judith asked.
‘Busy enough. How can I help you?’ Chloe returned her chicken sandwich to her plate, and wiped her hands.
‘I saw your post about Robert Walker.’
Chloe raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t name him. And I’m perfectly within my rights to say what I said. It’s not defamation if you don’t name someone.’
‘It’s also not defamation if it’s true.’
The words hung in the air.
‘Are you telling me . . . are you confirming that it is true?’ Chloe’s eyes narrowed. She was a smart girl. She must realise that police detectives didn’t generally make house calls to random influencers to confirm the guilt of their suspects.
‘You seemed pretty sure yourself, Chloe. You said as much in your video.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t name him, so I—’
‘Chloe, I don’t give a shit about defamation. That’s not why I’m here. I want to know what you have that made you feel so sure that Walker did it. You’ve got something. Share.’
Chloe didn’t give it up straight away. Judith tried a little more pushing, then a little intimidation, and when that didn’t work, she took out her packet of cigarettes and started to light up.
Chloe’s eyes flared in anger. It was amazing how much the culture had changed in the eighteen years since Judith had joined the police.
These days, people looked at cigarettes like they were lethal weapons.
Like two minutes exposure to second-hand smoke would give you immediate terminal cancer. They were astonishingly useful tools.
Which was not a good enough reason to keep smoking, she reminded herself.
‘If you know something pertinent and you refuse to answer my questions, that’s obstruction of a criminal investigation.
You could be charged with an offence.’ That was a lie.
In Victoria, in general, and certainly in Chloe’s circumstances, people had a right to silence.
But Chloe, like most people, didn’t know that.
‘Okay. Look. Rumours have been going around about Walker for years. That he comes on to his patients. A friend of mine made an appointment at the clinic and when her sister heard about it she made her cancel, because of the shit she’d heard.
People know, but they don’t know. Like, maybe it’s all bullshit, right?
People love to spread rumours like that because it’s so scandalous.
But then someone sent me a video, okay? Of him actually in the act.
Having sex with a patient in his consulting rooms.
Judith froze. ‘You’ve got footage?’
Chloe couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face. ‘I’ve got video. And if you put that bloody cigarette out, I’ll show you.’
They watched it together, sitting side-by-side on the couch.
The woman in the video was not Alexis Turner, but the décor in the room matched the décor in Walker’s clinic.
It was foul, watching that guy in the act, with that smug, satisfied look on his face, but it was also glorious.
She’d specifically asked Walker if he’d ever had sex with a patient, if he’d ever had any kind of sexual encounter in his consulting rooms and he’d adamantly denied both.
His first lie, the first crack in his defence.
She wondered if the video she was watching—of Walker getting a blowjob in his office—was the same clip Alexis had tried to email her.
Was this video out there, on the internet? Who had filmed it?
‘You’ll send me a copy of that,’ Judith said.
‘I’ll AirDrop it to you now.’ Chloe held up her phone and did just that. ‘So that’s the end of it for me, right? I’m not in any trouble?’
‘No trouble at all. But tell me, Chloe, who sent you the video?’
Chloe shrugged. ‘It was anonymous. It came through a DM from a private account.’
‘Show me.’
Chloe found the DM, and Judith took a photograph of her screen.
‘Do you know Alexis Turner?’ Judith asked abruptly. She was watching Chloe’s face, searching for signs of obfuscation, but she saw nothing. Only genuine confusion.
‘No. I don’t think so. Should I?’
* * *
After her visit to Chloe, Judith went to the university’s admin office and confirmed what she feared.
There was no registration for a student named Alexis Turner.
Alexis had lied about her name and her address.
If Judith couldn’t track her down, the case was over and done with, unless another complainant came forward.
Judith wondered who the woman in the video was.
The encounter in the consulting rooms had appeared to be entirely consensual.
If the woman was a patient, then Walker had stomped all over every ethical guideline, but Judith couldn’t charge him for that.
Chloe—and the comments on her post—had said that rumours about Walker had been going around campus for years.
There must be other victims out there. She had to hope that the women she’d messaged would respond.
There was a coffee shop in the building next door to Chloe’s apartment.
Judith bought a long black and sat on the low wall outside and thought things through.
She’d have no choice but to close the case in a day or two, if Alexis failed to reappear and no one else came forward.
She’d have to close the case and Walker would get away with it, again.
He wouldn’t change though, these guys never did.
Which meant there would be another girl, at some point.
Some other girl who needed help and got him instead.
No.
She wasn’t going to let that happen. Judith crossed her legs and settled into a comfortable position. She made her call.
‘Judith?’
‘Mike. How’re things?’
‘Things are good. Better if you have something for me.’
Mike Russo was a reporter for The Australian.
He also had a very popular weekly Substack where he published his more scurrilous stories, the kind of thing that would definitely have seen him sued, if it weren’t for the light veneer of quasi-anonymity he applied to the subjects of his pieces.
Reading his Substack and trying to figure out who was who was a favourite weekend activity for fully half of Melbourne.
‘I’ve got something for you. Robert Walker.’
‘Name means nothing to me, babe.’
‘Husband of Vanessa Walker.’
‘Ooh. Okay. I’m listening.’
‘He’s a psychologist. Works at the university. He’s about to be charged with sexually assaulting a student who came to him for counselling.’ About to be charged was a stretch, but she had to give him something.
‘Fuuuuuck. Are you sure?’
‘Do you need me to be?’
‘Sure is a bonus. Sure is nice.’
‘He’s done it before. Only last time the victim didn’t run with it. If he’s done it twice . . . well, what are the chances there are more victims out there?’
‘And you want me to help you find them?’
Judith sipped her coffee.
‘Always happy to oblige, babe, you know that.’