Beneath a Weeping Sky rcc-3

by Frank Zafiro

  “And he’s gaining momentum. He’s evolving.”

  Tower looked down at the list in front of him. “Which brings us to number three.”

  “And the most important one right now,” Renee added.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because while answers to the first two questions might help you understand the guy or have an advantage when you interview him, neither question gets you any closer to finding him. Neither does this one, but it has a direct impact on your investigation.”

  “How so?”

  “Because if he is evolving, and I think he is, then it won’t be long before merely controlling and raping his victims won’t be enough.”

  “Meaning he’ll start hurting them more?” Tower asked, but he knew that wasn’t what Renee was getting at.

  Renee met his gaze directly. “Or maybe he’ll start to kill them.”

  1534 hours

  At three-thirty every day, Wendy Latah left her North Central High School classroom with her students' homework tucked into her grade-book. In her history class, there was an assignment every single day except on those days right before a vacation break. Every student's grade was recorded daily. A good grade in her class required diligent, consistent study. Those students who couldn't handle that either failed or were transferred into Mr. Julian's considerably less stringent government class.

  As she shuffled down the mostly empty hallway of the school, she thought about how much she loved teaching history. Her father, a history professor at Eastern Washington University, had taught her the merits of courage and resolve. He had also taught her to look at history objectively and not to judge according to the standards of this time, but the standards of the time in which those men and women lived. In history, he taught her, there is seldom struggle between wholly good and wholly evil. There is only the struggle of people. Maniacs like Hitler were only the exception that proved the rule.

  History was nothing more than a study of people, her father had taught her. History is made every day by great leaders and small nobodies alike. Strength of character, courage, diligence and honesty, were traits all people could portray.

  Wendy frankly wished that even a tenth of her father's wisdom had been passed onto the students today. Each day when she emerged from her classroom and walked the halls of North Central High School, she was astounded at how much things had changed since she graduated in 1967. The open disrespect, the profanity, the violence. No one could have conceived of such a thing even when she began teaching in 1972. Now she knew of two different teachers this year that had been assaulted. Another teacher had a student who brandished a knife in the classroom. And worst of all, her best friend, Anna McHugh, had been forced to call the police when she saw a gun in a student's waistband in her classroom. The subsequent arrest led to the discovery of drugs in the student's sock. He had been a sophomore, only fifteen years old.

  All of this had prompted Wendy to go to The General Store, which carried firearms and sporting equipment. Her unique knowledge of history gave her the understanding that all things change. Those that become the victims of that change are those who refuse to acknowledge it. So she had reluctantly purchased a small caliber handgun which she kept in her bedroom nightstand drawer. Of course, she couldn’t bring a gun to school, so she’d also bought a small canister of pepper spray which she kept in her purse on her key ring.

  But the change pained her. She resented the need for her response. So she tried to keep as much continuity in her life as she could. Thus, every day at three-thirty, she left her classroom. Grade book and homework under her arm, she walked out to the parking lot. Her car was in the same parking space every day, where she had parked it when arriving at six-thirty that morning. She removed her keys and unlocked the car door. The parking lot was strangely empty, but she knew that all sports and activities had tapered off in expectation of the upcoming spring break. In fact, her students had groaned when she had assigned homework, just one school day before the break.

  Discipline, she thought. They would thank her at their ten-year reunion. Or perhaps their twenty.

  As she swung her car door open, she felt an arm snake around her waist and pull her forcefully backwards. She let out a small cry before a hand clamped firmly over her mouth.

  “In the car, bitch,” the assailant grunted at her. Her old Nova had a bench seat. She slipped to all fours, her knees thudding painfully on the bottom of the doorframe. She felt him thrust forward with his hips, forcing her onto the front seat. He climbed in after her.

  Wendy fumbled with her key chain. Her breath shot forcefully in and out of her nose.

  The man shoved her down onto her stomach. The smell of the cloth seat covers filled her nostrils. His hand slipped underneath her long skirt and grab at her undergarments.

  My Lord! She tried to scream in terror, but the noise was muffled by the car seat. What would a high school student want with her? She was fifty-six years old. Her thin body had none of the curves she saw on the female students in the halls. Why was this happening?

  His hands found the waistband and ripped her underpants away. She yelped into the seat again. She felt his fingers probe forcefully. Tears of pain sprang into her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

  Why?

  Why was this happening?

  He rammed his fingers into her, causing her to recoil in pain with each thrust. His hand pressed down on her shoulder blades, keeping her pinned to the seat.

  Why was for history to discover, she thought weakly.

  “Lying old bitch,” he muttered. “Get what you got coming.”

  She let out a frightened moan. Her fingers scrambled for the small canister of pepper spray on her key chain.

  “You could have done something.” His voice had a faraway quality to it, despite being laced with anger. “You could have told somebody. Made her stop.”

  His fingers drove upward. Wendy yelped in pain.

  He ignored her. “But no, you were too busy being the perfect little teacher.”

  What was he talking about?

  The tip of her fingers tapped the cylinder of the pepper spray. Her hand swallowed it up and she clutched it in her fist.

  “Payback is a bitch, though,” he continued. “And, I’m going to fucking kill-”

  She aimed blindly over her shoulder and shot.

  He gave a sharp cry of surprise and pain. Immediately, she felt his hand leave her upper back. The rest of him seemed to pull away, too. Wendy rolled quickly onto her back, took a hard look into his bewildered eyes and sprayed again. This time she emptied the can into his face.

  Orange foam coated the black ski mask he wore. His enraged eyes, already red and watering, glared at her from out of the mask. “You fucking bitch!” he roared at her. The force of his words sent spittle flying, the color of carrot peels.

  Wendy responded by thrusting her foot at his groin. Her kick landed just below the navel and doubled him over with a grunt.

  Without pause, she turned over again and crawled across the front seat. She reached for the passenger door with her left hand. She pulled on it, but it didn't open. She glanced up frantically. The peg-like latch was in the down position, still locked.

  Behind her, she heard the man growling in pain and spitting out profanity.

  Wendy dropped the empty canister from her right hand. She stretched her hand upward toward the door lock. The pepper spray in the air had a wet feel to it. She felt her eyes begin to burn. The tickle in her throat became a cough. Her hand closed on the door lock and lifted it.

  A crushing weight dropped down on top of her. She collapsed painfully into the seat. Her forehead banged into the side of the door.

  “You disgusting bitch,” she heard him growl as he dragged her toward him. “I am going to lay the whammo on you!”

  There was a ripping pain in her right shoulder as he flipped her onto her back. His hand grasped her by the throat. Reflexively, she clutched at it with both of her hands, but her strength was
no match for his.

  He squeezed.

  She stared upward into his eyes. The black ski mask was coated with orange spray. Tears ran from his eyes and dripped orange onto her face.

  Too old for a student, she thought. Those eyes are far too old.

  His words rang in her ears. Not the profanities, but the almost familiar tone that he used. How he spoke as if he knew her. As if she’d betrayed him somehow.

  Maybe he’s a former student.

  Maybe he’s someone that I failed.

  And that was the last thought that Wendy Latah had as she saw a clenched fist descending on her.

  1609 hours

  Officer Giovanni watched the ambulance pull out of the parking lot with the matronly assault victim in the back. Through the back windows, he saw Mark Ridgeway’s short brown hair as he rode with her to the hospital.

  I hope she makes it, he thought to himself. The woman reminded him of his sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Maloney. Of course, Mrs. Maloney had been a little heavy-set, but she’d been very kind and patient. And she always smiled at him when he did well. That had been better than a gold star any day of the week.

  He turned away from the ambulance and back in the direction of the crime scene. Yellow tape cordoned off the corner of the parking lot and the 1970 Nova. The driver’s door stood wide open. Offal from the medics packaging lay scattered around on the ground near the door where the medical crew had worked on her prior to loading her onto a gurney for transport.

  Gio walked to the edge of the crime scene tape. Jack Stone stood glumly at the entrance with clipboard, logging who entered and left the scene.

  “You’re not going in, Gio,” Stone told him flatly. “I’ve already got you logged out and I don’t want to start another line.”

  Gio frowned at him. He wondered briefly what Stone’s problem was, but then realized it was the same problem he always had-he was Jack Stone. This was just one more thing for him to bitch about.

  As if to prove the point, Stone continued, “I shouldn’t even be keeping this log. I’m senior to you. You should be doing this crap job. Or some rookie.”

  Gio made a sad face and pretended to play a violin.

  “Screw you, Giovanni,” Stone said and turned his back on him.

  Gio stepped under the tape and into the crime scene. He ignored Stone’s muted curses and walked closer to the car. Major Crimes Detective Joseph Finch was crouched on his haunches, examining the scene. His partner, Elias, spoke with another teacher, who was the woman who had found the victim.

  “She was barely breathing when I got here,” the woman told Elias, who busily scratched out notes while she spoke. “There was this gurgling sound when she tried to breathe.” The woman brought her hand to her mouth, fighting back tears. “It was horrible.”

  The spicy remnants of oleoresin capsicum drifted toward Gio’s nose. Always sensitive to the stuff, he covered his nose and mouth and moved away. He wondered if the guy had used the OC on her or if she’d used it defensively.

  “Giovanni!” came the gruff voice of Lieutenant Crawford. “If you’re not going to do anything in the crime scene, get the hell out of there.”

  “Sorry, El-Tee.” Gio ducked under the tape and ignored Stone’s self-righteous beaming.

  Crawford lit up his cigar and took a deep puff. “What’d medics say?”

  “She’s pretty bad,” Gio answered. “One guy thought she might have a subdural hematoma, whatever that is.”

  “Blood on the brain,” Crawford explained.

  “Sounds serious.”

  Crawford gave him a withering look. “It is. Did they say anything else?”

  “No, not really. They were working pretty frantically on her before the ambulance got here. I got the impression they thought she might not make it.”

  Crawford glanced toward the car inside the crime scene. “That their mess?”

  “On the ground, yeah.”

  Crawford grunted. “You start a canvass for witnesses yet?”

  Gio shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Do it. Call down to the General Detectives if you need more bodies.”

  Gio walked away, keying his mike. “Adam-254?”

  “Adam-254, go ahead.”

  Gio recognized Trina’s voice. That made him smile for a moment. When he’d gone out with her, she had liked to do this little thing with her-

  “Gio!” Crawford bellowed after him.

  “Adam-254, go ahead,” Trina repeated.

  Gio nodded to the lieutenant. As he walked toward him, he transmitted. “I need two more units here to help with the witness canvass.”

  “Copy.”

  “Yeah, El-Tee?”

  “You get the names of all the medics that were inside this crime scene?”

  “Jack has that.”

  Crawford glanced over at Stone.

  Stone shrugged. “I got everybody but the guys on the paramedic unit over there.” He pointed at the small paramedic truck on the other side of the crime scene. One medic was busy repacking the equipment while the other stood by, watching the cops work.

  Bullshit, Gio thought. He knew Stone had those names. He just wanted to get back at him by sending him on an errand.

  “Go get those names,” Crawford directed him.

  Gio opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Crawford would still send him no matter what. And if he argued, all that did was provide more entertainment for Stone. Instead, he turned on his heel and trudged around the crime scene to the medics.

  “How’s it going?” he asked the one packing the gear. He wore no rank insignias on his uniform, so Gio figured the other guy was a boss.

  “It’s going,” the medic answered. “Too bad about that lady, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She reminded me of my tenth grade teacher, Mrs. O’Halloran. Very nice lady.”

  “I know the feeling,” Gio said. “Listen, can I get your names for the crime scene report?”

  “Sure. I’m Terry. That’s Art.”

  Gio took out his notebook. “Last names?”

  The medic laughed. “Oh, sorry. Mine’s Wylie. His is Hoagland. We’re out of Station Three.”

  Gio jotted the information down. “Thanks. Did you work on her?”

  Terry shook his head. “No, it was mostly Art, at least until the ambulance got here.”

  At the sound of his name, the tall, slender medic turned toward the two of them. “What’s that?”

  “Just talking bad about you, boss,” Terry said.

  “Like that’s anything new.”

  Gio smiled lightly at the banter and turned to go.

  “Officer?”

  Gio stopped. “Yeah?”

  Art stepped closer to him. “I’m no cop or anything, but there’s something I think you should know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, I noticed something strange about her clothing.”

  “Damaged?”

  “No, not really. But when I first arrived, I noticed that her skirt was pushed up a little bit. I didn’t think anything of it, but then we ended up cutting it off while we were working on her. It was one of those long thick denim skirts and it was getting in the way. Anyway, when we pulled it aside, that’s when I saw that her undergarments were pulled down.”

  “Pulled down?” Gio repeated.

  Art nodded. “Yeah. About three quarters of the way down from the hip toward the knee.”

  “Could that happen by accident?” Gio asked, though he figured he already knew the answer. “From her thrashing around in a fight or something?”

  Art shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. This was too far down for anything like that. I think they were deliberately pulled down by her attacker.”

  “Which means…”

  “Which means this isn’t just an assault,” Art finished. “Yeah.”

  “Way to go, Columbo.” Terry said. He looked up at the sky. “Is it raining?”

  Gio didn’t bother giving him
a disapproving look. He turned and trotted back to the crime scene, ducking underneath the tape. He heard Stone’s infuriated yell from the opposite side, but ignored it.

  “Finch?” he asked the detective surveying the scene.

  Finch looked up at him calmly. “What is it?”

  “The medic over there said that when he got here, the victim’s underwear was pulled down almost to her knees.”

  Gio expected some surprise, but got none. Instead, Finch merely pointed his pen at the ground. “That would explain the condom.”

  Gio followed his gesture. An unopened condom lay on the ground in the midst of all the medic’s torn gauze wrappings.

  “Holy shit,” he muttered.

  Finch turned his head and called over his shoulder. “El-Tee!”

  “What?” Crawford bellowed back.

  “You better call Tower.”

  And after that, the crime scene went quiet for a while.

  1811 hours

  Detective Tower stood outside of the sheet drawn between the patient’s bed and the rest of the emergency room. When the doctor exited the patient area, they dispensed with any pleasantries.

  “Do you believe she was sexually assaulted, doctor?”

  The doctor nodded. “I would say so. There’s some obvious vaginal trauma.”

  “Any semen?”

  “None that I could see. The swabs will tell the true story, though.”

  Tower didn’t hold out much hope for that. Not if his hunch was right. “Is she still unconscious?”

  The doctor nodded. “Yes. She was struck numerous times with a blunt object in the face and head.”

  “Like a club?”

  The doctor shrugged. “Could have been, but it looks more like a fist to me. We’re going to do a CAT scan on her to see what the extent of the injuries are.”

  Tower shook the doctor's hand briefly and thanked him. The doctor gave him a short nod and walked away quickly to the next patient. Tower had learned long ago not to detain emergency room doctors for any longer than necessary. There was always another patient waiting.

  Ridgeway appeared at his side. “She wake up?”

  “No.”

  Ridgeway shook his head gravely and said nothing.