Beneath a Weeping Sky rcc-3

by Frank Zafiro

  Toni scowled, though not as harshly as before. “The charge wouldn’t stick, you know.”

  “I do,” he said, “but you’d still spend the night in jail instead of in your apartment.”

  She sighed in resignation. “Okay. You win. I’m out of here.”

  “Be careful,” Westboard said.

  She turned to go, then paused. She cast a sideways glance at Westboard over her shoulder. “Hey, is that cop all right? The woman cop that got beat up a few nights ago?”

  “Yeah,” Westboard said. “She’s fine. Why?”

  Toni shrugged. “I just wondered.” She turned to leave, then paused again. “I hope you guys catch that asshole.”

  “We will.”

  “Because he’s an asshole.”

  “I agree.”

  “There’s lots of men who are assholes, if you really stop to think about it,” Toni said.

  “True enough,” Westboard agreed. “You come across a fair number that type?”

  She gave him a measured look before asking, “Do you really care?”

  “Of course.”

  Toni turned back to face him. “I run into them every night. Some nights are worse than others.”

  “Maybe you should get away from this life,” Westboard said quietly.

  Toni looked away, absently rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “Maybe I will. Or maybe you should mind your own business.”

  Westboard shrugged in mild agreement. An awkward silence fell between them for several seconds. Westboard expected her to turn and leave, either in an indignant huff or the practiced casualness that he’d come to associate with prostitutes. When she remained standing near him, looking everywhere but his direction, he finally broke the silence, asking her, “Toni, is there something you want to tell me?”

  She met his gaze, then lowered her eyes to the ground. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Westboard realized what she was working herself up to. He made it easy for her. “Have you been assaulted?”

  She nodded. A tear formed in the corner of her left eye.

  “Sexually?” Westboard asked.

  She wiped angrily at the tear, nodding again. “Yeah. A few times. But there was this one guy who almost choked me to death about a week ago. He was a bigger asshole than the others.”

  Westboard reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. “What happened?” he asked her in a soft voice.

  “He picked me up. We did our deal, you know? But then in the middle of it all, he started choking me. I almost passed out. Then he threw me out of the car onto the ground.” More tears spilled down her cheeks. “I thought he was going to kill me.”

  Westboard nodded his head in understanding. He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Did he say anything?”

  “Yeah,” she said, sniffling. “He said he only let me live because I was beautiful.” She laughed nervously through her tears. “Like I’m supposed to forgive him because he threw out a lame compliment or something? What an asshole.”

  Westboard removed his notebook from his breast pocket. “I’d like to do a report on this, Toni. If that’s okay with you.”

  “Sure,” she said, taking a tissue from her purse and wiping her nose. “Like it’ll ever go anywhere. Most cops just think getting raped goes with the territory.”

  “It doesn’t,” Westboard said. “I don’t.”

  She stared at him in appreciation, but suspicion still rimmed her eyes. “Yeah, all right. Let’s make a report.”

  “Is there anything else you can remember about this guy?” Westboard asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “He said something strange to me while he was choking me. Something about how he was going to put the whammy on me or something like that.”

  Westboard felt a surge of adrenaline in his chest. “He said that to you? Whammy?”

  Toni nodded.

  “You think you’d recognize this guy if you saw him again?”

  “Absolutely.” She nodded emphatically. “He was an asshole. I never forget those guys, because I won’t get into a car with them ever again.”

  Westboard raised his radio to his lips. “Baker-124.”

  “Baker-124, go ahead.”

  “Page Detective Tower to my location.”

  “Copy.”

  Toni watched him carefully. “Is that important?” she asked him. “What I said?”

  He nodded. “Oh, yeah. Very important.”

  Thursday, April 25th

  Day Shift

  1044 hours

  Katie tapped lightly on Lieutenant Saylor’s door.

  “Come,” she heard him say.

  She opened the door and leaned in. Saylor sat at his desk, reviewing a thick stack of paperwork. He looked up as she entered.

  “Ah, MacLeod,” he said, setting down his pen and turning to face her. “Come on in. Have a seat.”

  Katie sat down gingerly in the chair at the side of the lieutenant’s desk.

  Saylor watched her carefully. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Sore,” she admitted. “But nothing’s broken.”

  “Good.” He paused a moment, then asked. “How are you feeling about what happened?”

  Katie shrugged. “I’m fine.”

  “It was a bit of mess out there that night, from what I can gather,” Saylor said. “Do you think you might want to talk to someone about it?”

  Katie looked up at him, annoyed. “You mean a shrink?”

  Saylor didn’t waver. “Or a counselor. Or a Peer Assistance Team member. Anybody you want. If you want.”

  Katie shook her head. “I’m fine. Things go wrong sometimes. Shit happens.” After a moment, she added, “sir.”

  Saylor raised his hand to his chin and scratched it absently, watching Katie silently. Then he said, “All right. That’s your call. Moving along, then — when do you think you’ll be back to duty?”

  “Tomorrow,” Katie said. “I probably could tonight, but I think I could use another day of rest.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. Is that the timetable the doctor recommended?”

  She nodded.

  “All right,” Saylor said. “It’s settled, then. One last thing, though. Do you feel up to giving a statement to Tower tomorrow morning? He’s been asking about you.”

  “Sure.”

  Saylor gave her a warm smile and held out his hand. “I’ll be glad to have you back, MacLeod.”

  Katie took his hand. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

  1144 hours

  He sat in his car, eating an apple from his sack lunch. The tart taste barely registered as he studied his notes.

  It was amazing to him how much you could learn about a person just by going to the library. And not a famous person, either. Just a regular, every day public servant.

  He now knew that Officer Katie MacLeod was twenty-six years old. That piece of knowledge took a little bit of quick math after he came across the newspaper article from 1991. The story detailed the swearing in of several brand new River City officers, including one Kathleen Maria MacLeod. Both she and another of the recruits, Stefan Kopriva, barely made the twenty-one year old age cut off in order to get hired and were the youngest in their class. Somehow this passed for news in River City, but he didn’t dwell on the poor journalism. Instead, he reveled in that little piece of knowledge about the bitch.

  There was another article from 1994 when the so-called Scarface Robber was captured, but it contained more information about other officers than her. But nonetheless, the search yielded a photograph of her accompanying a wounded officer into the rear of an ambulance. The anguish on her face was plain. He wondered if she had feelings for the downed cop. Probably not, he decided. She was probably just another overly emotional female, unable to control herself under stress.

  He also found a fluff piece in the city government newsletter proclaiming Katie as Employee of the Month for December 1994. The nomination letter detailed her “tireless hard work on patrol” and “pleasant demeanor with citi
zens,” none of which really helped him much.

  The most interesting news story came from the previous year. Some crazy man dropped his own baby off of the Post Street Bridge in broad daylight. And who do you suppose was there when it happened? The intrepid Officer MacLeod, bitch that she was. Apparently, she was unable to talk the man out of his horrific action. The article was mildly critical of her, though in all fairness, he couldn’t see a whole lot a person could do in that situation. Despite that fact, he took some pleasure imagining the pain that encounter must have caused her.

  That was nothing, bitch. You just wait until I lay the whammo on you.

  That was it for archived news stories, but not for his research. He found out that the library saved all the old telephone books. He dutifully checked each one, beginning with the current year. He didn’t find anything until he got back to 1991 and then he struck pay dirt. The entry read “K. MacLeod” and was followed by a telephone number.

  He considered that maybe she had changed the number after becoming a cop. But he figured it was more likely that she just got it unlisted, figuring that once the current year was up, the new phone book wouldn’t have a listing for her anymore. Which was quite true. And who had the time or inclination to go to the library and search through a half dozen old phone books?

  So now he knew how old she was and her phone number. Thanks to Pam Lincoln’s article after he called her, he knew she was assigned to the graveyard shift. A little research into the configuration of the River City Police Department gave him the hours for that shift. Those officers started work at nine P.M. and worked until seven the following morning.

  Lucky him, he didn’t have to be to work until eight.

  He rolled down the window and tossed the remains of his apple out onto the grass. A squirrel immediately darted from a nearby tree to inspect the treasure. He wiped his hands on a napkin while the rodent snatched up the apple core and scurried back to his tree.

  “Good luck getting up the trunk of that tree, Mr. Squirrel,” he muttered. Then he removed his sandwich from the sack and unwrapped it. As he bit into the white bread, he imagined what kind of home Katie MacLeod lived in. Was it an apartment? Or a house? Did she live alone? Or was she shacking up like the whore she probably was?

  He wondered if her home were neat or messy. What her underwear looked like.

  What it smelled like.

  He already knew what she smelt like.

  He already knew that she was afraid of him. And that little spark of rebellion she displayed? Well, he had certainly beaten that out of her. When they met again, he was sure that she’d cower in his presence. And then he’d take her.

  And this time, he’d finish the job.

  At the foot of the pine tree, the squirrel finally gave up trying to climb and set about eating the apple core right there at the tree base. He munched his own sandwich as he watched, his mouth turned up in a smile.

  Soon.

  SIXTEEN

  Friday, April 26th

  Day Shift

  0912 hours

  Tower sat at his desk, tapping his pen. His Rainy Day Rapist file lay in front of him, spread out across the desk like a bad dream. He picked up Westboard’s report about the prostitute Toni Redding along with his own supplemental and re-read both. The details were clear. She had to have been assaulted by the Rainy Day Rapist. That phrase about “the whammo” was just too unique to turn up being used by someone else in the same city during the same time-period committing the same crime. Even though she initially told Westboard he’d said something slightly different, when he’d asked her if it could have been ‘whammo’ instead of ‘whammy,’ her eyes lit up and she’d nodded with certainty.

  Plus, the time frame was right in the middle of the explosion of rapes he’d done. It occurred just a day after Patricia Reno.

  It had to be him.

  He put down Westboard’s report, trading it for MacLeod’s account of the attack on her during the decoy operation. He already knew all of the details, but he read through them again, paging on to his own account, Chisolm’s, Battaglia’s, Sully’s and finally Shane Gomez’s brief report on the failed K-9 track.

  Nothing new jumped out at him.

  And that frustrated the shit out of him.

  He rose and walked to the bullpen’s nearby coffee pot, pouring himself a cup. He stood and sipped the brew, staring at the same comics clipped from the paper that had been hanging there for over a year. He read them anyway, trying anything to jar his mind. There had to be something he wasn’t thinking of. Something he was missing.

  “Taste-testing the coffee, John?” Georgina asked him from her desk.

  Tower turned to the Sexual Assault Unit’s secretary. He knew the pleasant woman was a horrible gossip, but he’d always found her presence comforting. Georgina reminded him of that large-bosomed aunt who wore lots of jewelry, especially bracelets. When things were difficult, she would be the one to give you a hug and tell you everything would be all right. And it would be all right, except that she would tell the whole family anything you confided in her.

  “Just stretching the brain,” he told her, taking another sip.

  “Always good to stretch before exercise,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to strain a brain muscle.”

  “I’m not so sure I have any to strain,” Tower groused. “At least not on this case.”

  “Problems?” Georgina asked, her tone a practiced casual.

  Tower smiled. It would be so easy to unload on her sympathetic ear. He would feel better. Maybe even find an answer in the purging. But he’d barely be back at his desk before everyone on the department would know he couldn’t solve this case.

  “Just like every case,” he told her. “Little hiccups here and there. You have to work through them, you know?”

  Georgina nodded, trying to hide her disappointment. Then she asked, “I heard on the news that-”

  Tower’s pager beeped loudly, interrupting her. He gave her a sheepish grin, inwardly grateful for the easy extrication from what might have turned into a Georgina interrogation. He glanced down at the LED display.

  “You want to use my phone?” Georgina asked.

  Tower squinted at the number. It was Browning’s desk phone.

  “No, thanks,” he told Georgina absently, and strode from the reception area.

  I thought Browning was still on vacation.

  After a short walk, he turned into the Major Crimes unit. Glenda, the Major Crimes Unit Secretary, wore a pair of headphones and was typing at something that approached light speed. Nonetheless, she spotted him and gave him a perfunctory nod as he passed.

  Seated at Browning’s desk with one leg drawn up under the other, he found Katie MacLeod. She wore a pair of jeans and a simple white shirt with pink trim. Her light windbreaker was folded over the arm of the chair. Despite the yellow remnants of bruises on her face, Tower was struck by how feminine she looked.

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  Katie dropped her head backward and groaned at the ceiling. “Everyone keeps asking me that.”

  Tower didn’t reply.

  Katie rolled her head to the side to meet his gaze. “Yes, I am fine. I just look like Boom-Boom Bassen after losing a fight.”

  “Boom-Boom who?”

  She waved his question away. “Inside joke, I guess. He’s a boxer from River City. Or he was, a couple of years ago. Anyway, I booted in a door one time while a couple inside was watching him fight on TV. I thought it was a domestic.”

  “Ah.” Tower nodded. “I see. So…did you forget where I work or what?”

  “No, I remember. I just didn’t want to deal with your secretary.”

  “Georgina? Why?”

  “She’s a nosy gossip, that’s why.”

  Tower cocked his head at her. “How would you know that?”

  “Are you saying it isn’t true?”

  “No. But how do you know?”

  Katie shrugged. “Last year, when Stef…wh
en Kopriva was working light duty in your office, I’d come by to see him sometimes. She was always watching us. I asked him about it and he told me about her.”

  Tower nodded knowingly. The rest of that conversation would probably be too painful for either of them to discuss, so he pushed on. “Are you ready for the sketch artist?”

  “I don’t know,” Katie said. “I didn’t really see the guy. It was so dark and he came at me from behind.”

  “Would you be willing to try?”

  “I just wouldn’t know where to start.”

  Tower considered, then said, “Well, here’s the thing. I’ve got another witness working with the sketch artist right now. Could you look at that drawing and tell me what you think?”

  Katie shrugged. “Sure. I just don’t know how much help I can be.”

  Tower reached out and touched her hand. It was surprisingly warm. “Anything helps, MacLeod.”

  He turned to go.

  “Tower?”

  He stopped and turned back around. “Yeah?”

  She stared at him, her features hard. “I’ll tell you this. If I ever hear his voice again, I’ll know.”

  He nodded his understanding. They both knew that a voice identification was next to useless in court, but at this point he’d take an I.D. based on smell.

  “I’ll be back in a bit,” he told her.

  He made his way to the interview rooms. Inside of number three, he saw Toni Redding seated with the sketch artist, an aged art instructor from the local community college. The artist sat comfortably in her chair, attending to the sketch with short pencil strokes. Her bright, intelligent eyes darted across the drawing pad as she made adjustments. Redding, on the other hand, slouched in her chair, one leg crossed over the other. Her crossed leg bounced in a constant jittery motion that might look to the uninitiated like a sign of impatience. But Tower knew better. Toni was tweaking.

  “How are we coming along?” he asked.

  The artist opened her mouth, but Toni beat her to the punch. “It’s taking forever, that’s how.”