“Come in,” Richard announces.
It is Angela. “I’m sorry to bother you, but the police are here.”
A look of panic comes over Helen, yet she knows what she needs to do – how important it is. Every minute she puts off the questioning is another minute she might forget some important information that will help the police catch him. No woman is safe till he’s caught. Helen nods.
“Do you want me to stay?” Richard asks. It’s a gesture of affection and concern. He knows she will say no, which is just as well. In truth, he doesn’t want to be there to hear all the sordid details. But he feels it is his duty to at least make the gesture.
Helen looks at him. “Sweetheart, you won’t feel slighted if I ask you to leave?”
“No, I understand.” He kisses her, keeps his head down, and leaves the room. For some strange reason, he feels embarrassed, unable to look into the faces of the two detectives entering the room.
Angela takes her place at the foot of the bed. Goebel and Benson move two chairs bedside and sit down.
“I’m Detective Rick Goebel, and this is my partner, Detective Jim Benson.”
Helen just nods in response.
“Mrs. Haywood, we realize how difficult this must be for you, so we’ll try to make this quick as we can.”
“Do I have to tell every little detail?” Helen asks, nervously.
“You just tell us what you can and in your own words, Mrs. Haywood. If there’s anything you feel embarrassed about saying, you can write it down later, or you can tell Dr. Mitchell here.”
“Well,” Helen says, “I went to work yesterday. I work for Colony Home and Life – you know, insurance. I manage certain projects for the company…pretty much alone, so I can make my own hours.
“I got there late…maybe ten in the morning. Only place to park was in the far end of the lot. It’s a new section; they just put down the pavement. They hadn’t yet installed the lights and security cameras. I didn’t think about it at the time, but I suppose it wasn’t a smart place to park.
“Anyway, I worked way past five o’clock. And when I left, it was late and dark, and there weren’t many people left in the building.”
“What time was it?” Benson asks.
“Around eleven at night, that’s right; I remember looking at the clock before I shut the lights out in my office.”
“Do you normally work late?”
“Depends…there are times of the year when I work even later.”
“Which of your coworkers know this?”
“I suppose, all of them…directly, only ten…indirectly, maybe two hundred … That’s not counting security.”
While Helen relates the details of her ordeal, Angela keeps a close eye on her. She sees her patient is running on automatic, answering questions in a matter-of-fact manner – with little emotion – but inwardly, flames of anguish rise higher and higher. Angela knows all the telltale signs: biting down hard on the lips, leaving slight teeth marks, clenching the fists till the nails nearly begin to draw blood from the palms. These are bad signs.
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
“I couldn’t tell you. He was wearing a ski mask and gloves. But I do remember…he was a black man. Headlights from a passing car in the street – its beams were on him only a second – I saw the skin around his eyes and lips and his wrists between his gloves and coat.”
“How old would you think he was?”
“Just guessing…I’d say in his late thirties.”
“How was he dressed?”
“The coat was all I saw; it was like a navy peacoat. The ski mask was black with make-believe eyebrows and lips that were bright yellow. The gloves were of the same woven material with a yellow line running along the outside.”
“Did he speak to you?”
“Yes, in fact, he never stopped talking. First, he told me if I screamed or made any sound, he was going to kill me. Then he started saying nasty things…filthy words…words I don’t feel comfortable repeating.”
“What did his voice sound like?”
“It sounded strange. He tried to disguise it by talking unnaturally low, and he spoke with phony accents…always switching them. First, he spoke with a French accent…then German…Spanish…even Chinese. It was so bizarre. It made me think…how insane and dangerous he must be. It was frightening.
“When he was…when he was…you know…” Helen stops for a moment, clearly embarrassed.
“We understand,” Angela says, “There’s no need to go into those details.”
Helen sighs ever so slightly; then she continues.
“He became angry; he began pounding me with his fists. …That’s the last I remember. When I came to, he was gone. The end of my skirt was up around my neck, and my…my panties were missing. I hurt all over, but I somehow got up and struggled toward the main building. I collapsed under one of the parking lot lights. Security saw me on one of the cameras and came out to me.”
“The missing panties…can you describe them?”
“Just plain, old pink briefs with a small white rose in front, sown into the elastic.”
Questioning goes on for another fifteen minutes. It is clear to all that Helen is tiring and needs to stop.
“I wish I could be of more help,” Helen says, “but most of it is a blur.”
“No, you’ve been most helpful,” Goebel says. “Actually, you’ve remembered more than most women do.”
“Gentlemen, I believe you have enough to start your investigation,” Angela says. “We need to let Helen get some rest, and we can continue this at another time.”
“Yes, we understand. Thank you again for your help, Mrs. Haywood,” Goebel says. “We’ll be in touch with you tomorrow. May you recover quickly.” The two men leave the room.
Lieutenant Goebel presses the elevator button. He watches the overhead numbers blink on and off.
“So, what do you think?” he asks his partner.
“What do I think? I think it’s someone she knows…probably a coworker. I mean, the guy jumps up from behind her car. That tells me he knew it was her car and he knew around what time she would be leaving. A guy can hide behind a car for only so long…you know what I mean?”
The elevator door opens. Inside, Goebel presses the down button. The two men watch the overhead numbers blink off the floors.
“What bothers me are the gloves,” Goebel declares. “I understand the ski mask … so she doesn’t recognize you, but why gloves?”
“An overly precautious guy…maybe a paranoiac?”
“Could be, but I don’t think so. Look at it this way…a black guy decides to do a number on some little, blond, white woman…and he wears gloves! Where’s the fun in that? I mean, you can’t get prints from torn clothing. What’d he think we were going to do…dust her butt for prints?”
The elevator stops. An unseen electronic voice announces the first floor lobby.
“Maybe he didn’t get to finish all his plans?” Benson adds.
“Then why did he leave her?”
They step out of the elevator and cross the lobby.
“Maybe something scared him? Maybe he saw somebody? Maybe somebody saw him?”
“Maybe, maybe, maybe!” Goebel says. “Who knows…maybe he’s a cuckoo bird with a woolly glove fetish. I tell you…find those panties and you’ve found our guy, but that’s easier said than done.”
“So where do we start?”
“If you ask me, I think our first stop should be to Judge Nelson’s office for a court order.”
“What’d ya mean?”
“What I mean is…if she does turn up pregnant, we need to be ready. Think about it…you got a scared, married, white woman who gets pregnant from a rape by some black guy; she’s only got two choices…have the baby or get an abortion. And when you do the math…white rape victim…black rapist…and throw in one angry white husband…it can only add up to one thing. My money’s on abortion; and when she gets it, I want a cou
rt order saying we get first dibs on that kid’s blood…so we can get some DNA on this scumbag!”
***
Richard nervously enters Angela’s office. She motions for him to sit down. He squirms in his chair. The doctor gathers some papers and pushes them to the side of her desk, folding her hands in front of her, looks at Richard and smiles.
“So … tell me, how are you feeling?”
It takes Richard off guard. “I don’t know how I feel. You tell me. Besides, shouldn’t your concern be more with Helen’s well-being?”
“I am, but partners of victims hurt, too…sometimes in silence. So tell me, how do you feel?”
Richard takes a moment to reflect on the question.
“I feel angry…very angry! I’ve got this urge to run out and find the son of a bitch who did this and tear him apart with my bare hands. No…even better, I’d lock him up and torture him for months till he pleads for death. Then, I’d wait another month and then kill him.”
“And…would you feel better then?” Angela asks.
“I don’t know…I don’t know if anything can make me feel better. I suppose, mostly, I feel shame. My first thoughts should be concern for Helen, not murderous rage. I should put her before everything else, but I don’t. I guess I feel ashamed.”
“Would it help if I told you what you’re feeling is natural, and you needn’t be so hard on yourself?”
He looks up with sorrowful eyes, and she knows her words have not made a difference. Perhaps they will take root and he’ll find comfort in them at some later time in his life – but not now.
“You need to understand,” he says, “when Helen and I first met, we were in love, I mean, head-over-heels in love. But lately…”
“But lately…?” Angela asks.
“But lately…I don’t know if there is any love. I mean…we say the words, we go through the motions, but it’s not the same. We tried so hard to have a child at the beginning. When it didn’t happen, we just somehow lost interest. We haven’t been … well, you know…for a long time. We both dove headfirst into our jobs. And now this…I just feel angry and…”
“Guilty?” Angela interjects. “Richard…is there something you’re not telling me?”
Richard doesn’t speak for a moment, looking lost in thought, and then he changes the subject.
“Doctor, how much longer does Helen need to stay here?”
“How much longer…? If we only consider her physical condition, I would say two or three days more. But I have to consider her mental health as well. I’d like to have some serious sessions with her first. Plus, the police want to talk to her a few more times. It would go easier on her if I were there with her.”
“So, how long are we looking at?” he demands.
“Two weeks, at the least.”
“Two weeks!”
“Richard, you must understand; Helen has this ungodly fear she’s pregnant. If we find out she is, I’m not sure how it will affect her. I don’t know what she may do. If she’s not, then there’s no harm done; she could use the rest. If she is, I would feel better if she were here.”
“But, if she’s pregnant, it’s no big deal. She can just have an abortion…right?”
“Right…but it will be Helen’s call, not ours.”
***
It is three days later. A nurse pushes Helen’s wheelchair into Angela’s office, parks her in front of the desk, and leaves.
Angela is on the phone. She holds up one finger to Helen, signaling she will be one minute more.
Helen looks about the office. There are rows of the usual diplomas on the wall one expects in the office of a psychiatrist. Strange – there are no pictures of any people or places, no suggestion of what Angela’s life beyond her job might be like.
Angela’s outward appearance is one that makes her look older than her fifty-four years. She keeps herself neat and clean, but no frills. She wears no makeup. Her clothes and shoes she chooses for comfort and durability, not style. Her long, frizzy, salt and pepper hair, with much of the pepper fading, held back with a simple rubber band. Save for a wristwatch, she wears no jewelry. Angela is a no-nonsense woman working in a world of nothing but nonsense – the chaos and nonsense of the human mind.
She hangs up and looks at Helen.
“I apologize for not being available for your meeting with the police the day before. I was away on an emergency. I am sorry.”
“Don’t be, that’s all right,” Helen says. “It wasn’t so bad. The police just asked a bunch of questions about the people I work with, nothing more. It was a relief not to have to talk about that night.”
Much of the bandages and tape are now gone from Helen’s face.
“You’re looking much better; the discoloration is almost gone. It won’t be long before you look yourself again.”
Myself again? Helen thinks. She just smiles, not commenting.
“A penny for your thoughts?” Angela asks.
“I don’t know. Lately, I try not to think at all.”
“I want to run something by you I think would do you some good,” Angela says. “This afternoon, I’m conducting a group session. The group consists of five women…all different ages, all different backgrounds, and all of them…”
“All of them rape victims,” Helen interjects, bitterly.
“That’s just it, Helen. We never use the word victim. Only you hold the power to make yourself a victim or not. It’s your decision, not some rapist’s. I thought if you sat in today, listened to woman who have gone through what you are going through, you might not feel so alone in this. You might learn to deal with your feelings.”
Helen thinks about it for a moment, and then she nods. “Okay, I’ll try it…just this once.”
***
It is the next day. The small circle of women stands and rearranges their chairs to make room for Helen and her wheelchair.
Helen sits quietly while each woman tells her story.
Angela is right when she said all five women are of different ages and backgrounds – they are diverse – but with one thing in common that binds them.
There is Maria – a small, shy, young Hispanic woman in her late twenties. Her assailant received only five years imprisonment. Three years after the fact, rumor is he may receive an early release for good behavior. Maria agonizes over the notion he will possibly be free soon. The thought fills her with fear.
And Marion – a frail, gray-haired, older woman. It is obvious she must have been a beauty in her day, but that time has come and gone. Her assailant was a twenty-two year old technician who worked at the senior housing development where she lived.
Next is Elsie – a young, good-looking woman whose boyfriend and brothers raped her. She lived with her family then. When her parents heard what happened, they sided with the boys, claiming it was her fault for dressing so provocatively. She left home, heartbroken, and has not seen her parents since. The boys received three years probation.
Then there is Sylvia. She was once a fashion model of stunning beauty who now bears scars of that fateful night. She lives tormented over the memory of when a strange man broke into her home, had his way with her, and left her with two scars from his knife. Scars which burrow deep into her face, from her eyebrows down to her chin.
Lastly, there is Carmen – once an all-American homemaker but whose husband of ten years left her. He was unable to cope with the idea someone else had been with his wife. Even though it was not her fault and beyond her ability to stop or change what happened, he abandoned her. Now she is a radical, angry woman. She cut her hair short, threw away her makeup and all her dresses, and adopted a masculine look – deliberately cloaking any trace of femininity she once held.
Emotions run high. For nearly an hour, the women banter, argue, agree, disagree, laugh, cry – running the gamut of nearly every possible emotion. It frightens Helen, seeming so hopeless. Will there ever be a time when the memory releases its hold on her? These women have been working to break
free of such memories – some of them for years – and still the past weighs heavy on them.
Some of them are bitter, like Carmen. Her distrust and hatred for men in general is obvious in the way she mocks them and by the way she dresses.
Others remain confused, like Marion. She can’t understand why anyone would do such a thing to her, an old woman whose looks have waned. But, like Angela reminds the group, rape isn’t necessarily a sexual act. Often, it is a play for power over another human being, and poor, frail Marion was the perfect candidate for such a twisted personality.
Some are religious, like Maria, who shares her philosophy with the others. “You have to learn to forgive. …It is what God wants,” she pleads.
Others are angry, like Sylvia, “I suppose God wants this, too?” she says, pointing to her scared face. Helen is unable from that moment on to look the woman straight in the eye.
Some became philosophical, like Elsie. “You have to go on with your life…put the past behind you.”
But how does one do that? Helen seriously thinks.
“Men who do these things are sick…sick in their souls. You must pray for them,” says Maria.
“I pray for him every night,” Sylvia remarks. “I pray he gets cancer and dies a slow death…the son of a bitch.”
This brings an uneasy feeling over the group, except for Carmen who throws back her head and roars with laughter.
“That thinking gets you nowhere,” insists Elsie, “What you need to do is adopt a lifestyle where you feel safe.”
“Like what?” Sylvia demands, “Get another lock for your door? Get yourself an attack dog? That crap don’t work!”
“It’s something…you got to do something,” says Elsie.
“Maybe, if you carried a gun or learn karate,” Marion adds.
“I tell you that crap don’t work,” insists Sylvia. “If a guy tried anything with me now…I’d kick him in the balls!”
The circle of women starts to giggle at the thought, releasing some of the tension.
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