Defiled

by Margaret Buffano

  She takes down a can of cat food, opens it, and places it in a bowl. “Chelsea?” she calls, putting the bowl on the floor.

  It is seldom Chelsea doesn’t run to the door to greet her whenever she comes home. But the cat is getting older – twelve years now – and is sleeping more and more. Helen knows she will probably find her upstairs asleep on the bed.

  She goes upstairs to get out of her work clothes and into something comfortable. In the bedroom, there is no sign of Chelsea. Helen thinks this strange; the only other times she couldn’t find Chelsea was when something or someone scared her and she nestled into a remote harbor of the house to hide.

  But what could scare her?

  A slight twinge of fear starts to come over her.

  “Stop being so paranoid,” she thinks. “Nothing scared the cat; she’s just asleep somewhere in the house.”

  She places her clothes in the hamper and takes out a light pink sweat suit from a dresser drawer. Before putting it on, she stands in her underclothes, in front of a full-length mirror in the corner of the room. She examines the shape of her stomach – first the front view, then a side view. It is becoming obvious she is pregnant. It won’t be long till she’ll have to wear larger clothing – then everyone will know.

  She runs her hands over her stomach. She admires herself and the way she feels. Part of her still thinks an abortion is the only sensible solution, but she also can’t help feeling pleased.

  “I know this child,” she tells herself again.

  Once more, not wanting to face a decision, she puts all such thoughts away and files them somewhere in the back of her mind – at least for another day.

  She puts on the sweatshirt and sweatpants and goes downstairs. In the kitchen, the bowl of cat food remains untouched.

  “Chelsea?”

  Helen is starting to panic. She looks over to the far end of the kitchen where the phone and answering machine are. There is a red blinking signal on the answering machine. She walks over. It isn’t a phone call; it is the memo indicator. A message left from Richard, she thinks. Maybe it is about Chelsea. Maybe she became ill and Richard took her to the vet.

  She presses down on the memo button.

  An icy cold rips through her entire body. Like dry ice, it burns as well as chills. Sheer terror takes hold of her when she hears the low voice of a man – speaking with a phony German accent.

  “Der liebhaber, where are you? I came by to see my hot little das Miststück, but you weren’t home! I miss your beautiful feste Brüste and your hot, wet schamlippen! We get together soon, and make sweet Sex haben…jah, das is gut, mein Liebchen.

  “I brought you some flowers, but I couldn’t find a vase. So I planted them in your garden…I hope you don’t mind. I know you’re a der tierfreund, so I got you some cattails…they’re lovely. I will see you again mein Liebchen…real soon, jah, my dear sweet ‘Hell-in’…Auf Wiedersehen!”

  The message stops. The machine clicks off – all is silent. Helen stands, her head bows down, staring at the machine. Her whole body is shaking. She reaches out for the back of a chair to support herself. She feels she is going to faint. Then she re-exams in her mind what she just heard.

  “Chelsea!” she screams.

  Quickly, she runs out the backdoor leading to the garden. She grabs the large flashlight they keep hanging by the door as she exits.

  Outside, the garden is dark. She switches on the flashlight and holds it with two hands guiding the light beam along the ground from flowerbed to flowerbed.

  “Chelsea! Chelsea!” she continues to call, but there is no answer.

  The light beam settles on a mound of dirt at the end of a line of flowers, a mound of dirt that should not be there.

  Helen slowly walks over to examine. There is a large pile of light-brown soil, and at the top of the mound is the head of the cat protruding up. The body fully buried, only the head is visible. Chelsea is dead, motionless. Her eyes, half-shut and crossed, stare in horror, her tongue sticking out. The familiar black gloves with the yellow stripes wrap around the animal’s twisted neck.

  “Oh no! Chelsea…no!”

  Dropping the flashlight, everything goes dark. She doesn’t know where to run. The monster was in her home – nowhere is safe anymore. There is no place to hide, no place to run.

  She finds her way back into the house. She runs to the phone and dials 911.

  “Police Department…may I help you?” asks a humdrum voice on the other end of the line.

  “Please…please…please…I…” is all that comes from Helen’s lips. She is so frightened she can’t even form a sentence. Breathing deep and sporadic, she starts to hyperventilate. The room begins to spin. Sharp pains shoot through her body. Her knees begin to buckle, and she starts to lose consciousness. She reaches out for something, anything. But instead she goes down, her head striking the edge of the kitchen counter. She hits the floor – hard. Everything goes pitch-black.

  ***

  Helen wakes to find Angela sitting next to her in a hospital room. Helen lies in bed.

  All that time, all that suffering and effort, only to realize she has come full circle, back to the beginning of the nightmare. Only now, it has intensified.

  Angela reaches over and places her hand on Helen’s. She looks sadly and sympathetically into her eyes – knowing there are no words that can help.

  Tears begin to stream down Helen’s checks; her lower lip is quivering.

  “I can’t…I can’t do this…I can’t do this anymore.”

  Angela stands and wraps her arms around Helen whose entire body shivers.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” she cries, sounding more like a plea than a statement.

  “You won’t have to. You’re safe now, I promise,” says Angela, holding Helen tighter.

  “The baby…?” Helen whispers.

  “Oh…Helen…I’m so sorry. …You’ve…you’ve lost the baby.”

  Helen’s quivering stops. Angela gently releases her and tucks her in. “Just try to get some rest…sleep.”

  Angela leaves the room.

  In the waiting room, Angela confronts Richard and Helen’s parents. “I know you are all concerned and want to see her, but I think she would do best undisturbed. I’ve given her a strong sedative; she should sleep the night. Go home…all of you. …I’ll call you with a report tomorrow.”

  With a little more persuading, they reluctantly leave. Angela walks them to the elevator, reassuring them Helen will be fine with rest.

  When the elevator closes, Angela turns in relief only to find herself confronted with Goebel and Benson.

  “No!” is all she says as she walks away.

  The two officers follow her. “‘No’? What do you mean, ‘no’? You haven’t even heard the question,” Goebel demands.

  Angela stops and turns to them. “It doesn’t matter. …Whatever it is, the answer is no. That poor woman is this close to having a breakdown. I don’t want you two pushing her over the edge with too many questions.”

  “Okay…okay!” says Goebel, “Just do us one favor…keep us posted.” The two enter the elevator. It closes, and they are gone.

  ***

  Helen keeps slipping in and out of consciousness. Her mind won’t let her sleep, though strongly sedated. Instead, the drug gives her a wakened state with a dream-like quality, which frightens her. The white of the hospital room swirls in front of her eyes.

  A loud sound, like an alarm, cuts through to her, bringing her to a groggy consciousness. She looks over, next to the bed, on top of the nightstand – the phone is ringing.

  It takes all her strength; the drug makes the world heavy and thick. Her body moves in slow motion. Helen reaches over, picks up the receiver, and places it to her ear.

  “Hello?” she whispers.

  She isn’t sure if it is a dream or reality. Either way, it doesn’t matter, it frightens her so.

  The low voice of a man speaking in a phony French accent comes over the line. “B
onjour, chérie…so sorry you are not feeling well. I should send flowers, but I don’t think you like flowers…do you? How is our child? All gone, eh? …Oh well, c’est la vie. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi? You know I do. Tu es une pute! You know what I’d like to do? Je vais te juter sur la gueule! Does that sound good to you? I’m sure it does. Au revoir…pétasse…à bientôt!”

  ***

  The instant the elevator door closes on Goebel and Benson, a terrifying scream echoes through the entire seventh floor of the hospital. It’s coming from Helen’s room. Angela takes off running. Hearing the scream coming from the floors above, the two detectives get off at the lower floor and run up the stairs to the next floor.

  They find Helen with her face on the floor, but most of her body is still on the bed – she slid down the side.

  Two of the nurses help pick her up and place her back on the bed. Angela sees the phone on the floor; she bends down and picks it up.

  “I gave strict orders…no phone calls! You were to hold all phone calls. I want her to rest.”

  Goebel and Benson come running into the room. They’re out of breath from the run, so they stand and wait.

  Helen pushes her hands into the mattress and sits up straight. “It was him. …He called.”

  Angela looks at Helen.

  Goebel and Benson move in closer.

  “It’s okay,” Helen announces. “I’m all right. I’m not going to break over this. I’m not going to let him hurt me…ever again.”

  There is a renewed freshness and conviction on Helen’s face. This leads Angela to wonder if Helen somehow tapped into some unknown strength within or pushed all the way to madness. It is too soon for Angela to tell which of the two happened.

  The two detectives look on, feeling helpless.

  Angela shoots them a look. They understand there will be no questioning tonight. The best they can do is go to the front desk and see if anyone there knows where the call came from.

  “Who forwarded that phone call to Mrs. Haywood’s room?” Goebel asks the two nurses behind the front desk.

  Angela comes up and stands silently next to the two detectives. She wants to hear the answer as much as they do.

  One of the nurses, the head nurse, is an older woman with hair as white as her scrubs. She doesn’t answer, but looks to the younger nurse.

  The younger nurse steps forward. She bows her head in shame. “I put the call through,” she confesses. She looks up at the trio with her sad eyes. It’s clear to see how upset she is. Any angry words Angela planned to shout at her get pushed aside.

  “I don’t suppose there is any way of tracing that call from here?” Benson asks.

  “No, sir, I’m afraid not,” the young nurse says shyly.

  Angela steps forward and address the young woman as calmly as she can.

  “I gave orders for Mrs. Haywood to not be disturbed. That includes phone calls. Why did you put the call through?”

  “I’m sorry. I thought it was important. He said he was a family member.”

  “What name did he give?” Benson asks.

  “He said he was her Uncle Jerry.”

  Chapter Three

  Surprises

  Dodson casually strolls down the hallway toward Goebel and Benson’s office. He is a burley little man in his mid-fifties. As a young man, he studied medicine; his goal was to be a doctor. But as his distrust and distain for his fellowman grew over the years, he set his sights on police work where he would have little dealings with other human beings – living human beings, that is. He works with fingerprints and samples of skin, hair, blood, and body fluids. His only dealings are with the dead – entire cadavers or parts of people recently or long gone, which is just fine with Dodson. Though, for some reason, he does seem partial to Goebel and Benson, and they to him.

  “Got some interesting stuff this time for you two on the Haywood case,” says Dodson. With a folder in his hand, he enters the office and sits down like he owns the place.

  “Like what?” Goebel asks. “You want some coffee?”

  “No thanks…just had some. Like this…the gloves you found around the neck of the cat. They’re rather expensive…made by a Swiss-Italian company that folded in the late sixties. Where your guy got them is a mystery in itself.”

  “What about the memo on the answering machine?” Benson asks.

  “What about it? There’s not much I can do with it. We can always compare it to someone else’s voice, if you have a suspect. But by itself, it’s not much help. I’ll tell you one thing, though…from his pronunciation, I can tell you the guy ain’t German. You know, I looked up the meaning of those words…what a mouth on that guy!”

  “Yeah…and he called Mrs. Haywood in her hospital room and played the same number on her, only this time in half-assed French.”

  “Trace the call?” Dodson asks.

  “Yeah…and here’s the kicker…we traced it to a payphone downstairs in the hospital lobby.”

  “So, what do you two geniuses have on this case?” Dodson asks.

  Normally, Goebel and Benson never discuss a case they are working on, but they don’t mind answering Dodson’s questions. Sometimes it is good to bounce ideas off a third party. Besides, Dodson has a good head for such matters.

  “Well…” Benson says, “what we’ve got is some cuckoo who won’t let go of his victim. We’re sure it’s someone she knows because he knows too much about her. Besides, the ski mask and the gloves were a sure give away he wanted to hide his identity.”

  “He must know her real good to get into her house and leave her a message,” says Dodson.

  “Hell, there ain’t much to getting into a person’s house,” Goebel says. “The Haywoods had gotten out of the habit of always setting their alarm. Anyone with a little know-how, and I mean anyone, could sneak in. Besides, the husband said he was there earlier to change clothes. He admitted he left the garage door up. …That’s as good as having a key.”

  “What about the international dirty-talk?” Dodson asks.

  “Who knows? …Like I said…he’s probably some cuckoo. I guess we’ll find out when we catch him. That’s if we can get some DNA evidence from Mrs. Haywood’s miscarriage…if you know what I mean?”

  “Oh yeah…the DNA results. Luckily, we got enough skin and hair from inside the gloves to run a test.” Dodson opens the folder. “You guys are all alike. You think DNA is going to solve all your problems. You think we put this stuff under a microscope and up pops the guy’s name, phone number, and address. DNA can only tell you so much.”

  “So what does it tell you?” Benson asks.

  “You’re not going to like it,” Dodson smiles. “It’s going to throw a monkey wrench into your investigation.”

  “So…what is it?”

  “Your guy ain’t black. …He’s as Caucasian as you or me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, sure I’m sure.”

  The room goes silent for a moment, and then Goebel hammers his fist down onto the desk.

  “The gloves…now, I get it! He wore the gloves because he put dark makeup around his eyes and lips…and with gloves on, all he needed to do was color his wrists. I knew there was something about those gloves.”

  Benson quietly stands and starts for the door.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Goebel asks.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “But it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon!”

  “I got a hunch I want to check out. If I’m right, we’ll have our suspect. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “He’s a nutcase,” Goebel remarks.

  “He’s a nutcase?” Dodson laughs. “I don’t know if you realize it or not, but if you two didn’t have different names, I’d have no way of telling you two apart.”

  ***

  Angela has never seen Helen looking so well. Her energy is up, and her spirits are high. She wonders if it’s real or a put on.

  “I’m almost a
fraid to ask,” Angela says. “Why the sudden change?”

  Helen sits up and smiles. “After the miscarriage, I felt like I couldn’t go on. Then something dawned on me…something you once said to me. You said it was up to me to decide if I were to be a victim, not some rapist. Right there and then, I decided to not be a victim. I have a good life…a good job…and a marriage needing a little work, but it’s fixable. I won’t be a victim and let some monster take it all away from me. From now on, I call the shots! I’m going to reclaim my life. This caused a wedge between me and Richard. I won’t let that happen. He’s not going to win…I am.”

  Angela doesn’t know what to make of Helen’s quick about-face. She wonders if it is only the calm before the storm.

  “The police called me,” Angela says. “They’re concerned for your safety. They suggested on nights when Richard is away, you shouldn’t be alone. Maybe on those nights you could stay with your parents?”

  Helen laughs incredulously.

  “My parents…? I don’t think so!”

  “How bad could it be?” Angela laughs as well. “It’ll only be until they catch this guy.”

  Helen shakes her head. “You don’t know my mother.”

  ***

  The following day, Helen packs an overnight bag and puts it in the trunk of her car. After work, she reluctantly drives out to her parents’ to spend the night. It’s a large one-story house in an old part of town, a well-off area walking distance to the country club.

  It is exactly as Helen feared. Her mother takes up the dual role of martyr and ringmaster. She was always a suffocating woman, but now it is more than Helen is able to tolerate. She spends most of her time in her room.

  Her bedroom has not changed since she left home. High school memorabilia and little girly frills her mother preserves like a shrine.

  Though the thought crosses her mind, Helen knows she must at least spend some time with her parents, especially at dinnertime. Outside of a few questions as to how her day went and how she is feeling, her father speaks little at the dinner table. He seems to sense Helen’s need to not talk. But not her mother – the woman is a bottomless well of questions and an eternal fountain of opinions.