by April Smith
“What?” Juliana asked, craning her neck. “Where is it?”
“On your lower back,” Nancy said.
“What’s the big deal? I can’t feel anything.”
“He left a partial imprint,” said the nurse matter-of-factly. “It’s pretty clear. It’s the sole of a shoe. At some point he must have stepped on your back.”
Stamped on her back, while Juliana lay on her stomach, unconscious. Stamped, she should have said, since she had promised to tell the truth, trampled or stamped, using the full weight of the boot with his body behind it, blunt-force heavy impact.
Juliana’s mouth turned down, and she emitted a series of guttural screams.
“Get it off me! Get it off!”
A Wood’s lamp is a coherent light that causes materials and messages to luminesce. This particular message was clear as day: the offender had declared that he was a powerful and commanding man and the rest of us bugs under his feet.
Juliana wanted the impression “off!” like a spider crawling up her back, “off!”—and her cries were hideous and freakish squawks; her twisting, flailing arms kept beating us away; the curtains buckled, the lamp, discarded, rolled upon the floor, spinning wild purple rays around the darkened room.
The lug-soled design of a size-ten boot floated in and out like a wondrous charm.
Nine
Something happened to Andrew and me that night. After Juliana was released, we came back to my place and drank enough tequila to shine our own black light on those illicit dungeon doors — the ones that appear only, under the right conditions, in total darkness. Once you find them and you enter, certain things are left behind that cannot be reclaimed between two people.
Most of all, after the physical ordeal of the case, I wanted comfort. I wanted us to bleach our sins with astringent soap and scalding water, and make love, and fall asleep like new puppies in a box full of clean sheets. I wanted the relief of knowing that despite the roughneck ride we were on, we could always return to the kind of private shelter we had discovered at the Sandpiper, the very first weekend we went away together, where, at dusk, on windswept Moonstone Beach, we had walked until our fingers froze, and came back and lit candles and lay in the bathtub in the steamed-up motel bathroom, hot as a sauna, and told our secrets. I remember resting my head against a sopping towel laid over the edge, and how we faced each other, my legs inside his, the strong heavy bones of his shins buffering mine against the cool porcelain, surrendering to our nakedness and the dissolving boundaries between us, the comfortable bubbly water, letting go inch by inch, until I was able to accept, at last, his enduring offer of safety. There is no deeper luxury.
In the canyon of those forgotten hours of the night, half senseless after bearing witness to the interminable rape exam, I craved that luxurious feeling of safety again, even ran a bath, as if Andrew and I could both fit inside the half-size plastic shower-tub of the apartment in the Marina. But we were too drunk, at odds, on the job, did not have time for luxury, had seen so many borders violated it seemed useless to defend them. He turned the water off. He wanted me to do it on my knees on the floor, like a hooker. I didn’t want to; he made it a challenge; so I did, as if wild submission were the same as wholehearted surrender, as if it could take you to the center of the labyrinth. I couldn’t find where we were on the bed, up, down or across. He wanted me to slap his face. He got up and came back with a belt. It had never been like this before. When I had an orgasm, I cried. I didn’t know what it was about. He held me, panting.
Now I see why I had been so desperate to be sanctified by water, by touch. Andrew and I had become profoundly contaminated by the materials we were working with. (The Bible talks about cleansing with blood; Andrew believed it, but I have never known true atonement to work that way.) Like a chemical reagent that causes evidence to glow in the dark, the alcohol had made that contamination observable for a brief period of time, but the kind of perversity that had acted on Juliana Meyer-Murphy, and therefore on the two of us, does not go away with daylight. You carry the toxins. Maybe he was angry at being reassigned from the Arizona investigation, had to put me in my place for a lot of reasons; but there was something about the purposeful way he took us to the edge that hinted he knew all about dark places, and savage unrestraint.
After Juliana went home, we withdrew from the M&Ms’, shut down the command center at the Santa Monica Police Department and initiated a nationwide manhunt for the suspect from a war room at the Bureau.
The war room consisted of a disused space near the lavatories: two old windowed offices with the dividing wall taken out and lined with metal shelving that held somebody’s collection of administrative operations in thick unreadable binders and textbooks called The Biology of Violence and Ransom, probably not cracked since some of the World War II vets were laid to rest in the VA cemetery across the way. In a contemplative moment your eyes could travel from those shaded white markers north to the lustrous Italian marble of the Getty Museum, perched like a mythical griffin over the mountain pass.
We had our own artwork going. A real exhibition. The tattered old timeline from the command center had been reinstalled upon the wall, beginning when the 911 came in and listing every event — when the police responded, when the Bureau was called, who was interviewed, when each polygraph was done — all the way up to “Someone is walking up the street” in the fog. There were aerial photos of the Promenade obtained from the satellite facility at headquarters and location shots of the storefronts. Posted also were my hand-drawn diagrams showing the true distance and relationships between Willie John Black’s doorway and the fountains and the bench where Juliana may have met the suspect.
Then, in the Purple Gallery, we had close-ups of the bruise patterns on Juliana’s neck and the fine cutting on her chest, and a series of photographs using reflected UV light that showed the lug-soled design of the boot taken from the skin of her back. For this expertise we had to wait an extra two hours at the Rape Treatment Center while a forensic photographer fought standstill traffic all the way from a private lab called Result Associates, out in Fullerton.
I had assigned young Jason Ripley as administrative case agent, which meant he was in charge of the paper, hauling cartons of printouts from Rapid Start, trying to keep the sub files organized. We were on our knees, hands deep inside the boxes, scraping our knuckles on bristly reams of paper, when I felt a presence behind me and heard Kelsey Owen say, “Congratulations on recovering the victim. That must have been incredibly exciting.” “We got lucky,” Jason, the voice of experience, replied.
I sat back on my haunches and rewrapped the scrunchie that held my ponytail, grimacing at the time. “Gotta go.”
“Where to?”
“Rick’s office,” scrambling up and wiping the fine cardboard dust off on my jeans.
“I’ll walk with you,” offered Kelsey.
I was aching to stop at Barbara Sullivan’s, my old pal from the bank robbery squad. They still had real offices on the south side of the floor and Barbara’s was still a sanctuary. I just needed to sit in there with the door closed for fifteen minutes, talking carpet installations and flu shots, easy muffin recipes and haircuts of the stars. But now I was late and saddled with Kelsey.
“What’s the meeting about?”
“A couple of distinctive things in the Santa Monica kidnapping match the cases that came up on VICAP.”
“Why didn’t they come up before?”
“Nobody put it together. Nobody alerted Quantico to go back to the local police in Austin, South Beach and DC with what we now know.”
“But you did. I can see why Rick has a lot of faith in you.”
Fawning makes my teeth ache. Too much sugar in the Christmas punch.
“SOP,” I said dismissively.
“So how was it for you?” she asked, not going away.
“How was what for me?”
“The investigation. To confront what you were most afraid of?”
“I wa
s afraid she’d be dead.”
I turned into the office of the kidnap squad.
Kelsey followed.
“Rick inside?” I asked the duo of wavy-haired clerks in miniskirts and high heels.
I took a chocolate kiss from a plate on the counter and smiled vacantly at Kelsey, wondering if she were going to explain to me what I was really afraid of. Kelsey Owen never would have guessed it was she. Or, I should say, Special Agent in Charge Galloway’s keen interest in her. Why would he allow a rookie to tag along unless he wanted a report? Standing quietly with soft round hands crossed, holding a file, her patience seemed feigned. The move from NSD to crimes against children could not be accomplished in one leap. Besides, she was not that savvy — worn, thin-soled boots and a long flowery skirt with the big soft sweater to pick up the teal? A gold charm bracelet that peeked below the sleeve, shyly asking to be queried over and admired? Galloway, with his herbal supplements and out-of-control daughter, was just paranoid enough these days to recruit a susceptible wannabe to be his eyes and ears on a high-profile case. I really wanted to know to whom Kelsey Owen returned at night.
She trailed me into the supervisor’s office.
“Grab the hot seat,” offered Rick.
It was so cramped in there you got about two inches of legroom from the desk. Rick was looking expectantly over my head at Kelsey.
“I thought I would sit in. The SAC said it would be a good idea,” she announced.
“Really?”
“To learn from you. And Ana.”
Rick tipped back in his chair with a questioning look. If this was Galloway’s deal, Rick wasn’t in on it.
“Karen?”
“Kelsey.”
“Aren’t you on—?”
“The national security squad.” She nodded vigorously as if to affirm the waste of her talents. “But I have a degree in psychology and I want to move over to kidnapping.”
My boss rocked his chin at me. “If Ana doesn’t have any objection.”
How could I have an objection? Balling up the foil from the kiss, I fired it into the wastebasket.
“Nope.”
Kelsey settled into the other chair, positioned against the wall where I could not see her, like the goody-goody who always sat behind you, breathing cherry drops and ambition down your neck.
“This is what we’ve got from Quantico,” I told Rick. “At my request they sat with the locals and evaluated the evidence in those rape cases again. First of all, the victimology is similar. White teenage girls with long brown hair disappear from a mall. Nice girls, never in trouble, not your liberated types. Two of them are still missing. The victim in South Beach was reinterviewed. The assault took place in a vehicle. A truck. He was into asphyxiation. When he stopped at a gas station she escaped.” “She wasn’t drugged?”
“No, but this was several years ago. I’m guessing rape drugs weren’t as widely available.”
Rick seemed to buy it.
“What if we’re looking at a serial rapist,” I went on eagerly, “and the reason nobody tagged it is he kept moving out of their territories? He’s shrewd. He manipulates these girls at the same time the police walk right by him. He knows how to fit in, not draw attention to himself, because he’s just like everybody else.” Kelsey murmured, “This gives me the chills.”
“What are the lab results on the Santa Monica kidnapping?”
“They haven’t gotten to it yet.”
“Hello?”
“I specifically asked them to cross-reference the results. Arnold Reinhold, the head of lab, says, ‘We see this stuff by the bushel basket. Maybe a thousand a year,’ imitating Dr. Arnie’s hang-loose groove. ‘The only way we’d consider it special is if you had a bunch of these cases coming in and the same person in the lab got this stuff.’ I said, ‘Come on, you wouldn’t notice if some guy was choking girls with a metal chain?’” We shared a look of cynical frustration.
“Just tell me: why a lab way out in Fullerton? With all the traffic, it’s faster to overnight the stuff to Quantico.”
“Politics,” said Rick, disgusted.
We had recently started using Result Associates instead of the FBI facility back east. Somebody must have had connections, because the Sheriff’s Department and the Santa Monica police had switched some of their cases, too.
“The good news is we recovered major physical evidence I think will be significant.”
“Such as?”
“The partial impression of the sole of a boot. On her back.”
Rick’s expression was dispassionate, but there was a silence in the room, as between the ticks of a clock, as we all ran through in our minds the picture of how a man stomps with all his might on the back of an unconscious girl.
“What kind of boot?”
“They’re checking the Bureau database of footwear impressions. Maybe a work boot. Or those thick-soled shoes the punkers wear?”
“Dr. Martens.”
“Rick, you are too hip for words.”
Rick winked at Kelsey, who paused uncertainly, taking notes.
“The victim reported the shoes were shined, so they had to have some kind of leather uppers.”
“Keeps his weapons polished.”
He winked again, but it was more of a twitch.
“What else do the propellerheads say?”
“They’re all excited about examining the reverse side of the victim’s T-shirt, but you know, that’s what gets them off.”
“Gets their rotors turning.”
“The inside of the T-shirt might retain skin cells that could be enhanced to show more of the shoe print,” I explained to Kelsey.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m still lost. When you said—”
Rick ignored her. “All of that’s a good evidentiary base.” He snuck a look at his watch. There had been an abduction of a minor to Iran that morning. “What was Juliana able to tell you about the offender? Anything about the method of approach? How hostile is this guy?” I shook my head. “She’s still in shock. I know there’s more, but her response was guarded.”
“I don’t like it,” Rick said sharply. “If this is a serial rapist, he’s going to repeat.”
“The nurse was an obstacle,” I muttered, hating myself for the lame excuse. Meanwhile, Kelsey was clearing her throat and fidgeting as if anxious to be called upon.
“When’s your next interview with the victim?”
“Thought I’d give it a couple of days.”
Kelsey was raising her hand.
Rick: “We need her narrative,” putting stuff in his briefcase. “Sooner rather than later.”
“Can I talk to Juliana?” Kelsey was standing now. “I have experience treating battered women. I know the victim’s perspective.”
“Up to the case agent.”
It was a soft toss, meant to ease my humiliation. Working like this is intimate. You throw out ideas, you have to trust. Alone, his irritation about not yet having Juliana’s statement would have been part of the normal give and take; but there was Kelsey, making notes.
“I think it’s a bad idea. Juliana has already formed a bond with me.”
“A bond,” objected Kelsey, “is not the same as an empathetic relationship.”
“I am not her shrink and neither are you, and if you think that’s what it’s about, you’ve got the wrong idea of what it means to be a federal agent.”
“That’s a somewhat dated view.”
“Dated?”
It hung there like spit on a window.
Rick: “Is the victim seeing a counselor at the Rape Treatment Center?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He snapped the briefcase. “I hope this was useful, Kelsey. I’ve got to get to the Iranian consulate.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Kelsey said when he had gone. “I thought we could work together. I’m only trying to share my expertise.”
We were standing in the outer office.
“Share thi
s.”
I didn’t say it softly enough or turn away fast enough for Kelsey not to see that I had (unconsciously) made an obscene gesture indicating that if I had been endowed with a penis, it would right now be (symbolically) jerking off in her face.
She saw it, and I saw that she saw it.
“It’s okay,” Kelsey said, subdued. “It’s been a long, hard week and everybody’s—” She touched my arm. “I won’t bug you anymore.”
Juliana could not leave the house. She would follow into the same rooms as her mother, who, for her part, was grateful to be given her baby back, to stay home and bake cookies together and lie in bed watching videos as they had when Juliana came down with pertussis in fourth grade. She sent the nanny to Laurel West for the homework assignments — because Juliana would sob uncontrollably if Lynn were out of her sight — gently reminding her daughter that she still had to keep up in her work because colleges didn’t want to see slipping grades.
Juliana was having trouble swallowing. The family would sit down to dinner, expectant, and Lynn would put a plate of homemade lasagna airy with fresh oregano, just for Juliana’s pleasure, just to make it special, in front of the girl who would gag, push away from the table in a fit of red-faced choking, rush to stick her head out the back door and suck cool air, panicking her mom and dad as if she did have the whooping cough, ruining their hope.
The bruising had reduced to traces of ocher and the scans of her neck had come back negative for swelling or fracture. Soon she was being served just broth or a protein shake, and then she didn’t want to come to the table at all; and nobody mentioned her when she wasn’t there, the little sister not unhappy to have the parents all to herself, detailing the ins and outs of nine-year-old friendships with indignant amazement. And maybe it was a relief not to have to extend one’s patience throughout dinner, too, have a little break, a glass of wine — but why, reasoned Lynn, continue to cook these elaborate dinners at all if Juliana wasn’t able to participate? Spending the whole day in the kitchen wasn’t helping one iota, so they began to let the younger sister eat hot dogs and macaroni in front of the TV while Mom and Dad did takeout chicken, whenever, sometimes ten o’clock at night, wondering if there would always be this numbness, it had to be from sleep deprivation, their fifteen-year-old having nightmares, climbing into their bed in the dead zone of the night.
