by Frank Zafiro
As if on cue, Lieutenant Crawford strode into the Sexual Assault unit office. Tower tried to hide his disappointment.
“Where are we?” Crawford asked gruffly.
Several smart alec answers occurred to Tower, but he suppressed them. “On the Reno rape, you mean?”
Crawford narrowed his eyes. “No. On the JFK assassination, Tower. What do you think?”
Tower couldn’t resist. “I think Oswald did it, but there’s no way he acted alone.”
A few cubicles down, someone tittered. Georgina, the unit secretary, lowered her eyes and seemed to be concentrating on her keyboard.
“Very funny,” Crawford answered, dismissing the joke. He gave Tower an impatient wave. “Spill.”
Tower leaned back in his chair and sighed. “It isn’t good.”
Crawford shrugged and motioned for him to continue.
“Well, for starters, the lab is backed up two weeks,” Tower said, “so I don’t know if we got anything at all on forensics.”
“Order a rush,” Crawford said. “Anything short of homicide, this should get precedence.”
“It won’t do any good. Diane is in court for the next week on a murder case from last year. One of Browning’s cases, I think. I was lucky she was able to come out to the scene of the Reno rape. Anyway, with her in court, that leaves Cameron alone except for the intern.”
“We need to hire another forensics person,” Crawford muttered. “Okay, what else have you turned up?”
“Nothing. No witnesses in the area, despite a canvass. I’ve checked with Renee in Crime Analysis for registered sex offenders on file, especially any recently released, that showed anything close this M.O.”
“What’d ya get there?”
Tower shook his head. “If you sort the by ‘blitz attack,’ you get half the database. If you sort any more specifically, you get almost no one.”
“Almost?” Crawford raised his eyebrows hopefully.
“Yeah, almost. A few names popped up, but all were either dead, incarcerated or living out of state.”
Crawford grunted.
Tower continued. “There’s no similar instances city-wide in the last ninety days and none in that immediate area. If we expand the area a little bit, there are some incidents, but all of them are date rape scenarios with known suspects.”
“And there’s nothing in her background to look at?”
“No. She’s clean.”
“I don’t mean just criminal,” Crawford said. “I mean situational.”
Tower clenched his jaw. Don’t tell me how to do my job, Lieutenant-never-was-a-detective Crawfish!
Crawford was still eyeing him, so he forced his jaw to relax and answered. “Nothing there, either. She’s married, has a couple of kids and stays at home with them.”
“No guy on the side?”
Tower turned up his palms. “How am I supposed to know that?”
“You ask her, that’s how,” Crawford snapped back. “Maybe she had a boyfriend or some Good Time Charlie on the side. If she dumped him, he might have decided to get some revenge on her.”
Tower ground his teeth. “I don’t think that’s it.”
“Have you got something better to run down?”
He glanced down at the case file. “Uh, actually, yeah.”
“What?”
Tower snatched up O’Sullivan’s FI. “A couple of patrol cops caught a guy slinking around last night in the same neighborhood as the rape. I figured I’d interview him.”
Crawford regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “That sounds promising. Do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Crawford pointed at him. “But then check into that other angle. And anything else that comes up, too, no matter how small.”
Tower nodded that he understood. Crawford turned on his heels and headed back to his office in the Major Crimes division.
Georgina glanced up at Tower and raised her eyebrows a bit. Tower shrugged, as if to say, “What a jerk, huh?”
It wasn’t like he didn’t know how to investigate a rape. He’d been in the Sex Crimes Unit for six years. In that time, he’d handled all kinds of rapes and molestation cases. Why was Crawford so intense about this one?
But Tower knew why. Most rapes were committed by someone known to the victim. The bulk of the case involved proving what happened and whether there was consent, not discovering the suspect. True stranger-to-stranger rapes were rare.
And, Tower figured, that type of rape was a little unsettling. Some unknown man out in the community committed a violent sexual assault and no one knew who he was. That’s why Crawford was so keen on Tower’s progress on the case.
Still, Tower groused, does he have to be such a hard ass about it?
He picked up the telephone and called over to jail. He had to schedule an interview with Victor Preissing.
1109 hours
The prostitutes were thick on East Sprague even though it was the middle of the day. He’d noticed that the prostitute population went in cycles. During the summer, it was like high tide. The whores flooded the streets, some of them from out of town and not bad looking. They wore revealing clothing, sauntering up and down the sidewalk just like the movies. Winter was more like low tide. The hotter-looking ones moved on, leaving behind the fat ones wrapped in long winter coats and the crack heads who didn’t know enough to wear coats.
Aside from that, though, there were mini-cycles in which they went from thick to thin to thick again. He didn’t know for sure, but he suspected that the cycles were a direct result of police enforcement action. When undercover cops busted the hookers, they tended to move on for a while or take it indoors. When they did stings on the johns, business slowed to a trickle, so they moved on.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew how things worked.
She was attractive, he thought, as he watched her walk slowly along the sidewalk. Her blond hair was teased up in a mid-eighties poof and a black one piece skirt hugged her too-thin body. Probably one of the crack addicts, he reasoned. Which meant she worked for cheap. Still, he thought she was attractive, for a fucking whore.
He glided up next to her in his respectable four-door compact. She glanced over at him, glanced around, then approached the car.
“Hi, baby,” she said.
“Hello.”
“You lookin’ for a date?”
He nodded. He doubted she was an under-cover police officer, but he was not taking any chances. He would make her say everything just to be sure.
The prostitute got into his car and directed him where to drive. He drove silently, mostly in circles as she watched to see if they were being followed. He noticed she was unable to sit still, another characteristic of crack addicts. He was almost certain she wasn’t a police officer now.
She directed him to a dead-end street. He parked next to an abandoned house. As he put the car into park, he felt her hand snake out and squeeze his crotch. He became erect immediately. She grinned at that and removed her hand.
“So what are you looking for?” she asked, leaning back against the door.
“A good time,” he said.
She frowned slightly. He could tell she was still trying to decide if he was a police officer or not.
“A very good time,” he added.
She chewed on her lip, remaining cautious, but he could see the desperation in her eyes. He waited.
Finally she said, “So you want head or straight sex or what?”
“Straight would be good,” he told her and waited.
She paused again, chewing her lip. The pause was not as long as the first one when she said, “Fifty.”
“Okay,” he said. He slid his seat back. She reached out and began to unbuckle his belt with one hand. She held out her other hand. He put two twenties and a ten in her hand and watched her slip it into her bra.
With both hands free, she slipped his pants down around his knees in a matter of seconds. She reached into her purse and removed a condom.
“Can’t be too careful,” she explained with a wink. She tore open the wrapper and slid the condom expertly onto him.
“I agree,” he said. To his disgust, he realized his left leg was twitching uncontrollably. That’d happened to him the first time he was with a woman, too. He cursed his weakness.
This is just a dirty little whore, he told himself. Nothing to be nervous about. It’s not like you haven’t had a whore before. My father fucked one every time the ship docked in the Philippines. So what’s the problem? Get tough.
She climbed on top of him, being careful not to bump the horn on the steering wheel. Guiding him into her, she settled onto his lap.
“How’s that feel?” she asked him.
He avoided her gaze, running his hands up her arms to her shoulders, where he grabbed hard and pulled her into him. She grunted in pain.
“Hey, watch it—”
“Shut up,” he growled and began thrusting hard. “Just shut up, you dirty little whore.”
“Easy on my goddamn arms,” she complained.
He released her arms and grabbed her around the throat with both hands, squeezing hard.
“Do you like this, you little bitch?” he asked her as her face flooded red. Her hands flew to her throat and she tried to pry his fingers loose.
He continued to thrust into her, watching panic enter her eyes. “Yeah, you like it, don’t you? Oh, I am going to lay the whammo on you, my sweet little bitch.”
He closed his eyes as he came, arching his hips up and forcing the small of her back into the bottom of the steering wheel. Her fingers pulled weakly at his hands as his orgasm caused him to squeeze harder. He finally relaxed his grip as he collapsed back onto the seat.
He sat still for a moment, surprised both at how fast he’d climaxed and how quickly his choking had affected her. He released his grip on her throat. She breathed raggedly and in gasps, her hands massaging her throat.
“Stupid little whore,” he muttered. He opened the car door. With his hips and right arm, pushed her from his lap, out the door and onto the ground. He grabbed her small purse from his passenger seat and hurled it at her. She sat blinking stupidly at him as the purse bounced off her forehead and fell onto her lap.
“You’re lucky,” he told her. “I let you live because you’re beautiful.”
Women are vain, he thought as he pulled up his pants. Compliment them and nothing else matters.
Then he drove away quickly, leaving her to sit along the side of the road in front of the abandoned house.
Ten blocks away, he pulled in behind a convenience store. A large fence blocked the view from two directions and the store from a third. Quickly, he unzipped his pants and cleaned up. He threw everything into the dumpster. Then he changed his license plates back to the proper ones, backed out and drove away. The entire process had taken him less than three minutes. The car-clock told him he still had twenty minutes of his lunch hour left.
I wish I could have gone to the Philippines, he thought as he drove towards his workplace. But the military wasn’t right for him. He was certain that if his father had stuck around long enough to know that his son hadn’t followed in his footsteps, the old man’s disappointment would have been even greater than it already was.
He frowned at that. Still, he’d done a number on that last bitch, hadn’t he? She got a taste of what it was like to have a real man lay the whammo on her.
As he drove back to work, he whistled tunelessly to himself. But already, the gnawing desire within him began to grow again.
FIVE
Tuesday, April 16th
Graveyard shift
2014 hours
The ring of the telephone stopped Katie MacLeod at her door.
She paused, considering whether to answer it or not. As it was, she was going to have a difficult enough time getting her patrol uniform and gear on before roll call. Depending on who it was on the phone, she might not make it. And if it was her mother...well, forget it. She’d be on the phone for an hour.
I’ll wait to see who it is, she decided. In case it’s an emergency.
After the fifth ring, the answering machine kicked on. Her own voice sounded strange to her as it pleasantly asked the caller to leave a message at the beep.
The machine beeped.
“Katie?”
It was Stef.
Katie clenched her jaw.
“Are you there?” he asked, his words slurred. “If you’re there, pick up.”
Katie considered it for a moment. She thought very seriously about picking up the phone and telling Stefan Kopriva that he could go straight to hell. Which was where he seemed bent on going anyway, with the drinking and the pills.
“Katie, please. I... I have to... talka someone...”
The anger brewed in the pit of her stomach. Who did he think he was, calling her now? A year later? A goddamn year?
After what they shared together? What he threw away?
“Everythins’ so fucked up,” he slurred. “I’m so fucked up.”
She thought of Amy Dugger, the six year old girl that had died because of Kopriva’s mistake. A stab of pity cut through some of the anger in her belly. She took a step toward the telephone, letting the door swing closed.
“Jus’ the whole world,” he said.
She reached for the receiver. When her fingers touched the plastic, she paused.
Remember what he said to you? After what happened to you on the bridge, do you remember what that selfish bastard said?
She stood stock-still, struggling with her own thoughts. The cool plastic of the phone vibrated slightly with every word that came through the tiny speaker of the answering machine.
“Are you even there?” Kopriva asked, a tinge of anger settling into his voice.
“I’m here,” she whispered, but kept her hand still.
“Oh, fuck it,” he said. “Like you even give a shit.”
The line disconnected. A pair of clicks came through the speaker, then a dial tone. The answering machine stopped recording.
Katie stood at the phone, surprised that no more anger welled up inside her after his parting shot. Instead, she felt a deep sadness overcome her. She choked back the tears that rose in her throat.
“I did give a shit,” she whispered at the flashing red light on her answering machine. “Once. I really did.”
The light blinked in steady cadence.
“But not anymore,” Katie said.
She knew it was a lie as soon as she said it.
“Oh, Stef,” she said in a hoarse whisper. She reached out and pressed the delete button. The long beep that sounded when she pressed the button took on an almost accusatory tone. “Please don’t call me again.”
She’d considered changing her telephone number when she moved out of her apartment, but hadn’t. It was the same number she’d had since she moved to River City after graduating from WSU. She’d felt sentimental about it somehow. It was the first telephone number that belonged to her. Not her mother in Seattle. Not the entire dorm floor. Not her and three roommates that final year at college. Just her. So each time she moved, she kept the number. Now, she questioned that decision. The silence of her small house seemed to throb around her while she stood next to the telephone. She wiped away the beginnings of a tear from her eye and glanced up at the clock.
Great.
Now she was going to be late.
Katie turned and walked away.
2237 hours
“Adam-122?”
Battaglia reached for the mike. “Twenty-two, go ahead.”
“Respond on a vehicle theft report.”
“Great,” Battaglia said sarcastically, ignoring the dispatcher’s description of the call. “A real challenge.”
O’Sullivan didn’t reply.
The dispatcher relayed the address and Battaglia copied the call. Then he turned to Sully. “So I guess there’s no RPW to be done tonight.”
Sully made a U-turn. “Since when are stole
n cars not real police work?”
“Stolen cars are real police work. They can even lead to pursuits. Which is fun.” Battaglia replaced the radio mike on the hook. “But stolen vehicle reports suck. There’s no challenge to them.”
“A call is a call.”
“A call is a call,” Battaglia mimicked. “Well, these calls suck. Every one is the same. And that’s if it is even actually a real stolen.” Battaglia mimed removing his notepad and flipping it open. He poised an invisible pen above his open palm. “Do you own the car? When did you see it last? Do you know who took it? What color is it? What do you want us to do with when we find it? Blah, blah, blah, boring.”
“Sometimes life is not all about every call being exciting,” Sully said.
“Oh, aren’t we just the philosopher tonight?” Battaglia observed. He paused to look through the windshield, then left and right. “What the hell?”
“What the hell what? That there’s actually a world out there?”
“Screw you, Soh-crayts.”
“Soh-crayts?” Sully shook his head. “It’s Socrates, you idiot. Sock-Ruh-Tease.”
“Like you know,” Battaglia said, waving his hand. “And the what the hell is, where are you going?”
“To the call.”
“Not the way you’re headed. Take Wall. It’s quicker.”
Sully snorted. “I’m driving, Guido. So don’t worry about it.”
“I’m telling you, Wall is quicker than Monroe.”
“It’s the same.”
“It’s quicker.”
“Shut up. Like you know this town.”
Battaglia raised his eyebrows in indignation. “I know this town like the back of my hand.”
“Bullshit. You can barely find the station on a good day. That’s why you always ride with me and that’s why I always drive.”
“I ride with you because no one else will and Sarge wants me to keep an eye on you.” Battaglia sniffed dramatically and rubbed his nose. “And I let you drive so I don’t offend your Irish sensibilities.”
