by Frank Zafiro
“Maybe I cope by being silent,” Katie suggested.
Linda appeared at the table and refilled both cups, disappearing without a word.
Westboard picked up his cup, paused, then slurped.
“Fine,” Katie said, exasperated. “I’ll spill. Will that make you happy?”
Westboard leaned forward. “Yeah. But I think it will make you happy, too.”
“You really are an asshole,” Katie said with a grin.
Westboard grinned back. “And you’ve got a potty mouth, Officer MacLeod, as well as an apparently limited vocabulary. Now what’s up?”
Katie shrugged. “I just keep getting these calls.”
“Calls?”
“From Stef.”
Westboard’s eyes narrowed with confusion. “Kopriva’s calling you?”
Katie nodded, looking away. She figured the relationship she’d had with Kopriva was probably common knowledge in the undercurrent of department gossip. Still, she didn’t care to talk about it out in the open, even with Westboard.
He gave a low whistle. “How long has this been going on?”
“It started a couple of months ago,” Katie answered. “It’s nothing regular, just every now and then.”
“What’s he say?”
“Just that he wants to talk.”
“What do you two talk about?”
Katie shook her head. “It’s usually a message on my machine. Even if I’m home, I don’t answer the phone.”
“Why?”
Katie gaped at him. “Why? Matt, what do we have to talk about?”
Westboard didn’t answer. He turned to his coffee for a moment. Katie stared at him, feeling a tickle of anger in her stomach.
After a short silence, Westboard asked, “How does he sound?”
“Drunk,” Katie snapped.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Katie answered.
Westboard nodded. “That’s all?”
“No.”
Westboard waited.
Katie sighed. “Fine. He sounded like he was hurting, too.”
“That’s probably why the drinking,” Westboard observed.
“So what? He acts like he’s the only one who ever felt any pain in this world. Like he’s the only one who –” She broke off, biting back tears. She stared down at her hands and realized that she was twisting the napkin in her fingers.
“Everyone copes in different ways,” Westboard said quietly.
The phrase seemed to have a decidedly different meaning to her the second time around. She gave the napkin a final twist and dropped it in next to her cup. She wondered why Westboard was being so sympathetic toward Kopriva. Maybe the next time the sonofabitch calls, she should just give him Westboard’s number.
“Yeah,” she answered instead, her voice thick with sarcasm. “Especially cowards.”
Westboard’s eyes widened slightly. He opened his mouth to reply.
“Adam-116, Adam-114,” crackled both radios.
Westboard lifted his radio to his mouth, his eyes remaining on Katie’s. “Fourteen, go ahead for both.”
“Northgate shopping center parking lot, near the battery store.” Dispatcher Janice Koslowski’s voice remained stoic, but Katie could sense the gravity in it. “I have a female at the pay phone stating she has just been raped.”
Katie and Westboard rose as one, pushing back from the table and bolting for the door. She heard Westboard copy the call for both of them as she swung open the door of her patrol car. A moment later, she fired the engine to life, punched her overhead lights and headed toward Northgate shopping center.
2326 hours
Thomas Chisolm looked up from the theft report he was writing in the car. His radio had been turned low, but the words “Northgate” and then “rape” caught his ear. He turned up the volume.
“Continuing for Adam-116,” Janice’s voice filled the car, “the victim is not very responsive, but says the assault took place within the last five minutes.”
“Copy,” Katie replied over the air.
Chisolm heard the deep-throated roar of her engine and the yelp of her siren in the background.
“Victim has now hung up the phone,” Janice reported.
Chisolm tossed his half-written report into the passenger seat atop his patrol equipment bag. Without pause, he dropped the car into gear and punched the gas.
Northgate was a ways off, but he figured he’d start that way just in case they decided to set a perimeter and do a K-9 track. Or there was always the chance that someone saw the suspect and got a good description and direction of travel. Plus, there was no telling if the victim had hung up the phone on her own or if the suspect had returned and interrupted her call for help.
As he zipped up Nevada, he listened for further radio traffic. In his rearview mirror, he noticed a blue truck keeping pace with him. He glanced down at his speedometer. Forty miles an hour. The speed limit was thirty.
What the hell was this guy doing?
Chisolm nudged the accelerator up to forty-five. The truck fell back, but kept following him.
“Adam-116 on scene,” Katie transmitted.
“Copy.”
Chisolm turned left on Francis, a wide arterial. He accelerated again, this time up to fifty miles an hour. He hoped there was a chance that the rapist was still in the area. He’d like to get his hands on a guy like that.
Behind him, the headlights of the blue truck kept pace.
Who was this guy?
Chisolm recalled the vendetta that a gang member named Isaiah Morris had developed against Kopriva a couple of years before. The gangster stalked Kopriva on duty before ambushing him at the Circle K at Market and Euclid. The resulting “Shootout at the Circle K” was now department legend, despite Kopriva’s fall from grace last year.
I’ve made a lot more enemies out here than Stef ever did, Chisolm thought. Could this guy be stalking him?
“Adam-116, I’m not seeing the victim yet,” Katie informed Radio.
Chisolm momentarily considered stopping the truck, but rejected the idea almost immediately. Katie might need his help. The blue truck mystery would have to wait.
2328 hours
Katie cruised through the parking lot, searching for the rape victim. The battery store was closed and there were no cars in front of it, so she rolled slowly through the lot. Her eyes scanned for dark figures in the poorly lit area. The short burst of rain had slackened to a slight, spitting mist, so she shut off her wiper blades.
She wondered briefly if this were a false report. That happened sometimes, especially if a certain crime gained any notoriety. She hadn’t seen any media coverage of Tower’s rapist cases yet, but she didn’t watch the news too often, either. When the Scarface robberies were going on, though, the media covered it extensively. Day shift patrol officers even caught an imposter before the real Scarface was captured.
Killed, you mean. Thomas Chisolm killed him.
Katie shrugged off that thought. Instead, she remembered the media feeding frenzy that had occurred during the Amy Dugger kidnapping last year. And when Kopriva’s mistake came to light–
There!
Katie slammed on her brakes. Off to her left, a woman huddled near the front wheel well of a Chevy Blazer. Katie turned her spotlight on the shivering figure. She was met with the woman’s frantic stare. Katie snapped off the light and reached for her mike.
“Adam-116, I have her over near The Onion restaurant.”
“Copy, near the Onion.”
Katie activated her flashers and stepped out of her patrol car. The woman stared in her direction. Katie thought she should smile, but then stopped herself. Instead, she let what she hoped was a warm, open expression fill her features as she stepped over toward the crouched woman.
“Police officer, ma’am,” she said in a soft voice. Even so, the terrified woman jumped at her words.
Memories echoed across the years inside Katie’s head.
Don’t be a godd
amn tease.
“Easy,” Katie said, pushing the thoughts away. “I’m here to help.”
The woman began to sob.
You liked it. The male voice in Katie’s head was full of drunken confidence. Don’t forget that.
She crouched next to the victim. “Do you need a doctor?”
The woman didn’t answer.
“I know you’re hurt,” Katie said, “but do you need medics right now? I can call them for you.”
Still sobbing, the woman shook her head.
Ma, I have to tell you something.
“Okay,” Katie said. She reached out and touched the woman on the shoulder, causing her to start. “I’m here to help you. You’re going to be all right.”
Well, at least you weren’t a virgin.
Katie took a deep breath. She hated to push victims for information too quickly, but she knew that every moment was precious. The man who did this to her was moving further away every second.
“What’s your name?” she asked the woman.
“M-M-Maureen,” she sobbed.
Katie gave her shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Maureen, I want to help you. But I need to know how long ago this happened to you.”
2330 hours
Chisolm braked, slowing slightly before turning onto Division Street. Northgate was only a couple blocks away. He cast a quick glance into his rear-view mirror to see if his tail was still there. The twin headlights beamed back at him.
He ignored the following vehicle and pulled into the parking lot, looking for Katie. He spotted her flashing lights near The Onion Restaurant. Katie’s door and trunk lid stood open. She was nowhere to be seen.
Chisolm goosed the accelerator and cut through the lot quickly. As he approached Katie’s car, he spotted her kneeling next to a nearby vehicle. She wrapped a blanket around the shoulders of a huddled woman.
He stopped the car near hers and exited. Light drops of cold rain bit into his face, but he ignored them. As he approached, he saw that Katie was speaking in quiet tones with the victim. She glanced up at him briefly and nodded, so he held up and stood a cautious distance away. His experience with rape victims told him that every woman reacted differently. Some wanted the immediate comfort and safety of a man near them. Others wanted nothing to do with a man. He always tried to gauge the individual’s response as best he could, but it was an imperfect art.
After a few moments, Katie helped the woman to her feet and walked her toward the patrol car. Chisolm hustled ahead of them and removed Katie’s patrol bag and gear from the front seat of her cruiser. If there was one thing he knew, it was that it was a bad idea to put a woman who had just been sexually assaulted into the back seat of a patrol car. Prisoners went in the back seat. Bad guys. Not victims.
As he put Katie’s patrol bag into the trunk for her, Chisolm looked up to see the blue truck park a short distance away. The driver focused a camera on Chisolm. Chisolm stared back at him, seething.
Who the hell was this guy? A reporter? If he was a stalker, he sure wasn’t very good at it.
Chisolm closed the trunk and started walking toward the truck. The driver hurriedly put the camera aside, gave an almost playful wave and drove away, chirping his tires in the process. Chisolm tried to read the front plate of the truck, but it was too late.
Back at the car, Katie asked, “What was up with that?”
Chisolm shrugged. “Some lookie-lou.” He motioned with his head toward the front seat of her car. “More importantly, what’s up with that?”
Katie sighed. “She was raped. It sounds a little bit like the other one that the El-Tee mentioned at roll call.”
“The one over at the park?”
Katie nodded. “Yeah. The suspect did a blitz attack while she was out for a walk, not jogging. But still...”
“Hooker?”
Katie frowned. “I don’t think so. They don’t usually work this far north. Plus, she’s dressed in workout clothes. I think she’s just a citizen out for a walk.”
Chisolm nodded. “Okay. Who’s working the other rape case?”
“Detective Tower, I think.”
“I’d have radio give him a page, in case he wants to come out. You never know.”
“Right,” Katie agreed.
Chisolm glanced toward the front seat and shook his head sadly. “Terrible crime, rape.” Visions of his two tours in Vietnam pushed their way forward. He remembered the pleading eyes of a young Vietnamese girl, barely fifteen. Saw her accusing eyes. He clenched his jaw as the images blasted into his mind’s eye.
Mai. Her name was Mai.
“A guy who rapes should be castrated,” Katie said. “Simple as that.”
“Ouch.”
Katie grinned, but the expression had a grim undertone to it. “Hey, I never claimed to be Mother Teresa.”
“Not with that attitude.” Chisolm forced his own smile, but unbidden, the face of Mai flashed behind his eyes.
A North Vietnamese uniform on top of her, tearing at her clothing.
Then, later, an American uniform.
Her unforgiving eyes.
A sense of shame washed over him. He looked away from the woman in the front seat.
“I’ll take her to the hospital,” Katie said.
Chisolm nodded, hoping that his memories weren’t showing on his face. “Good. That’s good.”
SIX
Wednesday, April 17
DAY SHIFT
0818 hours
Detective Tower tapped his pen slowly on the case report as he read it. The steady rhythm helped the flow of his reading. He imagined it bothered anyone around him, but he couldn’t help it. When he read, he tapped. If someone called him on it, he made an effort to stop. Otherwise...tap, tap, tap.
The report belonged to Officer Katie MacLeod. Tower knew her only in passing and mostly by reputation. By all accounts, she was a solid troop. He pretty much ignored the bits of gossip about her sex life or orientation. When it came to the River City PD, the rumor mill never stopped. He was relatively certain that it was even worse for the women of RCPD than for the guys, at least on average. As a result, he tried not to get drawn into the gossip. The secretary in his unit, Georgina, was the queen of department gossip, but Tower wasn’t kidding himself. He knew patrol cops and detectives that were three times as bad.
Tower forced himself back to Katie’s report. It was well-written, describing her encounter with the victim, Maureen Hite. He wished he could have come out to investigate the rape himself, but he never received the call. The battery in his pager died and he’d stayed the night at Stephanie’s house, so calls to his house had gone unanswered.
According to the report, Maureen Hite had been out walking along a path through Friendship Park. Tower was familiar with the park. Mostly open field, the park was lightly wooded along the west side.
Tower read from Katie’s report, his pen tapping a steady rhythm.
The victim stated that she was northbound along the path when she heard a shuffling noise behind her. Before she could react, she was struck on the head. She thinks that it was with a fist or possibly an open hand but she was not sure. The blow stunned her. The suspect pulled her into the treed area near the sidewalk. He covered her face with some sort of towel or rag. He ordered the victim not to look at him or he would “lay the whammo on” her. He also called her several derogatory names such as “little whore” and “bitch.”
Tower shook his head, reading forward.
The suspect removed the victim’s sweat pants and underwear. He then sexually assaulted her vaginally from behind. During the act, he struck her several times on the back of the head, leaving her further stunned. She was not sure if he ejaculated or not. When he was finished, he told her that he knew who she was and that he would kill her if she reported the rape to police.
When the victim realized that the suspect had left the scene, she stood and began walking again. Due to her dazed state, she didn’t think to knock on one of the doors in
the neighborhood. It wasn’t until she reached the parking lot five blocks away that she found a pay phone to call 911.
I transported the victim to the hospital. On the way, we drove to the park where the assault occurred. She was able to point out the approximate area where she was attacked. Officer Chisolm searched the area for any evidence. See his report for further.
The victim was unable to describe the suspect, other than to say he “sounded white.”
Tower sighed. This had to be the same guy. The M.O. was too similar and the phrase about “the whammo” was too unique. So he had been right about the guy. Whoever he was, he wasn’t finished.
Tower cursed. Most of the rapes he investigated involved suspects that were somehow known to the victim. Even if the connection was tenuous, there was usually something that linked the two. Dating, working together, even just a one-time social connection. The point was, a rape was usually not a whodunit. Usually, his biggest obstacles were proving that sexual intercourse occurred and that it involved forcible compulsion. In other words, most of the time it was a DidHedunit. More directly, it typically ended up being, from an investigative standpoint, a case CanIProveHedunit.
Stranger rapes were much rarer.
That presented a number of problems for him as the investigator. For one, he didn’t even have a suspect.
Sure you do, John. About forty thousand of them.
Plus, if this guy really was a serial, he might get better and better with his technique as he went along, making each successive case even harder to solve. Tower had to figure out how to catch the guy before he attacked another victim.
But how?
He shook his head. He could definitely use someone to bounce some ideas off of.
Tower looked around the unit. A pair of empty desks sat behind him. He had no idea where the detectives that sat in those desks might be and didn’t much care. Prather and Carlisle were thick as thieves. Neither one of them spoke to him much and that suited him just fine. Both specialized in child molestation cases, anyway.
The third empty desk belonged to Ted Billings. Sex Crimes was a demotion from Major Crimes for him. Crawford had busted him back before Tower even came to the unit. The way Billings worked, Tower could see why. As detectives went, Billings made an excellent paper weight. It was pretty obvious to Tower that Billings was R.O.D. – Retired On Duty.
