by Frank Zafiro
Renee reached into a file on her desk and removed the slip of paper. Without a word, she handed it to Tower. He glanced down at the neat feminine script.
Why does he rape?
Who does he hate?
Is he evolving?
Tower sighed. “I know I was frustrated before, so that was why I snapped at you. But, truly, I have no clue what the answers to any of these questions are.”
“It’s like I said, John. You have to use your imagination. Why would a man rape?”
Tower shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know.”
Renee chuckled and shook her head. “Sure you do. Every man knows.”
Tower cocked his head at her. “Are you saying every man is a rapist?” he asked. He’d heard about some kooky women’s libber saying something like that once upon a time, but he thought it was stupid. He’d seen plenty of rapists since being assigned to the Sexual Assault Unit. Most of them were scumbag pieces of—
“No,” Renee said, “of course not. But every man can imagine why a rape might occur.”
“Sex?”
“Give the man a prize.”
Tower shook his head. “But I thought rape was about power, not sex. That’s what all the advocates say. That’s what most of the training I’ve gone to says, too.” He shrugged. “I even heard one statistic where something like forty percent of rapists can’t even get an erection.”
Renee nodded. “I heard that one, too.”
“So?”
“So what?”
Tower cocked his head the other direction. “Are you trying to frustrate me on purpose?”
“It is fun,” Renee said. “And so easy.”
“I’m glad I amuse you.”
Renee smiled. “Back to the question at hand. Power or sex? Sex or violence?”
“Easy,” Tower said. “Power and violence.”
“I think you’re right,” Renee said. “I think all the advocates and the experts and so forth are right, too. It is about power and it is about violence. But sex is the vehicle for all that power mongering and violence.”
“So...?”
“So, in a very real way, it is also about sex. It sure as hell isn’t about badminton.”
Tower paused, thinking about her words. Then he said, “So he rapes for power, but it is still important to him that sex is the way he gets the power?”
“I think so. Not just with this guy, but with most of them.”
Tower shrugged. “Okay, could be. How does that help us?”
Renee returned the shrug. “I don’t know if it does help a whole lot. But it’s a start. Move on to the next question.”
Tower glanced back down at her list. “Who does he hate?” He looked up at Renee. “Do you mean groups of people? Like immigrants or women or something?”
Renee shook her head. “Not really. I mean something more specific. If he hates women in general, for example, it is usually because of a specific hate for a specific woman. Or women.”
“Someone who hurt him?”
“Yes.”
“Like a girlfriend.”
“Or a mother.”
Tower raised his eyebrows. “Oh...I see. Mommy issues.” He twirled his finger at his temple and stuck out his tongue sideways.
Renee wagged her finger at him. “You shouldn’t make fun, John. Our parents have a huge impact on who we become. Messed up parents usually create messed up kids.”
“Maybe he was an orphan. Maybe he hates his mother for giving him up for adoption.”
Renee peered closely at him.
Tower raised his palms up in a placating gesture. “Seriously.”
Renee considered. “I suppose it could be. But I wouldn’t think that a sense of abandonment would result in such a powerful reaction.”
Tower chuckled, shaking his head slowly.
“What?” Renee asked.
“Listen to us,” Tower said, “a couple of junior psychiatrists.”
Renee shrugged. “You don’t need a degree to figure out bad guys. This is a sick guy, John.”
“Duh.”
“I’d be willing to bet this all came from childhood.” Renee looked down at her notepad and traced the letters absently. “I can imagine some young kid with an absent or abusive father, or a domineering mother. Or someone else and something else. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that through alternately neglecting and inflicting pain on this child, who only wanted love and protection, someone who was supposed to care for this little boy created a monster instead.”
Tower looked at her askance. “You’re...sympathizing with him?”
Renee nodded. “You bet. As a child, I sympathize with him from here to Cleveland.”
“He’s a violent rapist,” Tower reminded her.
“Yes, he is, John. As an adult.” Renee tapped the tip of her pen on the pad in front of her for emphasis. “As a child, I cry for this person.”
Tower shook his head. “I don’t know how.”
“You remember Amy Dugger, John?”
Tower’s eyes narrowed. “Of course. Why on earth would you bring up that little girl?”
“They found her dead body in a field,” Renee said.
“I know. I was there.”
“And forensics said she’d been sexually assaulted.”
Tower clenched his jaw. “Your point?”
“My point,” Renee said, “is that what that little girl went through was hellish, but it only lasted a few days. Imagine if it had gone on for years. And then imagine if she survived that beating and got away from her kidnappers. Does your heart go out to that little child, John?”
“Of course it does,” Tower snapped. “It did. It does.”
“I know,” Renee said quietly. “But now imagine what kind of adult that kid would probably grow into. With all that pain to deal with, she’d probably want to inflict a little of it back onto the world. She might have kids of her own someday. And because of what she’s learned as a child, and since they make such convenient targets, she might decide to hurt her own kids. Maybe even kill them. Now when you get called to the scene of that homicide, are you going to feel sorry for that adult? That child-murderer?”
“No,” Tower whispered.
“But you felt sorry for the little girl she used to be.”
Tower stood quietly, saying nothing.
“That’s how I feel about this guy, John,” Renee explained. “My heart bleeds for him as a child. As an adult, though, I hope he comes at you with a knife when you find him. That way you can blast the sick fuck right out of his asshole rapist shoes.”
Tower nodded slowly, slightly surprised at the vehemence in Renee’s words. “He is sick.”
“And he’s gaining momentum. He’s evolving.”
Tower looked down at the list in front of him. “Which brings us to number three.”
“And the most important one right now,” Renee added.
“Why’s that?”
“Because while answers to the first two questions might help you understand the guy or have an advantage when you interview him, neither question gets you any closer to finding him. Neither does this one, but it has a direct impact on your investigation.”
“How so?”
“Because if he is evolving, and I think he is, then it won’t be long before merely controlling and raping his victims won’t be enough.”
“Meaning he’ll start hurting them more?” Tower asked, but he knew that wasn’t what Renee was getting at.
Renee met his gaze directly. “Or maybe he’ll start to kill them.”
1534 hours
At three-thirty every day, Wendy Latah left her North Central High School classroom with her students' homework tucked into her grade-book. In her history class, there was an assignment every single day except on those days right before a vacation break. Every student's grade was recorded daily. A good grade in her class required diligent, consistent study. Those students who couldn't handle that either failed or were transferred into Mr. Julian's consid
erably less stringent government class.
As she shuffled down the mostly empty hallway of the school, she thought about how much she loved teaching history. Her father, a history professor at Eastern Washington University, had taught her the merits of courage and resolve. He had also taught her to look at history objectively and not to judge according to the standards of this time, but the standards of the time in which those men and women lived. In history, he taught her, there is seldom struggle between wholly good and wholly evil. There is only the struggle of people. Maniacs like Hitler were only the exception that proved the rule.
History was nothing more than a study of people, her father had taught her. History is made every day by great leaders and small nobodies alike. Strength of character, courage, diligence and honesty, were traits all people could portray.
Wendy frankly wished that even a tenth of her father's wisdom had been passed onto the students today. Each day when she emerged from her classroom and walked the halls of North Central High School, she was astounded at how much things had changed since she graduated in 1967. The open disrespect, the profanity, the violence. No one could have conceived of such a thing even when she began teaching in 1972. Now she knew of two different teachers this year that had been assaulted. Another teacher had a student who brandished a knife in the classroom. And worst of all, her best friend, Anna McHugh, had been forced to call the police when she saw a gun in a student's waistband in her classroom. The subsequent arrest led to the discovery of drugs in the student's sock. He had been a sophomore, only fifteen years old.
All of this had prompted Wendy to go to The General Store, which carried firearms and sporting equipment. Her unique knowledge of history gave her the understanding that all things change. Those that become the victims of that change are those who refuse to acknowledge it. So she had reluctantly purchased a small caliber handgun which she kept in her bedroom nightstand drawer. Of course, she couldn’t bring a gun to school, so she’d also bought a small canister of pepper spray which she kept in her purse on her key ring.
But the change pained her. She resented the need for her response. So she tried to keep as much continuity in her life as she could. Thus, every day at three-thirty, she left her classroom. Grade book and homework under her arm, she walked out to the parking lot. Her car was in the same parking space every day, where she had parked it when arriving at six-thirty that morning. She removed her keys and unlocked the car door. The parking lot was strangely empty, but she knew that all sports and activities had tapered off in expectation of the upcoming spring break. In fact, her students had groaned when she had assigned homework, just one school day before the break.
Discipline, she thought. They would thank her at their ten-year reunion. Or perhaps their twenty.
As she swung her car door open, she felt an arm snake around her waist and pull her forcefully backwards. She let out a small cry before a hand clamped firmly over her mouth.
“In the car, bitch,” the assailant grunted at her. Her old Nova had a bench seat. She slipped to all fours, her knees thudding painfully on the bottom of the doorframe. She felt him thrust forward with his hips, forcing her onto the front seat. He climbed in after her.
Wendy fumbled with her key chain. Her breath shot forcefully in and out of her nose.
The man shoved her down onto her stomach. The smell of the cloth seat covers filled her nostrils. His hand slipped underneath her long skirt and grab at her undergarments.
My Lord! She tried to scream in terror, but the noise was muffled by the car seat. What would a high school student want with her? She was fifty-six years old. Her thin body had none of the curves she saw on the female students in the halls. Why was this happening?
His hands found the waistband and ripped her underpants away. She yelped into the seat again. She felt his fingers probe forcefully. Tears of pain sprang into her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
Why?
Why was this happening?
He rammed his fingers into her, causing her to recoil in pain with each thrust. His hand pressed down on her shoulder blades, keeping her pinned to the seat.
Why was for history to discover, she thought weakly.
“Lying old bitch,” he muttered. “Get what you got coming.”
She let out a frightened moan. Her fingers scrambled for the small canister of pepper spray on her key chain.
“You could have done something.” His voice had a faraway quality to it, despite being laced with anger. “You could have told somebody. Made her stop.”
His fingers drove upward. Wendy yelped in pain.
He ignored her. “But no, you were too busy being the perfect little teacher.”
What was he talking about?
The tip of her fingers tapped the cylinder of the pepper spray. Her hand swallowed it up and she clutched it in her fist.
“Payback is a bitch, though,” he continued. “And, I’m going to fucking kill—”
She aimed blindly over her shoulder and shot.
He gave a sharp cry of surprise and pain. Immediately, she felt his hand leave her upper back. The rest of him seemed to pull away, too. Wendy rolled quickly onto her back, took a hard look into his bewildered eyes and sprayed again. This time she emptied the can into his face.
Orange foam coated the black ski mask he wore. His enraged eyes, already red and watering, glared at her from out of the mask. “You fucking bitch!” he roared at her. The force of his words sent spittle flying, the color of carrot peels.
Wendy responded by thrusting her foot at his groin. Her kick landed just below the navel and doubled him over with a grunt.
Without pause, she turned over again and crawled across the front seat. She reached for the passenger door with her left hand. She pulled on it, but it didn't open. She glanced up frantically. The peg-like latch was in the down position, still locked.
Behind her, she heard the man growling in pain and spitting out profanity.
Wendy dropped the empty canister from her right hand. She stretched her hand upward toward the door lock. The pepper spray in the air had a wet feel to it. She felt her eyes begin to burn. The tickle in her throat became a cough. Her hand closed on the door lock and lifted it.
A crushing weight dropped down on top of her. She collapsed painfully into the seat. Her forehead banged into the side of the door.
“You disgusting bitch,” she heard him growl as he dragged her toward him. “I am going to lay the whammo on you!”
There was a ripping pain in her right shoulder as he flipped her onto her back. His hand grasped her by the throat. Reflexively, she clutched at it with both of her hands, but her strength was no match for his.
He squeezed.
She stared upward into his eyes. The black ski mask was coated with orange spray. Tears ran from his eyes and dripped orange onto her face.
Too old for a student, she thought. Those eyes are far too old.
His words rang in her ears. Not the profanities, but the almost familiar tone that he used. How he spoke as if he knew her. As if she’d betrayed him somehow.
Maybe he’s a former student.
Maybe he’s someone that I failed.
And that was the last thought that Wendy Latah had as she saw a clenched fist descending on her.
1609 hours
Officer Giovanni watched the ambulance pull out of the parking lot with the matronly assault victim in the back. Through the back windows, he saw Mark Ridgeway’s short brown hair as he rode with her to the hospital.
I hope she makes it, he thought to himself. The woman reminded him of his sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Maloney. Of course, Mrs. Maloney had been a little heavy-set, but she’d been very kind and patient. And she always smiled at him when he did well. That had been better than a gold star any day of the week.
He turned away from the ambulance and back in the direction of the crime scene. Yellow tape cordoned off the corner of the parking lot and the 1970 Nova. The driver’s door stood wide open.
Offal from the medics packaging lay scattered around on the ground near the door where the medical crew had worked on her prior to loading her onto a gurney for transport.
Gio walked to the edge of the crime scene tape. Jack Stone stood glumly at the entrance with clipboard, logging who entered and left the scene.
“You’re not going in, Gio,” Stone told him flatly. “I’ve already got you logged out and I don’t want to start another line.”
Gio frowned at him. He wondered briefly what Stone’s problem was, but then realized it was the same problem he always had—he was Jack Stone. This was just one more thing for him to bitch about.
As if to prove the point, Stone continued, “I shouldn’t even be keeping this log. I’m senior to you. You should be doing this crap job. Or some rookie.”
Gio made a sad face and pretended to play a violin.
“Screw you, Giovanni,” Stone said and turned his back on him.
Gio stepped under the tape and into the crime scene. He ignored Stone’s muted curses and walked closer to the car. Major Crimes Detective Joseph Finch was crouched on his haunches, examining the scene. His partner, Elias, spoke with another teacher, who was the woman who had found the victim.
“She was barely breathing when I got here,” the woman told Elias, who busily scratched out notes while she spoke. “There was this gurgling sound when she tried to breathe.” The woman brought her hand to her mouth, fighting back tears. “It was horrible.”
The spicy remnants of oleoresin capsicum drifted toward Gio’s nose. Always sensitive to the stuff, he covered his nose and mouth and moved away. He wondered if the guy had used the OC on her or if she’d used it defensively.
“Giovanni!” came the gruff voice of Lieutenant Crawford. “If you’re not going to do anything in the crime scene, get the hell out of there.”
“Sorry, El-Tee.” Gio ducked under the tape and ignored Stone’s self-righteous beaming.
Crawford lit up his cigar and took a deep puff. “What’d medics say?”
“She’s pretty bad,” Gio answered. “One guy thought she might have a subdural hematoma, whatever that is.”
“Blood on the brain,” Crawford explained.
