by Frank Zafiro
He considered that maybe she had changed the number after becoming a cop. But he figured it was more likely that she just got it unlisted, figuring that once the current year was up, the new phone book wouldn’t have a listing for her anymore. Which was quite true. And who had the time or inclination to go to the library and search through a half dozen old phone books?
So now he knew how old she was and her phone number. Thanks to Pam Lincoln’s article after he called her, he knew she was assigned to the graveyard shift. A little research into the configuration of the River City Police Department gave him the hours for that shift. Those officers started work at nine P.M. and worked until seven the following morning.
Lucky him, he didn’t have to be to work until eight.
He rolled down the window and tossed the remains of his apple out onto the grass. A squirrel immediately darted from a nearby tree to inspect the treasure. He wiped his hands on a napkin while the rodent snatched up the apple core and scurried back to his tree.
“Good luck getting up the trunk of that tree, Mr. Squirrel,” he muttered. Then he removed his sandwich from the sack and unwrapped it. As he bit into the white bread, he imagined what kind of home Katie MacLeod lived in. Was it an apartment? Or a house? Did she live alone? Or was she shacking up like the whore she probably was?
He wondered if her home were neat or messy. What her underwear looked like.
What it smelled like.
He already knew what she smelt like.
He already knew that she was afraid of him. And that little spark of rebellion she displayed? Well, he had certainly beaten that out of her. When they met again, he was sure that she’d cower in his presence. And then he’d take her.
And this time, he’d finish the job.
At the foot of the pine tree, the squirrel finally gave up trying to climb and set about eating the apple core right there at the tree base. He munched his own sandwich as he watched, his mouth turned up in a smile.
Soon.
SIXTEEN
Friday, April 26th
Day Shift
0912 hours
Tower sat at his desk, tapping his pen. His Rainy Day Rapist file lay in front of him, spread out across the desk like a bad dream. He picked up Westboard’s report about the prostitute Toni Redding along with his own supplemental and re-read both. The details were clear. She had to have been assaulted by the Rainy Day Rapist. That phrase about “the whammo” was just too unique to turn up being used by someone else in the same city during the same time-period committing the same crime. Even though she initially told Westboard he’d said something slightly different, when he’d asked her if it could have been ‘whammo’ instead of ‘whammy,’ her eyes lit up and she’d nodded with certainty.
Plus, the time frame was right in the middle of the explosion of rapes he’d done. It occurred just a day after Patricia Reno.
It had to be him.
He put down Westboard’s report, trading it for MacLeod’s account of the attack on her during the decoy operation. He already knew all of the details, but he read through them again, paging on to his own account, Chisolm’s, Battaglia’s, Sully’s and finally Shane Gomez’s brief report on the failed K-9 track.
Nothing new jumped out at him.
And that frustrated the shit out of him.
He rose and walked to the bullpen’s nearby coffee pot, pouring himself a cup. He stood and sipped the brew, staring at the same comics clipped from the paper that had been hanging there for over a year. He read them anyway, trying anything to jar his mind. There had to be something he wasn’t thinking of. Something he was missing.
“Taste-testing the coffee, John?” Georgina asked him from her desk.
Tower turned to the Sexual Assault Unit’s secretary. He knew the pleasant woman was a horrible gossip, but he’d always found her presence comforting. Georgina reminded him of that large-bosomed aunt who wore lots of jewelry, especially bracelets. When things were difficult, she would be the one to give you a hug and tell you everything would be all right. And it would be all right, except that she would tell the whole family anything you confided in her.
“Just stretching the brain,” he told her, taking another sip.
“Always good to stretch before exercise,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to strain a brain muscle.”
“I’m not so sure I have any to strain,” Tower groused. “At least not on this case.”
“Problems?” Georgina asked, her tone a practiced casual.
Tower smiled. It would be so easy to unload on her sympathetic ear. He would feel better. Maybe even find an answer in the purging. But he’d barely be back at his desk before everyone on the department would know he couldn’t solve this case.
“Just like every case,” he told her. “Little hiccups here and there. You have to work through them, you know?”
Georgina nodded, trying to hide her disappointment. Then she asked, “I heard on the news that—”
Tower’s pager beeped loudly, interrupting her. He gave her a sheepish grin, inwardly grateful for the easy extrication from what might have turned into a Georgina interrogation. He glanced down at the LED display.
“You want to use my phone?” Georgina asked.
Tower squinted at the number. It was Browning’s desk phone.
“No, thanks,” he told Georgina absently, and strode from the reception area.
I thought Browning was still on vacation.
After a short walk, he turned into the Major Crimes unit. Glenda, the Major Crimes Unit Secretary, wore a pair of headphones and was typing at something that approached light speed. Nonetheless, she spotted him and gave him a perfunctory nod as he passed.
Seated at Browning’s desk with one leg drawn up under the other, he found Katie MacLeod. She wore a pair of jeans and a simple white shirt with pink trim. Her light windbreaker was folded over the arm of the chair. Despite the yellow remnants of bruises on her face, Tower was struck by how feminine she looked.
“Are you feeling all right?”
Katie dropped her head backward and groaned at the ceiling. “Everyone keeps asking me that.”
Tower didn’t reply.
Katie rolled her head to the side to meet his gaze. “Yes, I am fine. I just look like Boom-Boom Bassen after losing a fight.”
“Boom-Boom who?”
She waved his question away. “Inside joke, I guess. He’s a boxer from River City. Or he was, a couple of years ago. Anyway, I booted in a door one time while a couple inside was watching him fight on TV. I thought it was a domestic.”
“Ah.” Tower nodded. “I see. So...did you forget where I work or what?”
“No, I remember. I just didn’t want to deal with your secretary.”
“Georgina? Why?”
“She’s a nosy gossip, that’s why.”
Tower cocked his head at her. “How would you know that?”
“Are you saying it isn’t true?”
“No. But how do you know?”
Katie shrugged. “Last year, when Stef...when Kopriva was working light duty in your office, I’d come by to see him sometimes. She was always watching us. I asked him about it and he told me about her.”
Tower nodded knowingly. The rest of that conversation would probably be too painful for either of them to discuss, so he pushed on. “Are you ready for the sketch artist?”
“I don’t know,” Katie said. “I didn’t really see the guy. It was so dark and he came at me from behind.”
“Would you be willing to try?”
“I just wouldn’t know where to start.”
Tower considered, then said, “Well, here’s the thing. I’ve got another witness working with the sketch artist right now. Could you look at that drawing and tell me what you think?”
Katie shrugged. “Sure. I just don’t know how much help I can be.”
Tower reached out and touched her hand. It was surprisingly warm. “Anything helps, MacLeod.”
He turned to go.
“Tower?”
He stopped and turned back around. “Yeah?”
She stared at him, her features hard. “I’ll tell you this. If I ever hear his voice again, I’ll know.”
He nodded his understanding. They both knew that a voice identification was next to useless in court, but at this point he’d take an I.D. based on smell.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” he told her.
He made his way to the interview rooms. Inside of number three, he saw Toni Redding seated with the sketch artist, an aged art instructor from the local community college. The artist sat comfortably in her chair, attending to the sketch with short pencil strokes. Her bright, intelligent eyes darted across the drawing pad as she made adjustments. Redding, on the other hand, slouched in her chair, one leg crossed over the other. Her crossed leg bounced in a constant jittery motion that might look to the uninitiated like a sign of impatience. But Tower knew better. Toni was tweaking.
“How are we coming along?” he asked.
The artist opened her mouth, but Toni beat her to the punch. “It’s taking forever, that’s how.”
“Almost done,” the artist said quietly, lifting her sketch slightly in Tower’s direction.
He gave her a grateful smile, then turned to Toni. “Almost done,” he repeated.
Toni snorted derisively. “That’s what she said half an hour ago.”
Tower glanced down at the nearly complete portrait. “It won’t be long now. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Coke,” Toni snapped sharply. “Two of them.”
Tower pressed his lips together, but didn’t reply. “How about you?” he asked the artist.
“No, thanks,” she said, returning to her drawing pad.
Tower headed for the refrigerator between the Sex Crimes Unit and Major Crimes. Inside, he discovered there wasn’t any Coke, so he grabbed two Pepsis instead. Then he fished a dollar out of his pocket and dropped it into the coffee can inside the fridge.
Back in the interview room, Toni curled her lip at the sign of the Pepsi cans.
“I said Coke.”
Tower set the cans on the table. “There is no Coke. We’re out.”
Toni cursed. “Pepsi isn’t as sweet as Coke.”
“They’re cold,” Tower told her. “And they’re free.”
Toni sighed, but took both cans. She slipped one into her purse. Then she opened the other can and took a long drink. When she’d finished, she smothered a burp with the back of her hand. “See?” she complained. “Not as sweet.”
Before Tower could reply, the artist announced that she was done. She handed the pencil sketch to Tower, who examined it first. The man’s appearance was nondescript. The thought that immediately leapt to his mind was ‘white bread.’
Hopefully, Tower turned the sketch around for Toni to see.
The prostitute wrinkled her nose and shrugged. “It’s close, I suppose.”
“Close?”
Toni took another long drink of her Pepsi. “Yeah. I mean, I guess it is.”
Tower looked back and forth between the two women. “You helped her with this, right?” he asked Toni.
“Yeah.”
“So, you told her how he looks.”
She shrugged and sipped again. “Sure.”
Tower looked back at the artist. The woman’s warm features didn’t completely hide her discomfort. “She wasn’t terribly… descriptive,” she told Tower.
“Bitch, I told you exactly how he looked,” Toni snapped at her.
Tower raised his hand up and held his palm in front of Toni. “Easy.”
“Well,” Toni protested, “she ought to draw it how I say it. That’s what she’s getting paid for.”
“I’m a volunteer,” the artist said quietly.
Toni snorted. “Figures.”
Tower pushed the drawing toward her face. “How is it not right, Toni?”
“It just isn’t.”
“How?” Tower asked again, raising his voice slightly.
“I don’t know,” Toni answered, matching his intensity. “It…just…isn’t.”
Tower resisted the urge to sigh. “But it’s close?”
She shrugged. “Close enough. I mean, it could be him.”
Tower looked down at the drawing again. If it were an art piece, he imagined the title would be ‘Ordinary, Average, White Guy.’ Then he turned his attention back to the artist. “Thank you,” he told her. “I can walk you out, if you want.”
The artist nodded gratefully and stood up.
“Wait here,” Tower said to Toni.
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“But I’ve got an appointment,” she complained.
“I’ll write you a note,” Tower said. As he exited the room, he closed it behind him and turned the lock. He glanced around and spotted Detective Finch pouring himself some coffee across the room.
“Finch? Can you watch this Wit for a minute?”
Finch cast him a languid look, then nodded.
“Thanks.” Tower led the artist down the hallway and toward the public entrance to the police department. Along the way, he thanked her again. “I really appreciate you coming in to do this,” he said.
“I don’t mind,” she said. “I like to volunteer. But the victims are usually…nicer.”
“Yes, they are,” he agreed.
After he showed her out, he took the drawing back to Major Crimes. Katie MacLeod stood by the coffee pot, examining the comics that Major Crimes found hilarious enough to post on the wall above the coffee maker.
“Take a look at this, MacLeod,” he said, holding it out.
Katie hesitated. “You sure you want me to look?”
“Why not?”
“Well, I just don’t want to screw things up for a photo lineup later. If I see this drawing now, then –”
“It doesn’t matter,” Tower said, even though he knew it did. She’d never be able to identify him in a lineup if this drawing looked anything like the rapist. A good defense attorney would get that identification suppressed. But right now, all he wanted to know was if this drawing was worth a damn.
Katie gave him a doubtful look, but took the drawing from his hands. She turned it over and stared at it for several long moments. Finally, she shrugged and looked up at Tower. “I don’t know. This could be anyone. It looks like Mr. WASP.”
“I know,” Tower said. Then he urged, “But try.”
Katie returned her gaze to the sketch. “Like I said, I couldn’t see much. The shape of the head looks right, I suppose. I got a glimpse of his silhouette. But other than that?” She shook her head. “Sorry.”
Tower took the picture. “It’s okay. Thanks for looking.”
“You know, there’s probably a thousand guys in River City who look like that,” Katie observed.
“At least,” Tower agreed.
Katie nodded. After a moment, she stood to go. “Okay, well, good luck.”
“Are you working tonight?”
“Yes.”
“First night back?”
“Yes. Why?”
Tower reached out and touched her on the shoulder. “Be careful, MacLeod. That’s all.”
He turned away before she could answer, heading back to the interview room. He caught Finch’s eye as he neared the door and nodded his thanks. The other detective returned his nod without a word and strolled away.
Inside, he found Toni picking at a small scab on her inner elbow. She looked up when he entered.
“What the hell?” she asked. “Why’d I have to stay?”
Tower withdrew his business card and held it out for her. She stared at it without reaching to take it for several seconds. Then she asked, “What’s that?”
“What’s it look like? It’s my card.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Take it. And if you see this guy in the drawing again, you call me with everything you know. If he stops somewhere, you call 911 and
tell them I told you to call. Understand?”
She continued to stare at the proffered card, shaking her head. “You know what happens to snitches out on the street?” she asked him.
Tower resisted frowning. In his experience, almost everyone on the street was a snitch. They all just had different breaking points. Instead of telling her that, he said, “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Even in prison, no one likes a rapist, Toni. Take the card.”
She glanced from his face to the card and back again.
“Take it,” he instructed her again.
She sighed, reached out and snatched the card from his hand. As she tucked it into her purse, she suddenly paused. Then she looked up at him, her face brightening. “Hey, do you think there might be a reward for that? Like, some cash or something?”
Tower smiled indulgently. “I’m sure there will be.”
2112 hours
Katie sat at the roll call table, focusing on Sergeant Shen as he listed several drug houses in the sector that needed attention. She felt the eyes of her platoon mates drifting to her still-bruised face. The attention made her feel warm and uncomfortable.
When he’d finished with his list, Shen looked up at the assembled group. If he sensed the discomfort among the group, he chose to ignore it. “Last thing. Sully and Battaglia, you two are doubled up tonight.”
“Big surprise,” muttered Kahn.
“MacLeod, you team up with Westboard,” Shen added.
There was a moment of silence at the table. Even though she rode partners with Westboard once in a while, it was always at her or Westboard’s request. Shen had never assigned them together.
Katie’s discomfort at being the center of attention was overshadowed by a hot, dull anger that settled into her gut. Did Shen think she wasn’t ready to work yet? Or was he putting her with a partner just because she was female?
Before anyone could respond to the car assignments, Shen said, “All right, let’s hit the street.” Then he rose and left the table without another word.
After a short pause, the platoon members stood up and made their way out of the roll call room in ones and pairs. Katie rose along with them, not wanting to give any appearance of surprise at Shen’s decision. She thought about going into the sergeant’s office and asking him about it, but decided not to. The truth was, a partner didn’t sound too bad. Just for one night.
