Beneath a Weeping Sky

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.

So who did that leave?

No one in his unit.

Tower reached into his desk drawer and removed the Patricia Reno file. Then he scooped up the newest file on Maureen Hite and took both with him as he made his way to the Major Crimes unit. Once there, he found Detective Ray Browning sitting at his desk, reviewing a file of his own.

“Ray?”

Browning, a black man with compact features, looked up from his file. His warm, brown eyes regarded Tower calmly. “John. What’s up?”

Tower motioned toward the file on Browning’s desk. “You deep into that?”

Browning shook his head. “No, just some housekeeping. It’s already gone to the prosecutor. I’m going on vacation after tomorrow, so I wanted to get all the little odds and ends tidied up. Why?”

Tower held out his two files. “I’m looking for suggestions. I want to catch this prick.”

Ray smiled graciously. “You want to run it for me?”

Tower shook his head. He knew Browning preferred to read the reports himself rather than hear a synopsis. He held out the files and Browning accepted them. Tower settled into the empty desk across from him. Browning opened the files and read carefully, stroking his graying goatee as he scanned the pages.

Tower tapped his pen and waited.

Browning glanced up. “You’re not going to sit there and tap the entire time, are you?”

Tower stopped. “Sorry.”

Browning smiled at him. “Get yourself some coffee, John.”

Tower nodded. “Good idea.” He rose and left the bullpen, making his way past Glenda, the Major Crimes secretary. The smell of good coffee wafted toward him. He grabbed a Styrofoam cup and poured some.

“That’s a quarter,” Glenda told him, her tone mock-scolding.

Tower fished a dollar out of his pocket and stuffed it into the jar near the coffee pot. “It’s worth it. The coffee over in Sex Crimes sucks.”

Glenda shrugged. “What can I say? This is Major Crimes. The varsity team.”

Tower smiled. “Don’t be humble or anything.”

“Humility is an affectation that I don’t have time for,” Glenda said, a smile playing on her lips. “It tends to get in the way of accomplishing anything great.”

“And greatness courses through the veins of every member of the Major Crimes unit,” Tower said.

Glenda narrowed her eyes. “Drink your coffee, serf.”

Tower turned his empty palm up. “You got me. I have no response for that.”

Glenda raised her eyebrows in mock haughtiness. “I thought not.”

Tower chuckled and sipped his coffee.

“Tower!” Lieutenant Crawford bellowed from his office.

Tower suppressed a sigh. “Yeah?”

“Don’t ‘yeah’ me,” Crawford barked. “Stop flirting with my secretary and come in here!”

Tower tipped Glenda a wink and made his way into the Lieutenant’s office. He stood in front of Crawford’s desk, ignoring the open chair.

Crawford eyed him for a moment, then lifted a clipboard. “I’ve got a stranger-to-stranger rape on my report list.”

“I know. I’ve already got the file.”

Crawford glanced down at the clipboard. “Maureen Hite?”

Tower nodded.

“Is it a good rape?”

Tower cringed at the question. He knew that a percentage of rape reports that came through were false. Most of the time, alcohol and the wrong partner were involved. It was a reality he’d come to understand as a sex crimes investigator — sometimes women lied about rape. Of course, at the same time, they often didn’t report it at all. He’d investigated a number of false claims, so he knew they happened. Still, Crawford’s word choice bothered him. He wasn’t a screaming liberal about the issue, but-

“Tower? I asked you a question.”

He nodded. “Yeah, it is. It’s a good rape.”

Crawford reached for his cigar box. “Anything like the last one?”

“A lot like it, actually.”

“Did you get called out on it?” Crawford lifted a thick cigar from the box and slipped it between his lips.

Tower had a passing thought about Freud and suppressed a grin.

Crawford’s brow furrowed in a scowl. “Something funny, Tower?”

“No, sir.”

“Then answer my question. Did you get called out?”

“No. My pager battery died on me.”

Crawford fixed him with a dark stare. “Your pager died?” he repeated.

Tower nodded.

“Pretty rookie mistake, Tower.”

Tower didn’t reply.

“You know where we keep the batteries, right?”

“I do.”

“And you can install them?”

Tower clenched his jaw. “Of course I can.”

Crawford removed the unlit cigar and waved out toward the bullpen. “Because I can have one of these guys tutor you on that battery thing, if you need it.”

Tower sighed. “It just went dead. Okay?”

Crawford grunted. He slid the cigar back into the corner of his mouth, gripping it with his teeth. “So your pager died. Did your phone die, too?”

Tower shook his head. “I wasn’t at home last night.”

Crawford raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Do I need to start calling you Giovanni Junior now?”

Tower ignored the jibe. “I don’t know that there’s much I could’ve done last night, anyway,” he told Crawford. “MacLeod did a great interview and a great report. Chisolm and Westboard searched the crime scene and didn’t find anything. They took photos anyway.”

“Those are patrol officers,” Crawford said, “not detectives.”

Tower shrugged. “It was good police work.”

Crawford grunted again. “So where are you at with this case, then? If the police work was so good.”

“I think this guy might be a serial.”

“And?”

“And I’m trying to figure out how to work it. None of the lab work is back or will be anytime soon. The victims didn’t get a look at the guy. I’ve got no witnesses. I’m looking for an angle to play. Maybe Renee in Crime Analysis-”

“You’re looking for a magic bullet.”

“Huh?”

Crawford shifted the cigar to the other side of his mouth. “You’re looking for a magic bullet to solve this case. It ain’t gonna happen. You think you’ll go down to Crime Analysis and flirt with Renee like you’re flirting with Glenda in there. Then her computer will spit out some guy’s name. But it doesn’t happen that way.”

Tower shrugged. “Sometimes it does.”

“Bah.” Crawford waved his hand. “You need to get out there and wear out some shoe leather. Canvass the area where the assault occurred. Somebody saw something.”

“This isn’t the 1940s,” Tower said. “It’s the nineties. I agree on the canvass, but — ”

“Stop looking for a magic bullet, Tower. Wear out some shoe leather, like I said.”

Tower clenched his jaw and nodded. “Fine.”

“You want help on this?”

“Ray’s looking at the files.”

“Ray’s going on vacation. I mean, you want me to reassign Prather and Carlisle to help you on this?”

Tower shook his head. “They’ve got their own cases. If I need help with anything, I’ll grab somebody in patrol. Or, if it’s in the office, I’ll get Billings to help.”

“Billings?” Crawford snorted. “Good luck with that.”

Tower didn’t reply, mostly because he knew the lieutenant was right.

Crawford gave Tower an appraising look. “How sure are you this is a serial?”

“Pretty sure. The M.O. is identical and he used a key phrase both times.”

“The whammo thing?”

“Yeah.”

Crawford chewed slowly on the cigar. “This is two rapes in two days, right?”

Tower nodded.

“Pretty short turnaround, isn’t it?”

Tower nodded again.

“You figure he’ll hit again soon?”

Tower shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe whatever is driving him has been satisfied for a little while. But who knows?”

“I’m sure the FBI knows,” Crawford said sarcastically.

“The FBI knows everything,” Tower agreed, deadpanning.

Crawford didn’t smile, but Tower spotted laughter in his eyes. “All right, Tower. Do what you can. Get Browning’s input. Check with Renee in Crime Analysis. But get out there and find a witness.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And get me copies of both files. I’m going to have to alert the media on this.”

“I understand.”

“I figure you want the whammo thing as a keep back?”

Tower nodded. “Yeah. Just in case the false confessions start rolling in.”

“All right.” Crawford looked down at the paperwork on his desk, signaling a dismissal.

Tower turned and left the office.

0837 hours

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Lieutenant Alan Hart said to the man on the telephone. “From what you’re telling me, the officers behaved quite inappropriately.”

“I pay their wages,” the man on the other end said. “I don’t need them coming to my house and being smart-asses. Or cussing at me. Especially when I’m the victim.”

“I agree,” Hart replied. “Mr. Elway, would you be willing to come down to the police station and sign a formal complaint?”

“Well…”

“You needn’t worry about any repercussions. If an officer were to retaliate in any way against a citizen who files a complaint…”

“It’s not that. It’s just that I don’t have my Beemer back yet. And you guys aren’t even looking for it.”

Hart cleared his throat. “I can come to you with the complaint form, Mr. Elway.”

“Fine. But what about my stolen car?”

“I’ll have an officer dispatched right away.”

“Good.”

“Thanks for calling, Mr. Elway,” Hart said. “It’s citizens like you that make this department a better one.”

“I just want my car back,” Elway said. “But what’s going to happen to those two clowns you guys sent up here?”

“They’ll be dealt with,” Hart assured him.

“I hope so. Guys like that shouldn’t be cops.”

“I agree.”

Elway hung up without a word.

Hart replaced the receiver. He finished scratching out the nature of the complaint on his notepad. He’d transfer it later to an official form, but he liked to get it all down while the call was still fresh.

O’Sullivan and Battaglia. A couple of hot-shot, graveyard jokers. He used to come across the two of them as they were getting off of graveyard shift and he was coming on day shift, back when he was the lieutenant for day shift patrol. He still recalled the arrogant, condescending looks they’d cast toward him as they bit off the words, “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

Well, he had them cold now. From Tad Elway’s statement, they’d get charged for Officer Demeanor and Inadequate Response. The demeanor charge was iffy on O’Sullivan, but when Battaglia cursed and was directly rude to Elway, that sealed things. While that charge might only result in a written reprimand, the inadequate response had some teeth. A citizen reported a stolen vehicle and officers failed to take a report. That was serious. There might even be a suspension on the horizon for both officers.

Hart smiled. He wondered how funny those two jokers — no, Elway had called them ‘clowns’ and he liked that better. He wondered how funny those two clowns thought a suspension would be.

When he’d finished making his notes, he fired up his computer. He typed in his password — INTEGRITY, something a lot of River City officers could improve upon — and opened a new, official complaint form.

He assigned a case number. When the previous investigators ran IA, they investigated about fifty complaints a year. Most, even Hart had to admit, were frivolous. But he felt that those investigators had been lazy. Either that, or they were overly sympathetic to the officers.

Hart didn’t have that problem. It was only April, and he’d investigated fifty-three already.

Correction, he thought as he typed in the narrative of Tad Elway’s complaint.

Fifty-four.

His phone rang.

He snatched the receiver off the hook eagerly. “River City Police Internal Affairs. Lieutenant Hart speaking.”

“Is this where I’m supposed to call to complain about an officer’s driving?”

Hart nodded, even though the caller couldn’t see him. “Yes, it is.”

“Good. Because this guy was flying. And he wasn’t even using his siren.”

“Really?” Hart raised his eyebrows. If that were true, that was a clear policy violation. Another slam-dunk complaint.

“Yeah. And if you ask me, that’s bullshit.”

“When was this, sir?”

“Last night,” the caller said. “Look, I’ve been in trouble before and I’ve been hassled by the police. So if I have to obey the law, then so does he.”

“That’s true.” Hart agreed. He often felt that police officers believed themselves to be above the law.

“And if it was such an emergency, why didn’t he turn on his siren. Or at least his lights?”

“I don’t know,” Hart answered. “But I’ll find out.”

“Good.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Marty Heath.”

“And did you get a car number on the patrol vehicle you saw speeding last night, Mr. Heath?”

“Oh, I did more than that,” Heath gloated. “I’ve got pictures.”

Hart smiled.

Pictures? Well, that was like Christmas.

0903 hours

“What do you think, Ray?”

Ray Browning leaned back in his chair and stroked his goatee. “Well, I think you’ve definitely got a serial. The M.O., the ‘whammo’ thing…”

Tower nodded. “I agree.”

“I’m worried, too,” Browning said. “For a guy to strike twice in two days? That’s uncommon, especially early on. Usually there’s a longer break, at least until the subject is further along in his series.”

“Sure,” Tower said. “After he’s been doing it for a while, the thrill wears off sooner each time.”

“Right. So either he hasn’t hit for a while…or he didn’t use the catchphrase…” Browning shook his head. “I don’t know. But it worries me.”

“You’re worried he’s going to escalate?”

Browning nodded. “Yeah, I am a little bit. He’s already become more violent in the second rape than the first. But that doesn’t surprise me as much as the quick turnaround.”

“Maybe it’s been building up for a while,” Tower suggested.

Browning shrugged.

“Maybe he just got out of prison?”

“Could be.”

“I’ll have Renee check that.”

“You should check Maureen Hite’s relatives and associates, too,” Browning said. “The subject said that he knew her. That might just be a threat. But then again, he just might.”

“I’ll see if there are any links between Hite and the first rape, Reno.”

“Renee can help you with that, too.”

“Okay.”

“And you’re going to canvass, right?”

“In just a little bit, yeah.”

“Good.” Browning rubbed his eyes. “Beyond that? I guess you could hope something comes up on the lab results.”

“I don’t put a lot of faith in that.”

“Why not?”

“I think the guy used a condom. And the victims didn’t get much of a chance to fight back, so I don’t think the fingernail scrapings are going to be any help, either.”

“That’s troublesome,” Browning said.

“What?”

“The condom.”

Tower nodded. “I know. It means we’ve got a thinking rapist.”

“One who plans ahead,” Browning said.

“Who isn’t leaving behind DNA.”

“And who appears to be getting more violent,” Browning added.

“And,” Tower finished, “to top it off, no one has seen the guy’s face.”

“Something set him off.” Browning said, nodding in agreement. “Don’t forget about that.”

Tower sighed. “It’s a bitch of a case, Ray.”

“Just keep working it. Something will break.”

1104 hours

The camera equipment bathed Shawna Matheson in a bright wash of light. She held her microphone below her chin and stared into the lens. At this close range, she could see her perfectly coiffed hair and heavy television makeup reflecting back at her in the thick glass. Above the lens, the red light was dim.

Her camera man, an idiot named Ike, held up his hand. “Five, four, three,” he said, dropping his fingers as he counted. Shawna was frankly surprised the troglodyte could count.

At ‘two,’ he went silent. The red light came on.

She affected a solemn expression.

On ‘one,’ he pointed at her.

“Good afternoon,” Shawna said in her perfectly drilled television voice. “I’m Shawna Matheson, here at the River City Public Safety Building with breaking news. Earlier this morning, Lieutenant Crawford of the Major Crimes unit confirmed that police are investigating a potential serial rapist.”

She paused a half beat, letting the gravity of her words sink in.

“Police are not releasing many details at this point and the investigation is continuing, but here’s what we know so far. Two women have been assaulted in the past two days. One was assaulted while jogging, the other while out for a walk. Both attacks occurred near city parks.”

Shawna continued, though she knew the techies back at the station were likely throwing up a graphic on the screen instead of showing her. “The first assault occurred near Clemons Park, in the north central section of the city. The second occurred at Friendship Park, which is on the far north part of town. I spoke to Lieutenant Crawford about these assaults, and this is what he had to say.”

Shawna paused. The red light went dim.

“We’re on cutaway,” Ike told her.

No kidding, she thought to herself.

She replayed the interview with the bombastic Crawford in her mind. The man was egotistical and always sparse with information, but she had learned how to flirt with him just subtly enough to get something good out of him. Although his statement contained stock police responses about ongoing investigations and safety tips, she’d managed to get something from him off camera that she thought was singularly wonderful.

When she asked him if the rapist was being called by any nicknames, he’d scoffed at her.

“What, like the Park Rapist or something?”

“Something like that,” Shawna had answered, though she was looking for something not quite so banal. “Does he have any peculiarities?” She’d given Crawford that slight smile she’d perfected over time-the one that said she was flirting but no one else could tell except him.

Crawford had cleared his throat, looking just a little off-balance from her tactics. “Nothing I can share at this time,” he’d answered her.

“Nothing?”

Crawford had shrugged. “What can I tell you? There are some things we have to keep back. I mean, what do you want? That the guy has only raped on rainy days?”

After that, Shawna had only smiled and thanked him.

“Coming back in five, four, three,” Ike said, walking through his countdown with her again.

Shawna opened and closed her mouth, stretching her jaw.

At ‘two,’ the red light kicked on.

Shawna put on her solemn face.

At ‘one,’ Ike fired his pointer finger at her.

“Police are cautioning women to travel in pairs or small groups and to be aware of their surroundings,” she said, leading up to her big finish. “Although they are not certain if and when he’ll strike again, there is one thing that people may be able to watch for. In both instances, the rapist attacked women on rainy days, thus earning him the nickname, ‘the Rainy Day Rapist.’”

She paused a full beat.

“For Channel 5 Action News,” she finished gravely, “I’m Shawna Matheson.”

She held her pose until the red light went dim.

“And we’re out,” Ike told her.

Shawna let herself smile. This was good. In fact, it might just be enough to be her ticket out of River City and to a larger, more important market. Seattle or Denver, perhaps. Or maybe somewhere in California.

After all, it wasn’t every day you got to name a serial rapist.

1248 hours

The rain came back just before noon. It fell in light sheets while Detective Tower and Officers Ridgeway and Giovanni canvassed the neighborhood around the second rape. In the hour they knocked on doors, neither officer found anyone who had seen anything. Wet and discouraged, the officers stood near the light post they had agreed upon as a rally point.

Ridgeway glanced up at the gray sky and felt the drizzle on his face.

“This rain sucks,” Gio said, standing beside him and shaking the water from his jacket.

“I like it,” Ridgeway said.

“That figures,” Gio muttered back.

Ridgeway shrugged. “A brave man likes the feel of rain on his face.”

Gio smirked. “And a wise man has the sense to get out of the rain.”

Ridgeway flashed Gio an uncharacteristic grin. “Saw that movie, huh?”

Gio nodded. “Kurt Russell was great.”

Ridgeway glanced back up into the sky. “Still, I like the rain.”

Gio didn’t answer. While he waited, he found himself wondering if his date last night with Mallory would be his last. She’d started using little code phrases that he’d come to recognize as attachment words. It might be time to jet.

Detective Tower strode toward them, his sport coat drenched. As he drew close, Ridgeway saw that the detective’s hair was matted against his head.

“Any luck?” Tower asked them.

Both officers shook their heads.

Tower muttered a curse. “Well, hopefully someone that wasn’t home right now saw something and will call it in. I left my card in about ten doors.”

“Most witnesses don’t even know when they see something,” Gio said. “I doubt anyone will call.”

Tower shot him a scowl. “Don’t mess with my mojo.”

“It’s true,” Gio said. “And on top of that, most witnesses who think they saw something important didn’t see a thing at all or what they saw really doesn’t matter for much.”

Tower looked at Ridgeway. “What is this, Instruct The Detective Day?”

Ridgeway shrugged. “Not like you dicks don’t need it, right?”

“Ha, ha.” Tower hunched his shoulders and looked up. “I hate the rain.”

“I kinda like it,” Ridgeway said.

Tower looked at him flatly. “That figures.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tower snorted. “Gee, I don’t know. I’m only a detective.” He thumbed toward Gio. “Why don’t you ask Casanova over here?”

“Let’s just hope it stops soon,” Gio said. “Because I’m sick of it already.”

“It messes up your perfect gigolo hair, Giovanni?” Tower asked.

Gio reached up and touched his wet mop. “Nah. Let’s just hope the wet look is in.” He glanced over at Ridgeway. “It doesn’t work for you, though, Mark.”

Ridgeway shrugged. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t make your boy go out and rape again, huh, Tower?”

Tower’s eyes narrowed. “My boy?”

“This rapist.”

“Oh.” Tower eyed him suspiciously. “Why would the rain make him do this again? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ridgeway glanced at Gio, who laughed.

“You don’t listen to the news?” Gio asked Tower.

Tower shook his head. “Not if I can help it. Why?”

“They’re calling this guy the Rainy Day Rapist.”

“Who they?”

“The media. All of them.”

Tower stared at him for a long moment, then dropped his eyes. “Fuck,” he muttered. After another moment, he lifted his jacket upward and gave it a shake. “Let’s get out of here.”

The three men turned and made their way toward the street where Tower’s unmarked detective’s vehicle sat behind the officers’ marked cruiser. On the way, Ridgeway could hear Tower muttering but couldn’t make out the words. Once at his car, the detective got in without so much as a thank you and pulled away.

“What’s up with that?” Ridgeway complained. “We just walked around in the rain for an hour knocking on doors and he can’t even say thanks?”

“He’s probably under the gun over this. I imagine Crawford is all over him.” Gio opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat.

Ridgeway slid into the passenger seat. “I’m sure it helped that you brought up the Rainy Day Rapist thing.”

“I didn’t bring it up.” Gio fired up the engine. “The media brought it up. I just passed it on.”

“Whatever,” Ridgeway said. Although he knew Gio was right. “My guess is that it was that fluff head from Channel Five.”

“Shawna Matheson?” Gio dropped the car into gear. “She’s hot.”

“She’s an idiot,” Ridgeway answered, but he knew it didn’t matter which of the newscasters actually said something first. Once one of them has it, they were all like a bunch of parakeets anyway, with no sign of an original thought.

Gio turned onto Lincoln Road. “Whatever pressure he’s under now, it’s nothing like what he’ll be facing now that the media is hyping this story.”

Ridgeway didn’t answer, but he knew Gio was right.

1301 hours

He cruised through the East Sprague corridor, eyeing the prostitutes that posed in the doorways. None so far had been willing to venture out from protective cover when he slowed down to examine them. The drizzle of cold rain kept them huddled like drowned cats in the doorways, staring bleakly out at him.

He decided it was too much work today. Perhaps he could save it up and spring it on some other bitch later tonight or tomorrow.

He reached for the car radio, turning to the news station for the top of the hour coverage.

“Police continue to search for clues,” the polished male newsman’s voice intoned, “in the brutal rape of a woman on River City’s north side last night. This is the second such rape by the man now dubbed The Rainy Day Rapist.”

His jaw dropped.

The Rainy Day Rapist?

He shook his head in disbelief.

How could they call him that? It was a stupid name. It made him sound like some wimp in a musical or something. There was nothing powerful about a name like that.

He pulled into a convenience store parking lot, where he stopped the car and took a deep breath. He knew that part of what he was doing was compulsion. He couldn’t stop it, even if he wanted to. He’d read about it in college, at least in the couple courses he managed to take at the community college. He understood the concept intellectually. But it was a different story when it became a reality. When the urge to dominate came over him. When these bitches need him to put the whammo down -

He stopped. What good had it done him, though? To end up with a name like this?

He gripped the steering wheel and took stock of his career. He’d raped three women already, not counting whores. Well, okay, maybe the first one didn’t count, either, since he didn’t exactly seal the deal. And the cops must not be counting it, since the media didn’t report it. Or maybe the stupid bitch didn’t even call the cops. But number two and three called the cops. They definitely counted. And the last one got the whammo good. She figured out exactly what kind of man she was dealing with.

And yet, when his crimes finally go public, they saddle him with a ridiculous nickname like this? What level of respect was that?

He wondered if he should respond. There was a payphone across the parking lot. He could call in and muffle his voice. Or better yet, maybe he should send a letter into the newspaper, like the Zodiac Killer.

That thought stopped him cold.

The Zodiac…Killer.

No one ever called a killer by some stupid name. They respected a killer because they feared him. Only women feared a rapist. Everyone feared a killer.

A sudden calm washed over him. He realized he had found his answer.

His purpose.

His destiny.

1317 hours

Tower shook the rain off his jacket as soon as he entered the police station. Without pause, he made his way straight toward the Crime Analysis unit. He intentionally chose his route to avoid the door to the Major Crimes bullpen, just in case Lieutenant Crawford was watching out for him.

“Hey, girl,” Tower said as he stepped through the door to the cramped Crime Analysis office.

Renee looked up from a stack of reports with bleary eyes. “Hey back,” she said. “Did you find anything on your canvass?”

Tower shook his head. “Nada. I need your help.”

Renee yawned and rubbed her eyes. “All right,” she murmured.

“Don’t get too excited,” Tower said.

“I won’t,” she assured him.

“Am I pulling you off something big?”

Renee shrugged. “Just trying to figure out this Rainy Day Rapist.”

Tower frowned. “That’s a stupid name. Where’d it come from?”

“I don’t know. If I had to guess, I’d say good old Channel Five.” Renee stood and walked to the nearby coffee pot. She filled her cup and held the pot out toward Tower, offering.

Tower considered, then shook his head. “Naw, I’m coffeed out.”

“Suit yourself.” Renee shuffled back to her seat and sat down lightly. She curled her legs to one side in the giant, black chair and sipped from her cup.

Tower let his head dropped forward toward her expectantly. “So?”

Renee acted surprised. “Oh, you want a report?”

Tower cast a baleful look at her.

Renee cocked an eyebrow back. “Careful, cowboy. You throw around looks like that and you will find yourself in a shootout.”

“I can take you,” Tower said.

“Not with that shoulder rig, you won’t.”

“Newsflash,” Tower said to her. “You don’t even carry a gun.”

Renee smiled mysteriously. “Not that you can see.”

Tower held up both palms. “I surrender.”

“Wise move.” Renee returned to her coffee, sipping and staring at the wall.

Tower waited patiently. Renee was, in his estimation, an odd duck at times. He wasn’t sure how the neurons in her brain fired exactly, but he was usually pleased with the result. All it seemed to take was some banter and a little patience.

“I don’t think it’s about rain for him,” Renee told him.

“How’s that again?”

“The Rainy Day Rapist,” Renee said. “I don’t think it fits. I think the rain is a coincidence.”

Tower shrugged. “Okay.”

“Though,” she added, “now that he has this name in the media, that may just change.”

“May?”

“Yes. It may. Then again, it may not. You never know, at least until there’s a more detailed profile of the suspect. And that’s something we really don’t have just yet.”

“That’s helpful,” Tower said. “Thank you, Nostradamus.”

Renee cocked her eyebrow again. “I’m just letting you know what I think. That’s because there isn’t much for me to say that I know.”

Tower walked wordlessly to the coffee pot. He grabbed a small white Styrofoam cup and filled it halfway.

“I thought you were coffeed out,” Renee said.

Tower turned back to her and did his best to cock an eyebrow. “I’m getting the feeling I’m going to need it.”

Renee chuckled. “Touche.”

Tower stepped over to her desk. “You’ve read the reports?”

Renee nodded. “MacLeod’s was especially good.”

“She’s a good troop.”

“She covered everything you could ask for. The one before that — Giovanni, I think — was pretty solid, too. That’s the good news.” Renee sipped her coffee and continued. “The bad news is that when I run his M.O. as a distinct, specific M.O., I get no hits.”

“So run the basic M.O. Blitz attack, and so forth.”

“That’s too general. I get a phone book of rapists.”

Tower sighed. “Same as the first rape, then.”

“Exactly. There’s really no difference in the M.O., other than the location. Even that’s similar.” Renee held up one hand, then the other. “Park, park.”

“Yeah,” Tower agreed. He sipped his coffee thoughtfully, then said, “Odds are it’s one of those guys that popped up when you got the phone book.”

“Maybe,” she conceded. “I’m running all of them to see who’s incarcerated, who’s out of state and who’s still a possible suspect. The problem is that while we have a distinct M.O. in both cases, the victims don’t really provide much information. Neither one saw him. He didn’t say much.”

“He said ‘whammo.’”

“Yes, he did.”

“That’s pretty unique.”

“Too unique.” Renee leaned forward and fished a computer printout from the stack of paperwork on her desk. “I ran that term through our system. I came up with zero exact hits. Here’s a list of close matches.”

Tower took the paper from her hand and scanned the list. There were seventeen entries.

“Most of those,” Renee explained, “aren’t used in anywhere near the same context.”

“Context how?”

Renee lifted a finger. “Not the same type of crime, for starters. There wasn’t a single use of anything similar to ‘whammo’ in any rapes. Same story with any assault by a male subject on a female victim. Also, even in the instances where some form of the phrase pops up in a couple of male-on-male assaults, the usage is completely different.”

“How different?” Tower asked.

Renee s closed her eyes for a moment. Then she said, “I think one guy said something about getting blindsided in a fight. He said that he was dealing with one issue and then wham! He was hit from behind.”

“That’s not even close.”

“Nope. My point exactly.”

Tower waved his Styrofoam cup at the computer. “I figured you could do better with all this.”

Renee sighed. “I’ve told you this before, John. It is better. We may have come up empty on the search, but we came up empty that much sooner.”

“Oh, great,” Tower said. “Because I hate to wait for disappointment.”

“Don’t be sarcastic,” Renee said calmly. “It doesn’t solve anything.”

“It isn’t supposed to,” Tower grumbled.

Renee reached into her stack of papers and removed a yellow sheet of legal paper. She extended it toward Tower. “Take a look at this.”

Tower reached out and took the paper. “What is it?”

“Questions.”

“I’ve already got plenty of those.”

“Still.”

Tower looked down at the legal sheet. Renee’s measured writing stood out against the yellow paper. She’d written three questions.

Why does he rape?

Who does he hate?

Is he evolving?

Tower looked up at her. “Are you serious?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because,” Tower answered, “how in the hell am I supposed to know the answer to these questions?”

“That’s the point.”

Tower stared at Renee. She stared calmly back. Tower took a sip of coffee and considered her words. After a full thirty seconds had passed, he shrugged, “You win. Explain this to me before my head explodes.”

Renee smiled graciously. “Your head won’t explode.”

“I can feel it pulsing already.”

Renee waved his words away. “Look, John. You’re a detective. You follow the clues, right?”

“Sure.”

“But in this case, you don’t have any witnesses. Not even the victims are truly witnesses to anything other than some bare facts.”

“Yeah.”

“Forensics hasn’t come through at all.”

“No. I think he was wearing a condom.”

Renee nodded. “And probably gloves and a hat.”

“Probably.”

“So the conventional clues are a dead-end.”

“So far, yeah.”

“Then it’s time to get unconventional.”

“Unconventional? How?”

Renee pointed at the paper in Tower’s hands. “You ask yourself those questions. You try to answer them.”

“With the puny evidence we have?”

Renee shrugged. “With the evidence. And with your own mind.”

Tower rolled his eyes. “You want me to profile him. Like those FBI guys.”

“Not exactly.”

“That’s exactly what it sounds like,” Tower said. “And that shit is just theory and voodoo.”

Renee stared at him with a flat expression, saying nothing.

After a minute, Tower began to squirm. “What?”

She shook her head slightly at him. “John, I don’t appreciate the attitude. I’m trying to help you here.”

“I realize that. But-”

“There is no but,” Renee cut him off. “And on top of that, I’m not asking you to dance with bloody chickens or something. I’m asking you to perform a little bit of a Victimology exercise, that’s all. Major Crimes does it all the time in homicide cases.”

Tower snorted. “Sure, in homicide it makes sense. Most people are killed by someone who knows them. But they can’t tell the detective who killed them. So if you get to know the victim, you have a better shot at figuring out who the killer is.”

“This is no different,” Renee insisted.

“A rape victim is different than a homicide victim. She’s still alive. If she knows her attacker, she can name him. This is a stranger rape. It is very different.”

“No, it’s not. You’re just looking at the suspect instead of the victim.”

“An unknown suspect,” Tower corrected.

“That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Tower said, frustrated. “That is the point. With a known homicide victim, you can try to fill in gaps about her.” He tapped the notepad Renee had written on. “But I don’t know who this guy is, so there’s no way I can answer these questions.”

“You have to use your imagination,” Renee said, her face tightening into a scowl.

“Two things, Renee.” Tower held up one finger. “One, I can’t present my imagination as evidence in court.”

“I know that,” Renee answered quietly. “I’m not suggesting — ”

“And two,” Tower raised his voice to override hers. “Just run the list of suspects that match the basic M.O. and let me know who is still a viable suspect. I’ll run down each lead.”

“I’m not against the shoe leather approach,” Renee said, “but if you want to get an edge on this guy — ”

“Sounds like you and Crawford both like the same method,” Tower interrupted. He drank the last of his coffee and crumpled the small cup. “Just get me the names, Renee.”

Renee’s eyes narrowed. “Fine.”

Tower tossed the crumpled Styrofoam into the trash. Then he set the yellow paper on her desk next to her. “And if I want any voodoo, I’ll call the F.B.I.”

Renee didn’t answer.

Tower left the room without a word.

1900 hours

“Do you have any objection to this interview being taped, Officer Chisolm?”

Chisolm shook his head coldly.

“Can you verbalize that response, please?” Lieutenant Hart asked.

Chisolm waited a full fifteen seconds before enunciating clearly, “No, sir, Lieutenant. I have no objection to this interview being recorded on audio tape.”

Hart pursed his lips in irritation at Chisolm’s mock politeness. The reaction warmed the veteran officer’s heart. Then Hart continued, “And would you like to have Union representation present?”

“Do I need my Union rep?”

“That’s your decision, Officer. I can’t advise you either way.”

“Am I accused of something or am I a witness?”

Hart smiled coolly. “You are the accused.”

Chisolm nodded his understanding. “And who is the investigator?”

“I am,” Hart replied.

Chisolm allowed a slow, confident smile to spread across his face. “I don’t think I’ll need any Union representation here tonight,” he said.

Hart didn’t seem to know whether to scowl at the inference Chisolm was making or revel in the even playing field. Both reactions flashed on his face before he appeared to settle for assuming a neutral expression. “That’s fine,” he said officiously. “Then we’ll get right to business.”

“Let’s,” Chisolm said stiffly, folding his hands in front of him.

Hart was staring down at his notes and didn’t notice. “What is your current assignment, Officer?”

“Patrol.”

“Were you working last night?”

“I was.”

“Did you respond to assist Officer MacLeod on a call?”

“Probably more than one,” Chisolm replied evenly.

“This would have been at 2325 hours.”

“That’s a very precise time.”

Hart looked up. “It is, Officer. Do you recall responding to assist Officer MacLeod at that time?”

“No,” said Chisolm. “Why don’t you refresh my memory?”

“It was at Northgate.”

Chisolm raised his eyebrows in recognition. “Ah. Then yes.”

“You remember now?”

“Yes.”

“Did you respond Code-3?”

“We don’t tend to call it Code-3 anymore, Lieutenant.”

“What?”

“Lights and siren?” Chisolm answered. “We don’t usually call it Code-3 anymore. We’re moving to plain language on the radio. We just say ‘responding code’ now.”

“Well-”

“That’s probably changed since they moved you out of patrol,” Chisolm added.

“What?” Hart’s jaw clenched. He glared at Chisolm.

The veteran officer kept his face impassive, despite the howling laughter he felt inside. “I’m just letting you know. I think it’s a recent change.”

“Fine,” Hart said, biting off the word. “Thank you. Now-”

“Since you were moved out of patrol, I mean,” Chisolm said.

Hart stopped and stared daggers at Chisolm. Chisolm maintained a calm exterior.

You got nothing, Hart, he thought. And you never will.

Hart cleared his throat. “Did you have on your lights and siren, Officer?”

“No, Lieutenant, I did not.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t need to.”

“Why not?”

“Traffic was light to non-existent. I was able to respond safely without activating my emergency equipment.”

“So you sped.”

Chisolm shrugged. “I don’t know. I responded quickly and effectively, though.”

“What if I told you that a citizen saw you driving recklessly?”

“I wasn’t driving recklessly.”

Hart ignored him. “What if this citizen paced you at almost fifty miles an hour?”

“What if worms had.45s?”

“Huh?” Hart cocked his head at Chisolm.

“I said, what if worms had.45s?” Chisolm allowed himself a slight grin.

Hart shook his head slowly in confusion.

“Well,” Chisolm said, “if worms had.45s, then birds wouldn’t fuck with them.”

The blood left Hart’s face. Chisolm had seen this before. It usually presaged an outburst. He waited patiently for the storm to hit.

But the lieutenant seemed to bite back whatever had been rising up inside of him. Instead, he said in clipped tones, “That’s very unprofessional, Officer. And it doesn’t answer my question.”

Chisolm considered. “Well, if what the citizen said is true, then I’d say he was driving recklessly to keep up with me.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I’d say it’s pretty important, since he had no reason whatsoever to be speeding. If I was speeding, it was to assist an officer. What’s his excuse?”

Hart shook his head. “No. He’s the citizen. We serve the citizenry. You don’t get to question him. He was monitoring your poor behavior.”

Chisolm snorted. “Did you bother to look up the call that MacLeod was on?”

“Of course I did.”

“It was a rape,” Chisolm said, ignoring him. “And the second one that was stranger-to-stranger this week.”

“So?”

“So?” Chisolm’s eyes flew open. “So I figured that I was best serving the public to get to the call quickly.”

“Without using your lights,” Hart stated.

“There was no need.”

“And speeding.”

Chisolm shrugged. “If you say so.”

“I don’t say so,” Hart said. “A citizen is saying so. Someone who pays our wages, Officer Chisolm.”

Chisolm nodded slowly. “I see. And who is this stand-up citizen?”

“That’s not important.”

“I think it’s important.”

“What you think isn’t-”

“I have a right to know who my accuser is,” Chisolm insisted. “In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s policy.”

Hart paused, then shrugged. “Fine. But understand that any retaliation on your part will be actionable.”

Chisolm held up his hands, palms up.

“Just so we’re clear, then,” Hart said. He turned a page in his notes. “The complainant’s name is Marty Heath.”

Chisolm sat still for a moment, then his jaw dropped. “Marty Heath?”

Hart nodded.

“The same Marty Heath that lives in the apartments off of Euclid?”

Hart glanced down at this notes. “Yes. How did you know that?”

Chisolm shook his head in disgust. “He’s a child molester. I served registration papers on him about six months ago.”

Hart stared back at Chisolm, disbelieving.

“He raped a little girl in his basement after he kidnapped her,” Chisolm said.

“Raped?” Hart asked, his voice faltering.

“Yeah,” Chisolm snarled. “He snatched her and raped her. Then he went to prison. Now he lives just a few feet beyond the legal distance he is required to be away from an elementary school.”

“I didn’t-”

“You didn’t check his record?”

Hart held up the snapshots of Chisolm’s vehicle. “He had pictures. He said-”

“He’s a scumbag rapist piece of shit,” Chisolm said.

“Officer, that’s not-”

“We’re done here,” Chisolm said, standing up. “If you want to rip me for supposedly speeding based on the word of this lowlife, go for it.”

Hart swallowed, unable to reply.

Chisolm turned and stalked from the room.

What an asshole, he thought. That thought was quickly followed by, Seems like old times.

Chisolm smiled slightly as he left the Internal Affairs office.

2043 hours

“You want a beer, hon?”

Tower looked up from his hands. Stephanie stood at the glass slider door with a pair of Kokanee bottles in her hand.

“Sure,” he said.

She stepped outside onto the small patio and slid the door closed. When she settled into the chair next to him, she proffered one of the beers. He took it wordlessly.

The two sat in silence for several minutes. Tower sipped his beer and listened as Stephanie sipped hers. After a while, he became aware of her shivering, despite wearing his bulky sweater.

“You can go inside,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shivering.”

“It’s the beer, that’s all.”

“Steph, you’re cold. Go inside.”

“I want to sit with you.”

Tower glanced over. “It’s okay. You can go inside.”

Stephanie responded by pulling the large sweater close to her and drawing her knees to her chest. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Stephanie sighed. “You’re such a guy, John.”

“Should I say thank you?”

“If you had a hole in your chest, you’d deny it was bleeding.”

“Only if it wasn’t.”

“It is,” Stephanie said. “Now what’s the matter?”

Tower shrugged. “Just work.”

“I figured that. What specifically?”

It was Tower’s turn to sigh. “I caught a couple of rapes.”

“That’s your job, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“So what’s the big deal-wait! Do you mean that one on the news? The Rainy Rapist or whatever?”

Tower nodded glumly. “That’s the one.”

“Oh, John,” Stephanie said. “That’s scary. Some strange guy out there raping women? It makes every woman worry.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

“Are you going to catch him soon?”

“I’m trying.”

“Are you close?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Jesus!” Tower stood suddenly and drained the beer. He fixed Stephanie with a tight, cold smile. “Well, I’m fucking trying, all right?”

He strode to the sliding door and flung it open. Once inside, he didn’t know where to go, so he stalked into the kitchen and then stomped down the hall to the bedroom. The stalking and the stomping didn’t make him feel any better, so he slammed the door.

The slamming felt good. He took a few deep breaths.

What the hell?

The thought floated through his mind as he stood next to the bed. His pulse pounded in his neck. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared down at his feet. Why was he so stressed? He’d had tough cases before. Hell, the Dugger case last year had been a huge burden. Missing child? That brought some serious pressure. So why was this getting to him?

He knew the answer, of course. This one was all his. No partner. And the guy was still out there, planning his next attack. That is, if he planned. Either way, he was a ticking time bomb. And all he could do at this point was sit and wait for that bomb to go off.

Tower took another deep breath through his nose and let it out slowly through his mouth.

Relax.

Nothing more you can do tonight.

He took another breath.

I want to catch this son of a bitch.

Another breath.

Stephanie didn’t deserve that outburst, he realized. For that matter, neither did Renee earlier in the day. Both of them were trying to help him. He shouldn’t have treated them so poorly.

He drifted into the facts of the case again. He ran through the facts that he did know, the precious few things he could say he knew for sure. What did they reveal? Nothing of value. So what were his options? He could wear out shoe leather, a la Crawford. Or he could hope that Renee got lucky with her computer searches. But if one of those approaches didn’t yield some results quickly, he knew his next step was going to be to simply wait for this guy to strike again.

Great police work, John.

He drove his fist into his palm. He hated this feeling of impotence that coursed through him. There had to be something he could do.

Renee’s words came back to him. She wanted him to use his imagination. That meant trying to climb inside the mind of this sick fuck. He didn’t relish the prospect of doing that. Still, maybe she had a point.

The sound of the door opening caused him to look up. Stephanie stood in the doorway. Her eyes were wet with tears, but her mouth formed a tight, angry line.

“John, I know you’re under stress, but — ”

He stood and stepped toward her.

“-there’s no reason for you to take it out on me.”

He reached out to her and pulled her into his arms. “You’re right, Steph. I’m sorry.”

“I was only trying to help,” she said, her voice dissolving into a squeak. He felt her shoulders hitch.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Stephanie cried into his chest.

They stood in the bedroom, finding each other in the silence.