Beneath a Weeping Sky

EIGHT

Thursday, April 18th

0917 hours

Day Shift

Tower stood in the doorway of the crime analysis unit with a package of Hostess donuts in his hands. He waited until Renee looked up from her desk and spotted him there. Her expression remained momentarily angry. He raised the box of donuts and affected a contrite expression.

Renee’s features softened slightly. She waved him into the office.

Tower grinned.

“Don’t smile at me, John,” she said. “The donuts get you in the door, but not off my shit list.”

Tower’s grin widened.

“I mean it, John.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just talk to me like I’m some idiot or something.”

“I know.” He held out the donuts. “Peace?”

Renee stared at him, as if gauging his sincerity. After a moment, she accepted the box from him. Then she held out her empty coffee mug. The words on the side read, Given enough coffee, I could rule the world.

“Coffee’s over there,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Tower said lightly, snapping a salute.

Renee raised a single eyebrow. “You might want to lay off the smart alec shtick for a little while. I still haven’t decided if I forgive you.”

Tower held up his empty hand in an open palm, mea culpa gesture and moved across the room. He filled her cup with the rich brew, along with a Styrofoam cup for himself.

“You could’ve brought flowers,” Renee said.

“Oh, yeah. That wouldn’t start rumors.”

“What’d I say about the smart alec thing?”

Tower brought her the cup of coffee he’d poured. “That was sarcasm. It’s different.”

“It’s close enough.”

Tower shrugged. “Probably. Anyway, you can’t eat flowers. You can eat donuts.”

Renee didn’t answer. She eyed the box, then cracked the lid. “One won’t hurt.”

Tower suppressed a laugh. If Renee wanted to eat twenty donuts, she probably could do so without gaining an ounce. She remained slender, despite spending her days behind a desk in a small office filled with snack food. It didn’t bother Tower, but he was pretty sure every woman in the department hated her for exactly that reason.

Renee bit into the donut and chewed slowly. Then she sipped her coffee. “You should’ve gone to the bakery,” she said. “You got these at a convenience store, didn’t you?”

“No,” Tower lied.

Renee turned the box and read the code from the label. “The Circle K, huh?”

“How’d you know that?”

Renee smiled humorlessly. “I know everything. It’s my job.”

Tower shrugged. “Can’t argue that. But a donut is a donut.”

Renee lowered the box. Her eyebrow arched again. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

She raised the half-eaten donut in the air. “This is barely a donut. Real donuts are things you buy at the bakery.” She raised her cup. “A real donut complements real coffee.” She lowered the cup. “You know, I’m only eating this because you’re trying to make up. Otherwise, I’d put them out for visitors.”

“I know.”

Renee took a bite and held the box out toward him.

Tower waved off her offer. “Can’t feed the stereotype.”

Renee swallowed. “But I can?”

“You’re not the police. You only work for the police.”

“The public doesn’t know the difference,” she said.

“True,” Tower agreed. “But the public is mostly ignorant.”

“I’ve developed a theory about that, by the way,” she said, breaking off another piece of donut and tossing it in her mouth.

“About what? Why the public is ignorant?”

“Uh-uh.” She chewed and swallowed and gave it another coffee chaser. “About cops and donuts. How the stereotype started.”

Tower raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

She gave him a slight smile and took the last bite of her donut, making him wait. When she’d finished chewing and tossing back another shot of coffee, she went on. “It’s simple, really. People forget that we haven’t always been this twenty-four hours, seven days a week society. The pace of life wasn’t always this fast. Take 7-11 stores for instance. Do you know where the name came from?”

Tower did, but he shook his head no. He didn’t want to interrupt her.

“Those were the store’s business hours. Seven in the morning until eleven at night. What was so novel about that, you ask? Well, everyone else except bars and taverns were strictly nine to five. Maybe eight to six. It was a big deal to be able to run to the store for milk at ten-thirty at night when the Safeway was closed.”

She took another pull of coffee and waved her hand. “Of course, now there are tons of businesses open twenty-four hours a day. Not just convenience stores, but gas stations, restaurants and grocery stores. Everybody has twenty-four hour service.”

“Not banks,” Tower said.

“Not so. ATMs.” She shook her head. “No, John, we’ve seen a very radical shift in the last half-century. The era of convenience is firmly entrenched in our social structure.”

“So cops eat donuts because it’s convenient?”

She took another sip and rolled her eyes at him. “Are you purposefully being obtuse?”

“Yes. But it’s not much of a stretch for me.”

“I don’t doubt it. Do you want to hear my theory or not?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She leaned forward. “Back in the times before 7-11, when everyone closed down at a reasonable hour and went home, we still had cops out on the beat, right? Graveyard shift had to be unbearably long. By two or three in the morning, I’ll bet you that the officers out there thought they were the last people alive on earth. They’d welcome human contact. They’d be looking for it. So who was open at that time of night?”

“Bars?”

“Yeah, all right, until two in the morning. If it were a weekend. But how long would a bartender want to stay after a long night? Not long. He’d be wanting to tally up the receipts and get home to bed. By two-thirty, even the bars were dark back then. But who comes to work about three, three-thirty in the morning?”

Tower shrugged.

She smiled. “The baker. The baker comes to work early and starts baking. He throws on a pot of coffee for himself and for his friend, the local cop. The cop swings by, has some fresh coffee, some conversation and a donut. The sugar and caffeine give him a boost through to the end of his shift. The baker doesn’t have to worry about getting robbed when he opens his shop. Both parties benefit from the arrangement.”

“No doubt.”

Renee leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “And that, detective, is how I believe the cop and the donut stereotype came to be.”

Tower set down his Styrofoam cup on her desk and clapped. “Brilliant. And all these years, I just thought it was because donuts tasted good.”

“That’s why you’re a detective and not an analyst.”

Tower nodded, letting a more serious look seep into his face. “You’re right, actually. That’s why I’d like to talk to you about those questions you wrote last time I was here.”

She held up a finger. “You’re forgetting something.”

Tower sighed and hung his head. “The donuts aren’t enough?”

“Do you have any experience with women at all, Detective Tower?”

“Apparently not.”

“Apparently so,” Renee replied. “Because you know exactly what you need to do.”

Tower looked up and met her eyes. “Yes, I do.” He took a deep breath and said in a sincere tone, “I’m sorry, Renee.”

She paused, as if savoring his discomfort. Tower waited in silence until she finally gave him a quick nod. “Apology accepted.”

“Thank you. Let’s get busy, then.”

Renee poised her fingers over the keyboard. “Just speak the word, master.”

Tower smiled. “Actually, I was thinking more about those questions you wrote down.”

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 considerably 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.

“Sounds serious.”

Crawford gave him a withering look. “It is. Did they say anything else?”

“No, not really. They were working pretty frantically on her before the ambulance got here. I got the impression they thought she might not make it.”

Crawford glanced toward the car inside the crime scene. “That their mess?”

“On the ground, yeah.”

Crawford grunted. “You start a canvass for witnesses yet?”

Gio shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Do it. Call down to the General Detectives if you need more bodies.”

Gio walked away, keying his mike. “Adam-254?”

“Adam-254, go ahead.”

Gio recognized Trina’s voice. That made him smile for a moment. When he’d gone out with her, she had liked to do this little thing with her-

“Gio!” Crawford bellowed after him.

“Adam-254, go ahead,” Trina repeated.

Gio nodded to the lieutenant. As he walked toward him, he transmitted. “I need two more units here to help with the witness canvass.”

“Copy.”

“Yeah, El-Tee?”

“You get the names of all the medics that were inside this crime scene?”

“Jack has that.”

Crawford glanced over at Stone.

Stone shrugged. “I got everybody but the guys on the paramedic unit over there.” He pointed at the small paramedic truck on the other side of the crime scene. One medic was busy repacking the equipment while the other stood by, watching the cops work.

Bullshit, Gio thought. He knew Stone had those names. He just wanted to get back at him by sending him on an errand.

“Go get those names,” Crawford directed him.

Gio opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Crawford would still send him no matter what. And if he argued, all that did was provide more entertainment for Stone. Instead, he turned on his heel and trudged around the crime scene to the medics.

“How’s it going?” he asked the one packing the gear. He wore no rank insignias on his uniform, so Gio figured the other guy was a boss.

“It’s going,” the medic answered. “Too bad about that lady, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“She reminded me of my tenth grade teacher, Mrs. O’Halloran. Very nice lady.”

“I know the feeling,” Gio said. “Listen, can I get your names for the crime scene report?”

“Sure. I’m Terry. That’s Art.”

Gio took out his notebook. “Last names?”

The medic laughed. “Oh, sorry. Mine’s Wylie. His is Hoagland. We’re out of Station Three.”

Gio jotted the information down. “Thanks. Did you work on her?”

Terry shook his head. “No, it was mostly Art, at least until the ambulance got here.”

At the sound of his name, the tall, slender medic turned toward the two of them. “What’s that?”

“Just talking bad about you, boss,” Terry said.

“Like that’s anything new.”

Gio smiled lightly at the banter and turned to go.

“Officer?”

Gio stopped. “Yeah?”

Art stepped closer to him. “I’m no cop or anything, but there’s something I think you should know.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, I noticed something strange about her clothing.”

“Damaged?”

“No, not really. But when I first arrived, I noticed that her skirt was pushed up a little bit. I didn’t think anything of it, but then we ended up cutting it off while we were working on her. It was one of those long thick denim skirts and it was getting in the way. Anyway, when we pulled it aside, that’s when I saw that her undergarments were pulled down.”

“Pulled down?” Gio repeated.

Art nodded. “Yeah. About three quarters of the way down from the hip toward the knee.”

“Could that happen by accident?” Gio asked, though he figured he already knew the answer. “From her thrashing around in a fight or something?”

Art shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. This was too far down for anything like that. I think they were deliberately pulled down by her attacker.”

“Which means…”

“Which means this isn’t just an assault,” Art finished. “Yeah.”

“Way to go, Columbo.” Terry said. He looked up at the sky. “Is it raining?”

Gio didn’t bother giving him a disapproving look. He turned and trotted back to the crime scene, ducking underneath the tape. He heard Stone’s infuriated yell from the opposite side, but ignored it.

“Finch?” he asked the detective surveying the scene.

Finch looked up at him calmly. “What is it?”

“The medic over there said that when he got here, the victim’s underwear was pulled down almost to her knees.”

Gio expected some surprise, but got none. Instead, Finch merely pointed his pen at the ground. “That would explain the condom.”

Gio followed his gesture. An unopened condom lay on the ground in the midst of all the medic’s torn gauze wrappings.

“Holy shit,” he muttered.

Finch turned his head and called over his shoulder. “El-Tee!”

“What?” Crawford bellowed back.

“You better call Tower.”

And after that, the crime scene went quiet for a while.

1811 hours

Detective Tower stood outside of the sheet drawn between the patient’s bed and the rest of the emergency room. When the doctor exited the patient area, they dispensed with any pleasantries.

“Do you believe she was sexually assaulted, doctor?”

The doctor nodded. “I would say so. There’s some obvious vaginal trauma.”

“Any semen?”

“None that I could see. The swabs will tell the true story, though.”

Tower didn’t hold out much hope for that. Not if his hunch was right. “Is she still unconscious?”

The doctor nodded. “Yes. She was struck numerous times with a blunt object in the face and head.”

“Like a club?”

The doctor shrugged. “Could have been, but it looks more like a fist to me. We’re going to do a CAT scan on her to see what the extent of the injuries are.”

Tower shook the doctor's hand briefly and thanked him. The doctor gave him a short nod and walked away quickly to the next patient. Tower had learned long ago not to detain emergency room doctors for any longer than necessary. There was always another patient waiting.

Ridgeway appeared at his side. “She wake up?”

“No.”

Ridgeway shook his head gravely and said nothing.

“Mark, do me a favor?”

“Yep.”

“When the rape kit is ready, will you run that and all her clothes over to property?”

“Sure.”

“Not that it’ll speed things up, but mark the lab items as a rush, too.”

“You got it.”

Tower nodded his thanks and left the emergency room. As he walked to his car, he tossed things over in his mind. The engine rumbled to life and he headed for the station.

A flare of anger shot through his chest as he recalled Wendy Latah's swollen and bruised face. Her driver's license photo had shown an elegant older woman with delicate features. The slender woman in the hospital bed had resembled a badly pummeled boxer after a lopsided match.

Who would do such a thing?

Exactly my problem, Tower thought. Who?

He tried to consider alternatives to what seemed almost like a certainty to him. He forced himself to spend the time to look at it from another angle, even though, in his heart, he knew.

Maybe it was a student? He gave the thought a half-hearted analysis. Why would a student attack a teacher? Vengeance for a poor grade? Just plain cruelty?

Well, if by some strange confluence of events it actually was a student, that student’s identity would come out very shortly. It was obvious that Wendy Latah had put up a good fight. The empty canister of pepper mace found in the vehicle spoke to that. Even without the canister, there was no mistaking the lung-biting odor of cayenne pepper in the air. Whoever she sprayed looked like a pumpkin-head right now. A parent was going to notice that and get to the bottom of the story, either from the kid or from the news.

If it were a student.

Tower frowned. He knew it wasn’t. That condom seemed to scream the obvious at him.

This was the Rainy Day Rapist, not some vengeful student. And he had a feeling that no one was going to notice this pumpkin-head and call it in. Things were not going to be so easy. And why should it be? Nothing on this case had been yet.

He allowed himself a half-hearted hope that Diane in Forensics might be able to life a print from the unused condom. But the way his luck was rolling so far on this case, he didn’t invest a lot of emotional energy into that small hope.

Tower pulled into the station and parked.

He knew he had to go see Crawford. The Rainy Day Rapist was escalating. It was time to change the way he was doing things on this case.

2008 hours

Captain Michael Reott slid open his desk drawer. Reaching inside, he brought out a cigar box. Then he flipped open the box and pulled out one of his remaining four cigars.

Lieutenant Crawford watched him from his chair on the opposite side of the desk. “You’re not going to light that.”

Reott looked up at him. “Hell I’m not.”

Crawford allowed a slow smile to spread across his round face. “That’s what I like about you, Mike. No respect for authority.”

Reott bit off the butt-end of the cigar and spat it into the trashcan. Then he offered the box to Crawford.

Still smiling, Crawford took one.

“It isn’t about not respecting authority,” Reott said. “It’s about finishing out on my own terms.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that it doesn’t hurt a single soul if I want to smoke in my own office. I’ve been doing it since I made captain eleven years ago.”

“Well,” Crawford said, “there you have it. What’s a little thing like state and federal law to stand in the way of tradition?”

“Shut up,” Reott said, striking his silver Zippo lighter. “And open that window.”

Crawford twisted the latch and opened the window while Reott drew smoke from his cigar. The pungent smell of burning tobacco filled the room. When he’d finished, he handed the lighter across the desk to Crawford, who lit his own cigar.

The two men sat in silence for several moments, smoking and thinking.

Finally, Crawford said, “Tower wants to put together a task force.”

“We should.”

“Investigations or Patrol?”

“Both,” Reott answered. “You run it. Tower will be lead investigator, but use patrol officers to flesh out your numbers.”

Crawford nodded, recognizing the wisdom in Reott’s decision. Using patrol officers kept the Patrol captain’s hand in the operation. Crawford’s boss, the Investigative captain, was generally considered second only to Lieutenant Hart in the dipshit category. The presence of patrol officers in the operation kept Reott involved. Between the two of them, they could fend off any goofy ideas Captain Dipshit came up with.

“We should get some information out to the public, too,” Reott said.

“Not about the task force?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. Just some general personal safety information.”

Crawford drew in a deep drag of the cigar. He let it out in a billowing blue cloud. “That’s probably way overdue. I imagine people are getting jumpy out there.”

“They are.” Reott took a large puff of his own cigar. “I met with a downtown business group over lunch today. They’re worried about their families and their female employees. And the Chief told me on his way out of the office that the Mayor called him twice today. Apparently, a large number of people are calling City Hall.”

“It’s the goddamn media,” Crawford said. “They go and call this freak The Rainy Day Rapist and all of the sudden everyone is scared.”

“You have a wife, right?”

Crawford paused in mid-puff. “You know I do.”

“You want her going out by herself right about now?”

Another puff. Then, “No.”

“There you go.”

“Fine,” Crawford said. “I see your point. But mine still stands. The media fans the flames.”

“Maybe. But we’ll get some personal safety information out there in the short term. Meanwhile, you fire up your task force. Get the Prosecutor’s Office on board, too.”

“You want me to let a lawyer get involved? Mike, you want us to catch this guy or just sue him?”

Reott waved his comment away. “Just get him involved. It’ll mostly be for show this early on. But when we catch the guy, having a prosecutor ready to step in will streamline the process. Might not be a bad idea to have him help Tower with any search warrants, too.”

Crawford sighed. “All right. You’re the boss.”

“Don’t forget it,” Reott said, but his voice was mild.

“How can I, what with you throwing your authority around all the time?”

“Captain’s Prerogative,” Reott said. “And here’s one more thing-I’m going to use Pam Lincoln at the newspaper for the personal safety stuff. If she’s game, I also want you to give her some background on the case. See if she wants to cover the task force from the inside.”

Crawford gave Reott a wide-eyed stare. “Well, why don’t we just send out a flyer to the guy? With the newspaper reporting every step we make-”

Reott leaned back and put his feet up on his desk with a weary sigh. “Try to keep up, huh?”

Crawford fell silent. He thought for a moment, drawing smoke and blowing it forcefully toward the open window. Then he said, “You think she’ll hold the story until we catch him?”

“Of course she will. It’s an exclusive.”

“I don’t know…” Crawford said, trailing off in a doubtful tone. “I think that might be going too far.”

“She’s an honest woman,” Reott told him.

“She’s also a reporter,” Crawford replied. “A reporter with bosses. And from what I’ve seen down at the River City Herald over the past twenty-some years, they’ve got such a thing down there called Editor’s Prerogative.”

It was Reott’s turn to fall silent. He smoked and thought.

Crawford waited.

Finally, Reott sighed and shrugged. “She’s never screwed us over yet. I should at least keep her updated ahead of the rest of the crowd.”

“Okay,” Crawford said. “That’s fair, I suppose. But I don’t know how long she’ll be able to hold out if we don’t nail this guy.”

“Then I guess your task force better get the job done.”

Crawford gave Reott a mock salute with his cigar hand. “Yes, sir.”

Graveyard Shift

2334 hours

Thomas Chisolm sat in the dim light of his living room, staring at the dark television. He’d cracked open a Kokanee shortly after an evening run and sipped it in the bathroom while showering and drying off. Once dressed in his rumpled boxers and gray Army T-shirt, he flopped on the couch, hoping that the beer and television would help him find sleep.

Instead, he’d sat staring at the dead screen, the remote untouched on the small coffee table. He stared at the shadowy figure of himself reflected back at him. Every so often, he took a pull from the bottle of beer until it was empty. Then he rose and opened another.

Back on the couch, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He wanted very badly to sleep, but knew it was a virtual uncertainty. Not when the ghosts wanted to visit him. Not when they wanted to cry out to him, accuse him.

He thought briefly of Sylvia, the woman whose picture remained taped to his refrigerator despite the fact she’d gotten married to someone else almost two years ago. Why couldn’t he let her go?

He knew why. Because she could see him. She understood him. That is why he had loved her so much.

And that was why she had left him.

Chisolm took another long drink of Kokanee. He pushed back against the pain, muttering to himself.

“Pussy,” he said. “Mooning like a fifteen year old boy in love with a cheerleader.”

His words fell flat in the silence of his home, so he followed them up with some more.

“Here’s to you, T.C.,” he said, raising his bottle. “The one person in the whole world who truly understood you decides she doesn’t like what she sees. What does that tell you?”

Not everyone can handle the ghosts, that’s what it tells me.

“Bullshit,” Chisolm muttered unconvincingly, but he knew it wasn’t. People just wanted to live in their pretty little worlds where everything is easy. They didn’t want to see the hard side of things. “They don’t want to see the ugliness,” he said aloud. “And when they do see it — ”

He broke off, because the answer was too plain. When people saw the ugliness, they reacted by blaming the ones who were confronting it. That’s what happened in Vietnam. That’s what happens every day in police work. And that’s what happened with Sylvia.

Chisolm drank again, then lowered the bottle to his chest.

“Fuck that,” he whispered.

He pushed against the memory, opening his eyes and staring at the ceiling.

But there were other ghosts in his mind that would not be still. When he forced Sylvia away, another set of eyes came forward.

Young eyes, but hard.

Eyes that did not blink. They only stared.

Pleaded.

Accused.

“It was just another direct action,” he said huskily, staring at the twisting texture of the ceiling. “Some fucking NVA colonel that military intelligence had pegged as an up-and-comer. We go in, Bobby Ramirez and I, to this little village in the middle of nowhere. Our job is to take the guy out, quick and silent.”

He stopped. Sipped his beer.

“We did,” he said, his breath whistling across the bottle mouth.

That’s not all, though, is it?

“No,” Chisolm whispered. “It isn’t.”

He’d ducked into a hooch inside the village to avoid a roving guard. There, he’d interrupted an NVA soldier raping a young woman.

Mai. You know her name is Mai.

“Mai,” he whispered.

He’d killed the NVA soldier without a second thought. Then, in what he now remembered as a moment of incredible arrogance, he kept her calm by pointing to the subdued flag on his shoulder. He remembered how her fear seemed to diminish when he’d smiled at her, then slipped out of the hooch and back into the night.

After he’d finished the mission, they returned to that village with regular army units two days later. All of the colonel’s troops were gone. As Chisolm swept through the village, he swung into the hooch to check on the young girl. Like a sick version of deja vu, he found her struggling with an American soldier.

Chisolm took a long, deep drink from the Kokanee bottle. He lowered his eyes, returning his gaze to his shadowy reflection in the dead television screen. He recalled the brief struggle with the American troop, then the face-off that occurred when the soldier’s platoon mates showed up. All three of them left after Chisolm stared down the barrel of his M-16 at them.

What was worse, though, was the young girl’s -

Mai, goddamnit! Her name is Mai!

— accusing eyes when she slapped at his chest and shoulders, chattering in Vietnamese, demanding to know why he hadn’t killed the American just like he’d killed the NVA.

There were nights like these that Chisolm wondered if maybe he should have.

Six months later, he came across her in a Saigon bar, all tarted up and swaying to the music. When she spotted him at a table, waiting for Bobby Ramirez to finish having his fun upstairs, she’d been all over him. Rubbing, cooing, asking him if he wanted a good time. All the while, though, her eyes radiated the same dead, accusing hatred they’d held back in that hooch in her tiny village in the middle of the jungle.

You let me down, those eyes said.

Chisolm left the bar and waited across the street. He sipped whiskey until Ramirez staggered out of the bar, looking for him. Then they walked away and never looked back.

But now I spend all my time looking back, Chisolm thought. Just seeing all of the ghosts of those I’ve failed.

He drained the beer, but made no move to get another. Instead, he stared into his own eyes in the reflection of the black TV screen. He didn’t like what he saw, but he knew what he’d see if he looked away.