Beneath a Weeping Sky

TWO

Monday, April 15th

Day shift

0644 hours

Katie MacLeod turned off the engine of her Jeep Cherokee and rubbed her tired eyes. Some mornings, she came home full of energy and too jacked up to sleep. Other mornings, like this one, she returned home almost a zombie and couldn’t wait to fall into bed.

The wet, crisp air smelled fresh to her as she trudged up the walkway to the front door of her small house. Living in a house instead of an apartment for the first time as an adult took some getting used to. For example, even through her sleepy senses, she noticed that the grass needed to be mowed. She promised herself to do that during the coming weekend.

Not for the first time, she wondered if the 9-to-5ers had an easier time of it when it came to taking care of their household chores. Still, she wouldn’t trade her job for anything.

Most of the time.

Inside, the house was silent except for the light hum of the refrigerator and the tick of the old-fashioned clock on the wall. She listened for Putter, but the cat was either too busy sleeping or out adventuring to be bothered with greeting her.

I should’ve gotten a dog instead, she mused. At least a dog would be happy to see me.

She knew she wasn’t home enough to take care of a dog, though. Cats were more self-sufficient, if aloof at times.

Katie hung her jacket. She debated a shower before bed but quickly decided against it. She was just too tired.

The heavy weight of her off-duty gun on her hip was the first thing to go. She set it on her nightstand and dropped her badge next to it. Years ago, when she first came on the job, she would carry a pair of handcuffs and her radio with her, too. Now she didn’t bother. If anything ever happened off-duty, the gun would be for dealing with the bad guys and the badge would be for dealing with the good guys when they arrived.

Katie finished undressing and put on her robe. She wandered into the kitchen for a glass of orange juice. She drank it standing next to the sink and rinsed the glass when she had finished.

To bed.

On her way to the bedroom, she saw the blinking light on her answering machine. She considered letting it sit until she woke up that afternoon, but knew she couldn’t do that. The call might be from work. Or her mother. Neither party would be happy about a return call at four in the afternoon.

Katie pressed the PLAY button. There was a beep and a male voice came on.

“Katie? Are you there? It’s Stef.” There was a pause. Katie could hear the sound of vehicle traffic in the background. “If you’re there, will you pick up? I…I want to talk to you.”

Anger flared in Katie. After what he’d said and done to her, there was no way-

“Katie, please? Pick up.”

She detected the slight slur in his voice then. He’d been drinking and probably made the call after the bars closed. She knew that was how he’d been spending his time since he took a medical retirement from the police department. Drinking and feeling sorry for himself. And now he wanted to drag her into it.

No way.

The message ended and the machine beeped. Katie pressed the DELETE button.

He was a coward. That was the conclusion she’d reached in the year or so since his departure. Sure, he’d been shot up physically. And sure, he made a tragic mistake that cost a little girl her life. But he acted as if he were the only one on the job who experienced pain or who ever failed. In doing so, he belittled everyone else’s experiences.

She flashed to the Post Street Bridge and the image of a mentally unstable man dangling his infant son over the edge of the bridge. The rush of impending doom flooded her chest. She saw herself standing helpless, pleading with the man.

Katie bit her lip.

“Goddamn you, Stef,” she whispered. “Don’t call me any more.”

She walked into the bathroom and turned on the hot water. Maybe she needed a shower after all.

0721 hours

Officer Thomas Chisolm tried to sprint the final block of his run, but his tired legs and aching lungs wouldn’t cooperate. He managed to work up to a long-striding lope as he finished off his five miles, then slowed to a walk in front of his home. Hands on his hips, he walked in large circles around the front yard, slowing his breathing and letting his legs cool down.

Mornings were melancholy times for him. Sometimes he had thoughts of Scarface, the robber he’d killed. Other times, memories of Vietnam crept back in to his consciousness, forcing their way out of the shallow graves in his mind.

Like Bobby Ramirez.

Or Mai.

He needed sleep. That’s all it was. Some water, a hot shower and sleep.

As his breath slowed, he turned on the water in his front yard and drank from the hose. The city water had a slight metallic tang to it, but he took a deep draught before turning the spigot off.

Chisolm made his way up the short, concrete steps and removed his house key from his sock. Unlocking the door, he went inside, tossing the key on the kitchen table. A hot shower was calling to him.

As he walked past the refrigerator, a picture taped to the front caught his attention. An attractive, dark-haired woman stared out of the photograph at him. She had a smile on her face but her eyes were slightly sad. They’d always had that hint of sadness, as long as he’d known her.

Sylvia.

He’d intended to remove the photo over two years ago, but never remembered to do it. He didn’t bother with it now, reasoning that the shower was more pressing. He almost fooled himself into believing that as he walked out of the kitchen and toward the bathroom.

Thomas Chisolm refused to think of her, concentrating instead on what he had to accomplish after he woke up and before going to work tonight. If he opened up the door to memories, far too many would come unbidden. Especially in the mornings.

“Regret is a luxury you can’t afford,” he told his reflection.

We live in a world of broken promises, he added silently. And life is full of failure.

Chisolm undressed and took his shower. He turned the hot water up until the searing heat was as hot as he could stand. Despite admonishing himself to forget about Sylvia, he allowed himself to brood a little more as the water cascaded down on his head. He knew that if he stopped thinking about her, there was another memory standing in line behind her.

Stop chasing ghosts. Just stop.

0938 hours

Lieutenant Alan Hart drummed his fingers on the desktop. The rhythmic thud echoed through the empty office.

He stared down at the file in front of him, his eyes skipping over the words in the report that he’d already read three times and nearly had memorized.

According to the report, Officer James Kahn drove through the Life’s Bean Good coffee stand several times a night. He bought coffee each time, tipped generously, and asked the nineteen-year-old barista out on a date. She reported being flattered at first, then uncomfortable with his advances. When she told her boyfriend about it, he made her call in a complaint.

Identifying Kahn had been no problem. Skirt chasers were common enough, but Kahn gave the barista his business card with his cell phone number on the back. He insisted she call him by his first name. Besides that, when she came into the office, Hart directed her to the picture wall that held every officer’s photo but no names. She immediately pointed right at Kahn’s picture.

Hart flipped the page and read the transcript.

Question: How often did the officer visit your place of business?

Answer: Two or three times a day, at least.

Question: Did he buy something each time?

Answer: Yes.

Question: Did he ask you out on a date each time?

Answer: No, but more than once. And he flirted with me a lot.

Question: Did you ever feel afraid of him?

Answer: No.

Question: Threatened? Unsafe?

Answer: No. I just didn’t want to go out with him.

Question: Did his demeanor ever change when you turned him down?

Answer: Not really. He just smiled and kept trying.

Hart sighed and closed the file. He’d been assigned to Internal Affairs for almost a year and here he was, reduced to investigating some patrol cop trying to get laid. That wasn’t why he took the job.

He glanced around the empty office and smirked. When the Chief decided to assign a lieutenant to Internal Affairs, he pulled out all four of the previously assigned detectives. Hart had no support staff and even had to type his own reports. He knew the Chief did it as a form of punishment, but he refused to let it get to him. He might be banished from patrol and investigations, but he still intended to have an impact on the department.

Kahn’ file stared up at him. He snatched it up and replaced it in his active cases drawer. What a waste of time. The worst the guy would get is a verbal reprimand from his sergeant and told to stay away from Life’s Bean Good. He’d just go find another barista. There was a coffee stand on every corner in River City.

Besides, these cases were a smokescreen. They had to be. Hart knew there were things happening out there that he needed to find. Cops stealing. Faking evidence. Beating people. Just because River City was nestled in Eastern Washington, right in the center of the Pacific Northwest, didn’t mean there wasn’t corruption. Maybe not New York or Los Angeles level corruption, but Hart knew it was out there. The cops were covering for each other, that was all.

They thought they were so smart.

But Hart knew they weren’t as smart as him.

1122 hours

Patricia Reno wished there were an easier way to get thin. Jogging was too painful.

She’d started jogging almost a month before, finally tired of the weight that never came off after Joshua, her second son, was born. Sit-ups, she discovered, did not burn fat and she couldn’t afford a gym membership, so she took up jogging.

As her feet thudded heavily on the pavement, she felt her thighs and belly jiggle. Her breasts flopped uncomfortably. She vowed for the tenth time to buy a sports bra. At least she was starting to notice a little difference in her body. She was now able to just squeeze into clothes she’d worn early in her pregnancy.

If only her husband, Roger, would notice.

Patricia's breath labored in and out of her lungs, but she no longer experienced the ragged throat sensation that she had for the first week. Her wind had improved quickly. That made it easier for her to avoid smoking again. She’d quit the day she learned she was pregnant and hadn't started back up yet, but it was hard. Especially since Roger smoked like a chimney.

She spotted the small park less than a block away. As soon as she ran through that, she would only be five blocks from home. That meant four blocks of running, one block of walking to cool down.

Despite the discomfort, Patricia found that she was beginning to enjoy her daily run. She still struggled with it too much to have a chance to think while running, but with two kids to worry about, the solitude was nice. So was the sense of accomplishment. She hadn't stopped during a run since that first week.

The air became cooler as she entered the park and ran along the twisting trail that led into the small wooded area. The tree roots and turns of the trail forced her to adjust her gait. That nearly killed her three weeks ago, but now she did so much more fluidly and deliberately. She watched the ground, not wanting to trip on the damp earth.

She caught a flash of movement, but before her mind could register and identify it, someone forced a towel into her face. A strong arm encircled her waist and carried her several yards before she felt herself hurled to the ground. A hard heavy body fell on top of her. She lay on her back with her right forearm pinned under the small of her back.

The towel restricted her air. She panicked and flailed frantically with her free left hand, struggling to breathe. The cloth slid up, exposing her mouth. She took a deep, ragged breath. An iron hand clamped over her mouth.

“If you scream, I’ll lay the whammo on you.” A male voice rasped in her ear. “Understand?”

Patricia lay still, stunned.

He jerked her head powerfully. “I said, do you understand?”

Patricia nodded, whimpering beneath his hand.

“Good.”

The hand came away from her mouth and Patricia sucked in a grateful breath. He tugged at her waistband, sliding her sweats and panties down over her knees.

Should I resist?

She gulped more air.

Will he kill me?

He pulled her clothing over her running shoes and tossed them aside. She heard them land on a bush, a moment's rustle, then still.

There was a long pause. She heard paper tearing.

Should I beg? Or just be quiet and let him do it?

How could this be happening to me?

She gasped in pain as he thrust inside her forcefully.

“Oh, my sweet little bitch,” he moaned in her ear, thrusting slowly.

Patricia began to cry softly.

“Unnnnh, Unnnnh,” he moaned, pulling the towel more tightly across her face.

Patricia tried to stop crying, but instead she broke into a sob.

He stopped.

She thought for a moment that it had been her crying that made him stop, that it touched him or even enraged him. She stopped crying, quivering as she waited. He lay across her with the dead weight of a spent man. That was when she realized he was done.

After a few moments, he pulled out of her and rolled her onto her stomach. Panic surged through her again. When he pulled the towel from her head, she sighed in relief.

“Don't look up,” he told her gruffly.

She wouldn't. She never wanted to see his face. If she did she would be dreaming of it every night for the rest of her life.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he growled at her. “Or I will find you again and I will lay the whammo on you.”

“I won’t,” she whimpered.

He gave her a shove in the back of the head to reinforce his warning. She took it with a small cry. Then she lay still, breathing in the humid, earthy smell of the damp soil and pine needles.

What is Roger going to say?

When she was sure he was gone, she fumbled with her clothing, lifting them from the damp earth. Numbly, she pulled her panties and sweats over her running shoes. Then she rose on wobbly legs and stumbled home to call the police.

1314 hours

“Adam-254?” Janice Koslowski’s dispatch voice was pleasantly female.

Officer Anthony Giovanni reached for the mike. “Go ahead. I’m at Wellesley and Division.”

“Deaconess Hospital for a rape report. Contact Charge Nurse for victim info. Deaconess for a rape report.”

Gio keyed the mike. “Copy.” Then he muttered, “Thanks a lot, Janice.”

A rape report. That meant a long interview, a long report and then he had to put the rape kit on property. The rape kit was a real pain in the ass, too, requiring some swabs to be placed in the drying room, some blood vials in the refrigerator and some property in the property bins. Gio looked at his watch. It was 1314 hours. This would definitely take him into overtime.

He drove past Franklin Park, wondering for a moment why a south side unit hadn’t been dispatched. Deaconess Hospital was clear on the other side of downtown. The answer came to him almost immediately, though. The rape must have happened on the north side, so a north side unit got sent.

As he dropped down the Division Hill and headed downtown, he did a little bit of quick figuring. Even with the rape kit, he should be done with the call before it got to be too late. Besides, the girl he was seeing that afternoon didn’t get off until three or so. That’d leave him plenty of time to get home, shower and change, rape report or not. And if he didn’t, he figured the girl would wait.

The girl, he thought. Melanie. Or Mallory. Whatever it was. She’d wait.

Six minutes later, he pulled into Deaconess, parking in a slot marked for emergency vehicles only. Before exiting the patrol car, he gathered up his face sheet for the report and a steno pad from his bag. Rape reports needed to be detailed and details were easier to write in a steno pad than the small pocket notepad all officers carried in their breast pocket.

The white-shirted security guard gave him a professional nod as he walked through the sliding doors to the emergency room. Gio nodded back with a small grin, ignoring the metal detector that loomed over fully half the entryway. He could hear the creak of his leather equipment as he walked up to the front desk.

“Charge nurse?” he asked the frumpy, gray-haired R.N. that sat behind the admissions desk doing paperwork. When she looked up, he gave her his best Giovanni hello smile.

The R.N. was unmoved. “No, I’m the Admissions nurse,” she said in a clipped tone. “Are you here for the rape victim?”

Gio nodded.

The R.N. pointed at an open door with a number three hanging above it. “She just finished the exam. Should be about thirty or forty minutes before they have the kit ready for you.”

“Thanks,” Gio said, still smiling.

The nurse gave him a curt nod and returned to her paperwork.

Gio walked to the room. Past the open door was a drawn curtain, providing privacy to the patient in the bed. He paused just inside the entryway. “Uh, ma’am?”

“Yes?” Her voice sounded small.

“Police officer, ma’am. Are you dressed?”

“Yes.”

Gio pushed the light curtain aside and stepped in. He saw a woman about thirty seated on the small bed. Her sandy brown hair was tousled and she wore a pale blue hospital gown. She watched Gio with a hint of shame in her expression.

He felt a flash of guilt for his earlier reaction to getting this call. Yeah, he might be a little late for a date that he wasn’t even going remember a month from now, but that was nothing compared to what this woman had just gone through.

“I’m Officer Giovanni, ma’am.”

She gave him a shaky nod.

Gio smiled softly. “If you want, you can call me Gio.”

The woman took a wavering breath. “Okay. Gio.” She said the word tentatively, as if she were trying it out. “Gio.”

“Can I get your name, ma’am?”

“I’m Patricia,” she answered, her voice still soft. “Patricia Reno.”

Gio noticed the tremor in her voice despite its soft tone. He moved slowly towards the bedside, then stopped. “Do you mind if I stand next to you?” he asked her.

Patricia looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “That’d be fine.”

“Thanks,” Gio said. He moved next to her bedside. Aware that a rape victim had experienced the ultimate loss of control during the assault, he always tried to find ways to restore some measure of control to their lives as quickly as possible. “Do you like to be called Patricia?” he asked. “Or Pat? Or is Mrs. Reno best?”

“Patricia,” she answered. “I go by Patricia.”

Gio still made no effort to open his steno pad. “Is it all right if I call you that?”

“Sure,” she said. “Of course.”

“Thank you,” Gio said. After a short pause, he continued. “Ma’am, I understand you were assaulted.”

Patricia nodded slowly, looking away. Her lip quivered. “He… I was raped.”

“Do you know who did this?”

She shook her head.

“When did this happen?”

“About forty minutes before I came up here, I guess.”

Gio opened his pad and noted the time frame.

“Where did this happen, ma’am?”

She let out a long, wavering sigh. “In a park, about five blocks from my house. I don’t know the name.”

“That’s all right. Where do you live?”

She told him her address. Gio wrote it down.

“Was it possibly Corbin Park?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I know that one. It’s a little park. With some trees…”

Gio nodded. He knew which park she meant. It was about three blocks north of Corbin, just below the hill. He’d have to look up the name on his map.

“That’s good. That will help a lot,” Gio said in an encouraging voice. “Now, do you remember where in the park this happened?”

She took another wavering breath. “There’s a spot on the trail where there’s a break in the bushes. About in the middle of the park. I was running towards my house. It happened there.”

“Okay.” Gio smiled warmly. “Patricia, I am going to call the detectives and send them down there to see if they can find any evidence. Then I’ll be right back to talk with you about the rest of what happened. Will it be all right with you if I take some notes?”

“That’s fine. Could I call my husband, though?”

Gio nodded. “Of course. Or I can call him for you, if you like.”

She thought about it for a moment, then nodded her head. “Yes. That would be better.” She gave Gio the phone number.

“All right,” he said. “I’m going to call the detective, then your husband, then I will be back in about five minutes. Do you need anything? Would you like me to get the nurse?”

She shook her head. “No, I’ll… be okay.”

Gio turned to go.

“Officer?”

He stopped and faced her again. “Yes, Patricia?”

She swallowed nervously and gave him a plaintive look. “Tell me honestly. Is there any chance of catching this man?”

Gio returned her questioning stare with a frank, even gaze. “At this point, I don’t know yet, Patricia. I really don’t. But we are going to try. I promise you that.”

Patricia’s eyes teared up. “It’s just that…he said he’d come back and find me…”

“The most important thing,” Gio said, “is that you’re safe now. You’re here and you’re safe.”

Tears flowed down her cheeks. Her breath caught as she spoke. “I didn’t… I didn’t fight back… I should have done… I could have…”

Gio returned to her bedside. Carefully, he let his hand rest lightly on her shoulder. “Patricia, this wasn’t your fault. You didn’t cause this to happen. There’s nothing you could have done.”

“I could have…I should have fought or…”

Gio shook his head gently. “You did what you needed to do in order to survive. That took guts. Just like telling me about this takes guts.”

Patricia thought about his reply, meeting his gaze.

“This is not your fault,” Gio whispered to her.

Slowly, she gave him a small nod in return.

Gio nodded back and gave her a warm smile. Then he left the curtained room to call the Sex Crimes Unit of the Investigative Division. He didn’t bother to glance at his watch.

1428 hours

Detective John Tower replaced the phone receiver with a muttered, “shit.” A rape report. He was in the middle of a nasty date rape case and didn’t need another case dropped on him. But he was up next in the rotation and that was the reason Lieutenant Crawford transferred the call to him.

Unfortunately, this one didn’t sound like much of a workable case, either, Tower reflected as he slid his jacket on and adjusted it around his shoulder holster. The victim didn’t know the suspect. Usually, they did.

Tower shrugged. Well, maybe she’d be able to give a good suspect description. He could check the Department of Corrections records for registered sex criminals and have her look through some photos. He might get lucky.

He picked up the phone and dialed police dispatch. He spoke briefly with the supervisor, Carrie Anne, and asked her to send a patrol unit to the park to secure the crime scene.

Lieutenant Crawford strode into the Sex Crime Unit bullpen. “You headed out on that stranger-to-stranger?”

“Yeah,” Tower replied shortly, hanging up the phone.

“Where’s the vic at?”

“Deaconess.”

Crawford’s unlit cigar poked out of his mouth around his dark, drooping mustache. No matter how hard Tower tried, he couldn’t shake the image that Crawford was actually the actor from the TV show Cannon. He had the balding hair, the heavy stomach and fat cheeks, everything. All he was missing was the bad 1970s suit. He even had the cigar, which he chewed on but dared not light despite his long tenure on the department.

“Keep me updated,” Crawford ordered.

“Yes, sir,” Tower said on his way out the bullpen.

Come to think of it, he thought as he walked down the hall, that was a pretty damn bad suit. Maybe not 1970s bad, but pretty close.

He smiled.

Outside, the clouds were full of gathering blackness and he expected it would rain again before quitting time. Tower started up his car and drove directly to the small park that Officer Giovanni had described on the phone. As he pulled up, he saw that there was only one marked car on scene. He recognized Jack Stone standing near the car, but didn’t know the civilian woman seated in the front seat.

“Hey, Jack,” he greeted the gruff veteran.

“John.”

“Citizen ride-along?” he asked, gesturing toward the woman in the car.

“Yeah,” Stone said with a nod. “She just went through the Citizen’s Academy. Real pro-police. Block Watch captain and everything.”

“Good,” Tower said. “We need all the support we can get.”

Tower turned his attention to the small wooded area just to his north. The park was small by park standards, less than one square block, but it was huge by crime scene standards. He chewed on his lip, considering his best course of action.

“You want some help?” Stone asked.

Tower nodded, still thinking. She had used the trail, so he would start there.

“Let’s do this,” he instructed. “The trail is the center of the park. The victim was pulled from the trail. Let’s start on each side of the trail and walk through the park. We’ll start on the south side and work north. If we find anything, we’ll stop and section it off. Hopefully, we can at least pin down where this occurred.”

Stone nodded. “Okay. Are you going to call out Forensics?”

Tower considered. The Crime Scene Forensic Unit was much better equipped to photograph and collect evidence. But they needed something to work with first. “If we pin down where it happened, we’ll cordon it off and have them come down here and work it.”

“What about bringing the victim down here?”

“If I have to. But I’d rather not, at least not right away.”

Stone shrugged. “What about my rider? Can she help at all?”

Tower considered for a moment, then shook his head. “No. But she can stand at the curb and observe, if she wants to. I don’t want her to accidentally trample evidence.”

Stone grunted. “You mean like patrol officers usually do?”

Tower shrugged, unsure if Stone were joking or if the veteran officer had taken offense. “Hey,” he answered with a grin, “if the crime scene is going to get trashed, I want it done professionally.”

Stone put his back to the woman in the car, brought his hand up to the center of his own chest and extended his middle finger.

Tower raised his eyebrows. “Never on a first date.”

Stone laughed.

Together they walked to opposite sides of the trail and began their modified line search. Tower’s eyes scanned the ground and the low bushes for anything that could be construed as evidence. He glanced up periodically to make sure he didn’t miss the forest for the trees. To his left, he heard Stone shuffling along.

Ten minutes into his line search, Tower was sweating profusely despite the overcast weather. He removed his jacket and folded it over the crook of his arm. He felt sorry for Stone, who wore a wool uniform shirt over a bullet-resistant vest.

As minutes dragged by, his patience wore thin. He’d never been a particularly patient man and because of that, the job of detective often frustrated him. He used to hope that the years of experience would increase his patience level, but all it seemed to do was teach him to cope with the impatience that inevitably rose up. It didn’t take away the tickle of frustration from his gut.

Tower forced himself to concentrate as he came into a small opening of brush that fit the victim’s description of where the rape took place. He searched high and low, then low and high but saw nothing. The grass did not even appear disturbed.

“I think this is it,” he told Stone.

“You found something?”

Tower shook his head. “No. But this is the only place that fits what she told the officer at the hospital.”

Stone grunted noncommittally.

Tower marked the area in his mind and moved on.

After forty minutes of searching, he reached the north side of the park, which was bordered by a paved street. He waited there, wiping sweat from his brow until Stone completed his sweep.

“Anything else?” the veteran asked him.

“Nada. I think that spot I mentioned is where it happened, but the scene looks clean.”

“Too bad.” Stone wiped the sweat from his forehead and cheek. “It’s muggy out here. I need something cold to drink.”

“Me, too. Guess I’ll grab something up at Deaconess.”

“That where the victim went?”

Tower nodded.

“This a stranger-stranger or what?”

“Sounds like a stranger. Did radio put out any calls that might be related to this area? Screaming, suspicious persons, anything?”

“Nope, not that I heard.” Stone keyed his mike and asked radio if they had received any such calls.

“Negative,” came the terse reply.

Stone gave him a shrug. “You think the victim’s making it up?”

Tower shrugged. “I don’t know. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Won’t be the last,” Stone added.

“Can you throw up some crime scene tape around that area for me?” Tower asked.

Stone nodded. “How big an area you want roped off?”

Tower thought about it, then answered. “Make it about twenty by twenty. Center on the break in the bushes by the trail.”

“Okay. Outer perimeter?”

Tower waved his hand around the park. “Take the whole park. You don’t have to run tape, though. Not unless you get serious foot traffic. Just keep people out of the park.”

“I’ll call another unit,” Stone said.

Tower nodded his thanks and made his way to his car. Once en route to Deaconess Hospital, he plugged his department issued cellular phone into the cigarette lighter and called Forensics.

Diane answered on the second ring. “CSFU, Diane.”

“Diane, it’s John Tower. I need you to process a rape scene.”

“Address?”

Tower told her where the park was and described the crime scene area. “I don’t know if you’ll find any evidence or not, but at least get some good photographs.”

“I will.”

“I’m on my way to the hospital now,” Tower said. “I’ll let you know if I need anything besides the scene processed.”

“I’ll call if we get anything,” Diane said.

“Thanks,” Tower replied and broke the connection.

As he drove, large drops of rain began plopping intermittently onto his windshield. After a few moments, the plops became a steady pour of heavy drops slapping against the glass.

“Goddamnit,” he muttered. Rain wreaked havoc with any outdoor crime scenes. He sincerely doubted that CSFU would get anything out of their search now.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to stop worrying about the crime scene that he could do nothing about. Instead, he considered the rape itself. Stone had asked if he thought the victim might be lying, but even without meeting her, he doubted it. A daylight, stranger-to-stranger attack was bold. It wasn’t an opportunity rape or a rejection rape. Something like this had to be carefully planned.

That worried him.

Tower pulled into the hospital parking lot. He’d been to Deaconess more times than he could count and almost felt like he should have his own parking spot. He settled for the emergency vehicle slot next to a marked patrol car that he imagined belonged to Gio.

The white-shirted security guard at the emergency room entrance did not know him and started to ask him to step through the metal detector. Tower showed his badge and was waved through. He wondered briefly what the guard would do if a bad guy came to the hospital with a gun and refused to step through the metal detector. After all, the guard himself was not armed.

He recognized Roberta, the grey-haired, pudgy admissions nurse who pretended to be grumpy at everyone. He’d known her since he first came on the job, back when both of them worked nights. Now, years later, they were both working day tours. Circle of life, he figured.

He smiled at her. She didn’t smile back, but instead pointed to number three.

“Is the officer in there?”

“No. He’s in our break room.” Her tone of voice suggested that in her opinion, Gio was trespassing there. Tower was surprised that Giovanni’s legendary charm hadn’t softened her up.

“Thanks, Bertie,” Tower said, smiling again. “Did you lose some weight?”

She gave him a flat gaze. “Hardly,” she answered. He noticed the corner of her mouth twitch upward before she caught herself.

Almost got ya, Tower thought to himself.

Officer Giovanni was sipping coffee from a small Styrofoam cup and staring down at his report when Tower entered. He greeted the detective.

“Anything at the scene?” Gio asked.

Tower shook his head. “Can you give me a thumbnail sketch of her account? I’ll read your report later.”

Gio nodded. He took another sip of his coffee and set down his pen. “It’s pretty straightforward. Basically, she was jogging southbound through Clemons Park when a male attacked her. He blindsided her and knocked her down. Then he put a towel or something over her face and pulled her a little ways off the trail. He raped her vaginally, turned her onto her stomach, removed the towel and left.”

“Any suspect description?”

“She never saw his face.”

Tower cursed. Gio sipped his coffee.

“Did he say anything to her?” Tower asked.

“Uh, yeah. I wrote it down. Called her a bitch and threatened her. I’ve got the exact quote in my notes.”

“Did he ejaculate?”

“She thinks so.”

“Did the doctor find any semen or anything?”

Gio shook his head. “No. She told him that the last sexual encounter with her husband had been two weeks ago. Doc said there was trauma and small tears but no fluids.”

“She a Forty-eight?” Tower asked, using the code for a mentally unstable person.

“No, not at all. Nice lady. Just shaken up.”

“Understandable. Anything else?”

“She did say that once he had her pinned, there was a few seconds where he paused and she heard some paper ripping.”

“Paper?”

Gio nodded. “I’m thinking maybe he gloved up.”

“A rapist that uses a condom?” Tower asked, skeptical.

Gio shrugged. “Safety first.”

Tower scratched his head. “Or he didn’t want to leave any evidence.”

“Could be,” Gio agreed. “Maybe he didn’t want to pull an O.J.”

Tower considered. With DNA technology making leaps and bounds, identifying someone from their semen was a distinct probability. Thanks to the O.J. Simpson trial, pretty much everyone was aware of that. The use of a condom was the obvious preventative. It also indicated greater preparation and planning.

Tower cursed under his breath. Then he said, “She’s in number three, right?”

Gio nodded.

“You can take off,” Tower told him, “if you’re done.”

“Nah. I promised to take her home afterwards. Her husband couldn’t be reached.”

Tower thought about offering to drive the woman home so Gio could leave, but supposed that the officer had established a good rapport with her. It was best not to shuffle the victim around from person to person. “Does she have an advocate with her?”

“No, she wanted a friend instead. Her name’s Sally. She’s been helpful.”

“Good. You want to introduce us, then?”

“Happy to.” Gio rose and led him toward room number three.

On the way, Tower asked, “Clemons Park is the name of that little park there, huh?”

“Yeah. I had to look it up myself,” Gio said. He stopped at the door and knocked softly. Someone said “come in,” so he opened the door and entered.

Patricia Reno sat on the bed, crying softly. Another woman stood at her bedside, consoling her.

“Patricia?” Gio asked. “Are you ready to talk to the detective? Because if you want to wait-”

Patricia Reno nodded, wiping at her eyes. “No, I’m ready. I’m sorry. I was fine until Sally got here.”

“No need to be sorry,” Gio said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” He pointed at Tower. “This is Detective John Tower. He might have a few questions for you. John, this is Patricia Reno. The other woman is her friend, Sally.”

Tower nodded at Sally and stepped up next to Patricia. “Mrs. Reno, I really don’t have too many questions for you right now. I’ll read the officer’s report and be in contact with you after that. Probably in a couple of days. But I have been to the scene already.”

He described the small opening and she nodded emphatically. “Yes, that’s it. That is exactly where it happened.”

Tower nodded. “I searched the area. Unfortunately, there was no physical evidence there that I could see. Our forensics unit will photograph it and search it again.” Tower leaned forward slightly. “Ma’am, would you recognize the man’s voice if you heard it again?”

Patricia’s eyes widened. She nodded slowly. “Oh, yes. I’ll never forget that voice.”

“Good.” Tower knew they would never get a conviction off a voice identification, but every little bit helped. “That’s really all for now, Ma’am. I wanted to meet you and let you know who I am. This way, when I call you in a day or two, you can put a face with a name.”

“Thank you.”

He handed her his business card. “Do you have any questions for me?”

Patricia clutched the card, looked down at it for a moment, thinking. Then she shook her head. “No, I think that the officer…that Gio already answered them.”

“All right. And he gave you a card with some resources available to you? Counselors and such?”

She dipped her chin again.

“Okay. Is Sally driving you home?”

Sally nodded. Patricia looked up at Gio. “Sorry,” she said in an apologetic tone.

“Don’t be sorry,” Gio told her kindly. “I can see you’re in good hands.”

“Well, you’ve been so nice and you’ve been waiting here so long just to give me a ride…”

Gio smiled. “Patricia, I have to write this report and it doesn’t matter where I am when I do it. You haven’t put me out at all. Sally can take you home and help you settle in, if that’s what you want. It’s no problem.”

“Thank you,” she said again, looking at each of them.

“I’ll be in touch,” Tower said as they left the small room.

Gio pulled the door shut carefully.

“Nice woman,” Tower observed as the two men turned and walked down the hall.

Gio nodded. When they reached the break room, he gathered up his belongings. “It’s too bad nothing will ever happen on this.”

Tower fought off a sigh. Gio was probably right. Without something more, this investigation was most likely a dead end.

“Maybe something will turn up,” Tower said, not really believing it. “Forensics might get lucky.”

“Maybe,” Gio said, half sighing. “And maybe I’ll cure cancer on my way back to the station.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Tower said.

As they walked out into the rain together, one thought kept bothering Tower. It was a thought he hated to acknowledge, even though his impatient gut told him it was the truth.

This isn’t done. He isn’t finished.

1633 hours

She comes to him.

She wants him.

He is so strong. Such a man.

“I want you deep inside me with your hugeness,” she coos at him, crossing her arms under her breasts and pushing them up at him. “Only you can satisfy me, baby. No one else ever has.”

He is so strong. Such a man.

She is dancing now, though there is no music. Swaying lightly, her small black panties shifting on her hips as she moves from side to side. “Do you want me?” she asks him seductively.

“I want you,” he breathes.

“Not as bad as I want you, you big, glorious man,” she answers and drops down onto him, her lips searching for his, her tongue alive with warm action. Her hands find his erect member and stroke it gently in counterpoint to her hard, deep kisses. He can feel her breasts press firmly against his chest. He squeezes her buttock, hard. She moans in pleasure.

He is such a man.

“Rip them off,” she gushes hotly in his ear, biting the lobe.

He tears the panties from her. She cries out, part pain, part pleasure. She guides him into her hot wetness. “Deep inside me with your beautiful self,” she whispers, her hands running all over his back.

He thrusts deep. Each thrust is met with a yelp of pleasure from the buxom blonde.

Over her shoulder, he can see his father’s face, with an approving leer.

“Fuck her hard, son. And if she doesn’t want it, lay the whammo on her!”

“Fuck me hard!” she squeals.

He is truly a man.

He reaches for the white towel.

He knows that she is unaware…

“Unnnnnnhhh, Unnnnnnh,” he grunted, arching his hips into the air, his hand moving feverishly up and down. Semen spurted, arching in the air onto his stomach and chest. He let a small moan escape his lips. A few more strokes, then he stopped, collapsing back onto the mattress.

He lay on the bed, bare except for a sheet and a thin blanket. His girlfriend had taken the comforter when she moved out. He pushed thoughts of her away. Instead, he tried to enjoy the afterglow, which always gave him the sense of honey dripping from a broken jar. The constant patter of rainfall outside added to the experience.

After a few moments, though, his thoughts turned to more practical matters.

He had been a fool to attempt two rapes so close to his home. He needed to move farther away for the next one. Police weren’t brilliant, but they weren’t all stupid, either. Every true crime book he’d read told him that. If rapes kept happening in the same park or the same neighborhood, the police would get a clue. Especially when the victims could tell them that the rapist left on foot.

He needed to stay more random, vary his methods. Don’t want to make it too easy for the cops.

Slowly, he roused himself and walked into the bathroom, where he wiped himself off. His thoughts strayed to his ex-girlfriend. He tried to tell himself that he was glad she was gone, but he knew it wasn’t true. He didn’t love her, nor had he hated her. For a while, she’d been a good woman, but some time after she’d moved in, things started to go south. She became demanding. She wanted this, she wanted that. Most importantly, she started to make him feel like he was small and insignificant.

Just like all the others, he thought.

Just like my mother.

They’re all sisters, he figured. Some hid it better than others, but they were all sisters in the end.

Another thing that bothered him was inconsistency. It was simply another form of hypocrisy, really. If a person can’t be counted on to behave a certain way for a reasonable percentage of the time, what was that? An integrity issue? An insanity issue?

An old, hard face flashed before his mind’s eye.

No! He threw the tissue into the toilet and clenched his fist. She was dead and that was fine with him. The only regret he had was that he hadn’t shown her who was stronger in the end. Simply outliving the bitch wasn’t good enough. He’d have preferred more.

Much more.

He flushed the toilet.

Truth was, he realized, that bitches ruin everything.

He smiled slightly.

“Yes, they do,” he whispered. Then, more powerfully, he repeated, “Bitches ruin everything.”

That sentiment calmed him. He unclenched his fists and turned on the shower. As he stepped under the hot water, his thoughts strayed to his next victim. He had come up with a good idea. An excellent variation on his plan. It just had a few things that needed working on, that was all. As the soap cleansed him, his mind buffed out those rough edges.