“No, but she said she recognized him. She didn’t know his name, but said she’d seen him somewhere before the attack. If I can get Keller’s picture in front of her—a line up photo, all proper and official, she’ll point him out. I’m certain of it. She’s still in surgery, though.” I frowned, worried about the victim’s chances. She’d lost consciousness in the ambulance driving over and had gone right into surgery. “He stabbed her, Joe. He’s escalating. The rapes are getting closer together, the attacks more vicious. Before it was just their faces; now he stabbed her in the stomach.”
“I don’t think a judge is going to give us a warrant for Keller unless she can positively ID him.”
“That’s why I’m doing this.” I nodded toward my computer screen where the security camera captured everyone going in and out of Fat Annie’s.
“That’s still thin.” Joe walked around his desk so he could look over my shoulder. “The place was packed for a Monday night.”
“There were a lot of events downtown last night, plus a concert at the River Cat Stadium that ended at ten.”
I didn’t tell Joe this was the third time I was viewing the disk. I said, “I’m going to talk to her boss this morning, get the guest list—I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t share it—and when I verify that Keller was there—”
“And if he wasn’t?”
“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t at Fat Annie’s.” I couldn’t ask Keller questions—Keller had a lawyer, he was a lawyer, who, the first time we’d attempted to question him, had said he didn’t rape anyone, and he wasn’t answering any questions on what he called a ‘fishing expedition.’
“Selena,” Joe began, but I put up my hand, practically bouncing in my chair.
“Joe—I got him!”
All remnants of fatigue drained away. I rewound the disk and played back the last minute at half-speed. The time stamp was 10:13 p.m., approximately thirty minutes after Ashley arrived.
Joe and I watched. The angle of the camera was odd—high and tilted slightly. I know why I missed Keller on the previous passes. Other than the poor quality that rendered the black-and-white picture fuzzy, Keller had walked in behind a large guy in a dark suit. Keller was also in a dark suit and almost blended in with the other guy. He also was only in profile, until for one second he turned and faced the camera. He looked directly at it, smiling, then walked out of the frame.
The bastard knew I’d get the tape. He knew and didn’t care. My chest tightened as my heart pounded. It was a game to him, a sick, twisted game.
I rewound again and captured the screen shot of Keller, printing it out as well as emailing a copy to our tech guy to enhance.
“That’s him,” I said.
“Probably,” Joe said.
“Definitely.”
“The quality sucks, Selena.”
“We can fix that.” I looked at him over my shoulder. “You know that’s him, right?”
“I know that’s him, but I also want to catch him as badly as you do. And he’s not seen on tape with the vic, right?”
“No,” I admitted, “it’s circumstantial, but it might be enough to get a warrant for his clothing.”
“We should wait until the victim is out of surgery.”
“She may not be conscious, she may not be coherent, there’s no guarantee we’ll get to talk to her before tomorrow or the next day. Enough time for him to clean his car and destroy his clothes.” If he hadn’t done it already. But I couldn’t think that way. We had to cover all our bases.
Joe said, “You’re right, but I still don’t think the judge is going to go for it. Any other rapist, yes—but no grey areas with Keller. Did you interview her friends last night?”
“One of them came by the hospital,” I said. “She didn’t know Keller, hadn’t seen anyone following them, wasn’t helpful at all.”
I finished watching the tape. Ashley left with her friends at 10:56. Keller didn’t leave the bar—at least, he wasn’t on tape leaving. But there were several points on the disk where larger groups left together, and the camera didn’t capture every face.
“I need to get someone on this looking for his suit, or the way he walks, or something,” I said.
“Good luck with that,” Joe said, sitting back down.
We were short-staffed and underfunded. If I wanted someone to go through the disk, I’d need to do it myself.
Joe was re-reading my report. “You have a clear timeline for the attack—only a small window.”
“It’s not enough,” I said. Joe grunted his agreement.
Ashley and her friends had been captured on the parking garage security camera at 11:03. They’d entered the garage, which was built under the freeway and easily accessible to pedestrians, and walked as a group to a row of cars. After Ashley parted from her friends, she sat in her car for several minutes. It was impossible to see what she was doing, but I imagined she was going through her purse looking for her cell phone.
At 11:08, she got out of her car and headed back the way she’d come. We knew from several witnesses at Fat Annie’s that she never made it back to the bar. At 11:40, a 911 call came in from a lone female who said she heard someone crying in the alley, but was too scared to investigate. The responding officer had interviewed the woman, but she hadn’t seen anything. I planned on talking to her later, but didn’t hold out much hope that the not-so-good Samaritan would be helpful.
I’d walked the stretch from the garage to the bar and it took five minutes tops. The narrow walkway that led to the alley where she’d been raped was halfway between the bar and the garage. I had uniformed officers going to every business on the street asking if they had any security footage, but I hadn’t spotted any active cameras in our hot spot.
My guess was Keller was waiting for her to return. If she was with friends, he would have let her pass. But she was alone, and he grabbed her.
For him, it was the excitement of the hunt. Not knowing if tonight would be the night for victory, waiting in anticipation for his prey to walk into his trap. He was patient, but bold. Five attacks in five months, but the last three were only two weeks apart. He was escalating, both in the timeline and in the violence.
I had to stop him.
I stared at the print out of Keller from Fat Annie’s. “I hope this is enough for the judge.”
“It might, if we get someone like Forsyth.”
“Say a prayer.”
III.
Unfortunately, Marianne Forsyth was preparing for a trial, and at eight in the morning, only Judge Robert Healy was hearing warrants. His clerk said he was in a meeting and we sat down to wait.
Joe said, “The ADA wants to see me for a few minutes. I’m going to run upstairs—be back in two shakes.” He must have seen concern in my expression because he added, “I promise.”
“Fine.” It wasn’t fine—we’d wanted Judge Marianne Forsyth because she was liberal in granting warrants for sex offenders. Healy was a former civil lawyer turned criminal court judge when appointed by the governor the year I was born. He was a dictator in court. Great when you got him on the bench because he didn’t take bullshit from anyone—in fact, I didn’t think he particularly liked anyone. If you had your case in order, you fared well in his court. If you let one thing slide, didn’t cross one damn ‘t,’ you were reamed.
Getting a search warrant was a bitch. We were so screwed.
I couldn’t sit—both tired and antsy. I had Keller on camera, but that didn’t mean he’d raped Ashley Young. I didn’t have a frame where the two of them were together, and Ashley hadn’t told me anything specific. It was going to be a stretch, but I had to try. I hoped she was out of surgery by the time I got to the hospital and if I could just get one word from her positively ID’ing Keller, I’d have him.
Keller was sly. The one positive ID I had was tossed out, and the victim was so upset and angry with the system, I couldn’t get her to talk to me. Maybe he’d scared her, intimidated her. I didn’t put anything past Kel
ler. Maggie Van Allen just wanted it all to “go away.”
But rape didn’t just go away. It stayed with you, even when you beat it. Even in victory, it was a reminder of the past.
In five rapes, I had a lot of circumstantial evidence on Keller, but not enough for the DA to go after a prominent government lawyer. Proximity was the primary evidence—Keller had been at the same location as each victim the night she’d been attacked. The only other commonality was that the victim was blond, and left their cell phone or another personal item at an event or bar, then went back to retrieve it. Two were attacked before they returned; three were attacked after they retrieved the item.
The rapist had left DNA on the first victim, and that’s why I desperately needed Keller’s DNA. But that warrant had been quashed two victims ago, when I first put Keller on my radar. I needed something substantive in order to arrest Keller and force him under state law to submit for DNA testing.
The judge’s chamber door opened. A voice from the doorway caught my attention.
“Thank you, Judge. I’ll see you on Friday.” He closed the door.
Greg Keller.
He stepped out and didn’t seem surprised to see me waiting, the warrant I’d written up at the station in my hands.
“Detective Black. Selena Black.”
He’d caught me off-guard. I hadn’t expected to see him. My first urge was to bolt—I was between Keller and the door. Then shame washed over me, because I had sworn to protect and serve, and that meant facing evil head on.
He’s only a man. Small, weak, needing to prove his dominance over women by hurting them.
I’d read No Exit in college, a twisted story about three people stuck in Hell. For eternity, they’re locked together in a windowless room, each the other’s torturer. No violence, just hate and hopelessness.
I sat, filled with the same hate and hopelessness. Greg Keller was my personal purgatory, the rapist I couldn’t catch.
When I looked at Keller, I saw evil, a twisted ugliness that overshadowed his clear blue eyes, aristocratic features, and square chin—a psychotic Ken doll that wanted to damage and deface all the Barbies out there.
He leered at my discomfort. “The early bird catches the worm, Selena.”
“What are you doing here?” I demanded. My voice, at least, hadn’t failed me.
His lips curled into a snarky grin. “Meeting with an old friend, Detective. And you?”
He knew. I saw it in his eyes. He knew I was going after him again, just like he’d known I’d been warned to back off after Madelyn Lane’s ID was tossed by a judge. Was he planning on glad-handing it with every judge the morning after he attacks another woman? So when I came calling, they’d toss me on my ass?
“I will prove you’re a rapist.”
His expression didn’t change at first, but his eyes darted quickly right and left, to see if the clerk had returned. When he realized we were alone, he leaned closer to me and my body betrayed me.
I flinched.
And he knew I was scared.
“You can’t,” he whispered.
The door opened and Keller turned, almost walking into Joe. Joe was surprised, glanced from Keller to me, then was about to speak when Keller said, “Keep your bitch on a leash or I’ll have both your badges.”
Keller stomped out as if I had attacked him.
“What the hell happened?” Joe asked.
“Nothing. I didn’t do anything.”
“He was livid.”
“It was an act.”
But I could see Joe doubted my word. Something cracked inside, despair flooding through me.
“Did the judge call us yet?”
“Keller was in there. We might as well forget the damn warrant.”
“You don’t know why he was here.”
I stared at Joe. He’d been on this case from the beginning, why was he cutting Keller slack now?
The clerk stepped in from the hall. “Detectives? Judge Healy is ready for you.”
I didn’t want to go in, but Joe didn’t give me a choice. He led the way.
I sat like a good soldier while Judge Healy read the warrant. It didn’t take long.
Healy closed the folder without expression and crossed his hands on his immaculate desk. “If I understand you correctly,” he said, “Mr. Keller is a suspect only because he was in the vicinity of the crime—at a bar four blocks from the attack.”
“No, sir.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Did I misread your statement?”
I said, “Sir, Mr. Keller was in the vicinity of all five rapes. I have the guest lists of the events where both Mr. Keller and the victim were in attendance. The latest rape victim, who is currently in surgery, said that she didn’t know her attacker but had seen him at Annie’s, the bar where she’d been immediately prior to the attack. I have the surveillance tape that shows—”
Healy cut me off. “As I said, it appears Mr. Keller is a suspect only because he was in the vicinity of the crime.”
“The crimes,” Joe reiterated. “That stretches the bounds of coincidence.”
“You have no prints, no witnesses, no probable cause.”
“We have the rapist’s DNA—we just need to match it to Keller.”
“Why not ask for a warrant for all white men in Sacramento County?” Healy waved his hands. “Have everyone sacrifice their rights on your hunch.”
“Sir—” Joe began, but I barely heard him.
I said, “When we spoke to Keller after the third rape, he was patronizing and uncooperative. If he was innocent, all he had to do was submit to a simple blood test. All I’m asking for are the clothes he was wearing on the security tape, plus a search warrant for his car.”
“That’s all?” Healy mocked.
Healy’s attitude grated on me, and it didn’t help that I hadn’t slept all night. “As soon as the victim is out of surgery, she’ll ID him,” I said.
“Maybe you have a vendetta, Detective Black.”
“I have no vendetta,” I said with restrained anger. What had Keller said to the judge? Why had he been here?
Healy opened his top desk drawer and removed a thick file. “The proof is in the pudding, as my mother used to say.” He slapped his hand on the file. “Do you remember Clive Robeaux?”
Of course I remembered that pervert who went after cheerleaders. He’d walked on a technicality. I’d still be after him if he hadn’t moved to L.A. Last I heard three cheerleaders down there had been attacked this past year. I’d sent L.A.P.D. everything I had on him, but they hadn’t been able to make anything stick. He was good at covering his tracks, and he played the system like a damn violin—just like Keller.
“It seems Robeaux filed charges against you and the department for abuse of authority, harassment, and false arrest.”
“They were all thrown out, Your Honor,” I said.
“His case was thrown out because of lack of evidence.”
“That was because—”
Healy cut me off. “I don’t honestly care why, only the final outcome. There’ve been seven complaints against you in the past three years.”
“By criminals. Every cop in the department has complaints against them. Most have no merit.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, then smiled. “I am the judge. If you come back with an infallible statement from the victim that Greg Keller is the man who raped her, and I’ll give you an airtight arrest warrant. Until then, you’d better watch your step, Detective.”
IV.
I’m not a patient person. And when an impatient person has a badge, you can generally get the answers you need when you want them.
Except in hospitals.
All I knew was that Ashley Young was still in surgery. She’d been in for hours, and no one would tell me why it was taking so long, when they’d be done, or how she was doing. I tried calling Gabriel, who’d been the emergency surgeon on call during two of the first four rapes, but he didn’t answer, either.
<
br /> I couldn’t sit, so I paced, ignoring the glare of the triage nurse assessing the throng of patients who all claimed to need emergency medical attention. At quick glance, I guessed that ninety percent of them could have taken two aspirin and gone home.
Keller must have given the judge the Robeaux file. It was public information, which made me wonder if Keller was doing a background investigation on me while I was investigating him.
But he couldn’t get everything. Even some records were beyond the reach of the Attorney General’s office.
After what happened in the judge’s chambers, I now knew that Keller had been following the investigation closely. Who had he talked to? He enjoyed my frustration that I couldn’t arrest him. He was playing off his contacts and legal knowledge, plus I suspected that each target and each crime scene were specifically selected to avoid security cameras and the likelihood of a witness, while also being as open and public as he could manage.
Keller thrived on the danger, the thrill of his game with police, as much as the attacks themselves.
“Selena.”
I wasn’t a girly-girl, but my heart fluttered a moment at the sound of Gabriel’s deep baritone. I didn’t need to see Doctor Gabriel Storm to know the ER surgeon was behind me. His quiet, authoritative voice made his presence well-known. But maybe I had sensed him a moment before he spoke. He had already gotten inside my heart. How had I let that happen?
I braced myself as I tilted my head up at his too-handsome face, but couldn’t stop the reaction I always had when his dark blue eyes settled on mine—dark butterflies in my stomach, drawing me to him. Lust.
“I didn’t know she’d been stabbed,” I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. “She wouldn’t let anyone near her, the blanket covered her stomach, I asked her—” The guilt had weighed on me from the moment I saw all that blood. What could I have done differently?
He reached out and squeezed my arm. The gesture was intimate and supportive even in its brevity. For five seconds the power of his confident personality focused completely on me. His eyes reflected my anger and frustration over not being able to stop Greg Keller, over not knowing the seriousness of Ashley Young’s injuries. But no blame, no accusations. His touch supported me, lifted me up to do my job, saying what words couldn’t.
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