might `this person' be doing in the Asheville area?" he asked me.
"Dick Lee was raised about a hundred-fifty miles away, in Winston-Salem," I replied.
The detective then wanted to know if Dick Lee had any tattoos.
I described the skunk on his upper left arm with the words U.S.S. PARDEE, and the initials L.S. on one of his hands."
"Bingo!" the detective chimed. "We've got a make. The young victim's tattoo description of the lead biker who instigated her rape and torture matches. The victim also said that the man with the skunk tattoo referred to himself as Robert E. Lee. Does that mean anything to you?"
"Yes. He used to say, `Nobody messes with Robert E. Lee'.'"
The detective said he would do some checking and that I should stay in touch.
Weeks later, the detective responded to my phone call. "We ran a check with law enforcement in Winston-Salem. Dick Lee, has an arrest record beginning in mid-1980." The detective wouldn't divulge the charges but did say that his mug shots were sent to Asheville for possible identification by the young victim.
Months went by before I heard from the detective again. "The follow-up in this case is taking some time because the victim lives in Tennessee just across the border from North Carolina. Aside from that, she and her family have avoided contact with police investigators. She didn't want to make an identification and resisted having to appear for a photographic lineup. The bikers are long gone, so no arrests have been made. But after much persuasion, the victim finally came into the station. She either couldn't or wouldn't identify Dick Lee. I personally believe he’s one of the perpetrators, but we've got nothing more to go on. Sorry. That's where we're at. I'll let you know if anything else develops. In the meantime, call if you hear anything more."
The detective called one last time. "We've been notified that the victim, who recently turned seventeen years old, has been struck and killed by a hit and run driver, while crossing the street a block from her home. No witnesses. No clues. That's it. The case is closed."
In July of 1997, while I was loading groceries into my car on a hot afternoon near my home in central Florida, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I looked behind me. His appearance altered and 14 years older, Dick Lee stood there staring at me. Shocked to see him after so many years, I stared back at him for a long minute. Frightened, I knew he had my license plate number memorized. I finished loading the car, got inside and sped off, weaving through a residential area for half an hour before going home.
Where I lived alone.
Fearful that he had tracked me down, I felt as though I had been hurled back in time to those wretched days and nights of fourteen years ago. In the following weeks, distracted by worry and a lack of sleep, my manufacturer's representative traveling job started to suffer. I found myself breaking down and crying between sales calls.
Months later, with no further sightings of my ex-husband, my anxiety began to fade. Eventually, I chalked up the encounter to a wild coincidence.
By January of 1998, I'd almost forgotten about seeing Dick six months earlier. Finished with the last customer appointment about 4:30 in the afternoon on the outskirts of Arcadia, Florida, I got into my car for the two-hour drive home. I liked driving along the deserted two-lane country road that stretched through fields of tomatoes and cucumbers. My mother came to mind. A farmer's daughter, she had loved to see things grow and I thought how much she would have enjoyed the scenery if she were with me today.
I glanced into my rear view mirror as a dark blue car swung onto the road behind me. I gave it no more thought, other than to keep track of any vehicle in sight, as my father had taught me years ago. As the older, large blue car approached at a good clip, I figured the lone male driver wanted to pass. Instead, he slowed two car lengths behind me and hung there. I felt slightly annoyed because he had plenty of room to pass me on the straight, deserted road.
Inching even closer, the blue car hovered right on my bumper. I stared in the mirror, scarcely believing my eyes. Dick Lee grinned at me. He wore the same sickly smile as he had on June 1, 1983, as he drove out of the parking lot of the Bonita Beach Club fifteen years ago.
Waiting until the shock of seeing him registered on my face, he raised a gun to his head and pointed it at his windshield in an unmistakable notice of his intention. My heart almost stopped beating. He grinned again. Panic-stricken, I looked ahead for some kind of help. There was not a house, not a gas station in sight. Nothing but growing fields as far as the eye could see.
I slammed the pedal to the floor and my Toyota Camry surged forward. Hoping I could outrun his older, big blue beast of a car, I raced down the road, with him hot on my tail. It started to drizzle, then the heavens opened to an afternoon Florida downpour. I switched on my windshield wipers and headlights and prayed that I could outdistance him and still control my car on the slippery pavement.
Trying to keep track of him in the rear view mirror, I could barely see his headlights through the sheets of rain.
A few minutes later, as though a faucet had been turned off, the rain stopped. Dick had lessened the distance between us to a mere fifty yards when, suddenly, a thunderous explosion startled me. Instinctively, I gripped the steering wheel and hit the brakes. Looking in the mirror, I thought a bolt of lightning had struck Dick's car. It lurched forward and lifted off the road, landing a moment later. Orange and yellow flames spewed out of the windows, just before the windshield blew out. My car trembled with the rush of air as the hood of his car flew up and then sailed straight at my now stopped car. I thought it would crash into me but, miraculously, the hood veered off, missing my car by only a few feet, before landing in a field of cucumbers with a loud crunch.
My mouth dropped open in shock as I gawked at the blazing inferno.
I had to know.
Backing up as close as I dared, I could see that the roof of the car was peeled back and the tires flattened. The twisted heap of metal, totally engulfed in flames, no longer resembled a car at all.
Looking inside, I shuddered at the charred remains of Dick's body lying draped and smoking over the steering column. There was nothing anyone could have done to help him.
Figuring that, if I lingered too long, the police would arrive and my name, address and connection to Dick Lee might end up on a police report, I whispered a prayer for his soul and shifted into drive. In the rear view mirror, I could see billows of black smoke snaking into the air, before fading away.
Like an elephant, the Mafia never forgets.
Exit Dick.
The End
Tyranny of a Lover...Diary of the Wife of an Undercover informant Page 27