by Ed McBain
When she turned toward the door, he saw the bandage on her left cheek. A thick wad of cotton layers covered with adhesive plaster tape. She’d been crying; the flesh around her eyes was red and puffy. She smiled and lifted one hand from the sheet in greeting. The hand dropped again, limply, white against the white sheet.
“Hi,” she said.
He came to the bed. He kissed her on the cheek that wasn’t bandaged.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, fine,” she said.
“I was just talking to the doctor, he says they’ll be releasing you later today.”
“Good,” she said.
He did not know what else to say. He knew what had happened to her. He did not know what to say.
“Some cop, huh?” she said. “Let him scare me out of both my guns, let him…” She turned her face away again. Rain slithered down the window panes.
“He raped me, Bert.”
“I know.”
“How…?” Her voice caught. “How do you feel about that?”
“I want to kill him,” Kling said.
“Sure, but…how do…how do you feel about me getting raped?”
He looked at her, puzzled. Her head was still turned away from him, as though she were trying to hide the patch on her cheek and by extension the wound that testified to her surrender.
“About letting him rape me,” she said.
“You didn’t let him do anything.”
“I’m a cop,” she said.
“Honey…”
“I should have…” She shook her head. “I was too scared, Bert,” she said. Her voice was very low.
“I’ve been scared,” he said.
“I was afraid he’d kill me.”
She turned to look at him.
Their eyes met. Tears were forming in her eyes. She blinked them back.
“A cop isn’t supposed to get that scared, Bert. A cop is supposed to…to…I threw away my gun! The minute he stuck that knife in my ribs, I panicked, Bert, I threw away my gun! I had it in my hand but I threw it away!”
“I’d have done the same…”
“I had a spare in my boot, a little Browning. I reached into the boot, I had the gun in my hand, ready to fire, when he…he…cut me.”
Kling was silent.
“I didn’t think it would hurt that much, Bert. Getting cut. You cut yourself shaving your legs or your armpits, it stings for a minute but this was my face, Bert, he cut my face, and oh, Jesus, how it hurt! I’m no beauty, I know that, but it’s the only face I have, and when he…
“You’re gorgeous,” he said,
“Not anymore,” she said, and turned away from him again. “That was when I—when he cut me and I lost the second gun—that was when I knew I…I’d do…I’d do anything he wanted me to do. I let him rape me, Bert. I let him do it.”
“You’d be dead otherwise,” Kling said.
“So damn helpless,” she said, and shook her head again.
He said nothing.
“So now…” Her voice caught again. “I guess you’ll always wonder whether I was asking for it, huh?”
“Cut it out,” he said.
“Isn’t that what men are supposed to wonder when their wives or their girlfriends get…?”
“You were asking for it,” Kling said. “That’s why you were out there, that was your job. You were doing your job, Eileen, and you got hurt. And that’s—”
“I also got raped!” she said, and turned to him, her eyes flashing.
“That was part of getting hurt,” he said.
“No!” she said. “You’ve been hurt on the job, but nobody ever raped you afterward! There’s a difference, Bert.”
“I understand the difference,” he said.
“I’m not sure you do,” she said. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t be giving me this ‘line of duty’ bullshit!”
“Eileen…”
“He didn’t rape a cop, he raped a woman! He raped me, Bert! Because I’m a woman!”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t know,” she said. “How can you know? You’re a man, and men don’t get raped.”
“Men get raped,” he said softly.
“Where?” she said. “In prison? Only because there aren’t any women handy.”
“Men get raped,” he said again, but did not elaborate.
She looked at him. The pain in his eyes was as deep as the pain she had felt last night when the knife ripped across her face. She kept studying his eyes, searching his face. Her anger dissipated. This was Bert sitting here with her, this was not some vague enemy named Man, this was Bert Kling—and he, after all, was not the man who’d raped her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“That’s okay.”
“I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”
“Who else?” he said, and smiled.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Really.”
She searched for his hand. He took her hand in both his own.
“I never thought this could happen to me,” she said, and sighed. “Never in a million years. I’ve been scared out there, you’re always a little scared…”
“Yes,” he said.
“But I never thought this could happen. Remember how I used to kid around about my rape fantasies?”
“Yes.”
“It’s only a fantasy when it isn’t real,” she said. “I used to think…I guess I thought…I mean, I was scared, Bert, even with backups I was scared. But not of being raped. Hurt, maybe, but not raped. I was a cop, how could a cop possibly…?”
“You’re still a cop,” he said.
“You better believe it,” she said. “Remember what I was telling you? About feeling degraded by decoy work? About maybe asking for a transfer?”
“I remember.”
“Well, now they’ll have to blast me out of this job with dynamite.”
“Good,” he said, and kissed her hand.
“‘Cause I mean…doesn’t somebody have to be out there? To make sure this doesn’t happen to other women? I mean, there has to be somebody out there, doesn’t there?”
“Sure,” he said. “You.”
“Yeah, me,” she said, and sighed deeply.
He held her hand to his cheek.
They were silent for several moments.
She almost turned her face away again.
Instead, she held his eyes with her own and said, “Will you…?”
Her voice caught again.
“Will you love me as much with a scar?”
Sometimes you got lucky first crack out of the box.
There had not been ten requests for mailing lists, as Eleazar Fitch had surmised, but only eight. Three of them were from out-of-towners who wished to start local pro-life groups of their own, and who were looking for organization support from previous contributors. Five of them were in the city: A group to support the strict surveillance of books on library shelves had requested the mailing list; a group opposed to young girls seeking birth control advice without the consent of their parents had also requested the list of contributors to AIM; a group opposed to euthanasia had contributed a hundred dollars and asked for the list; an organization opposing the passage of the Equal Rights Amendment had similarly requested the list. Only one of the requests had been made by a single individual. His letter to AIM stated that he was preparing an article for a magazine named Our Right, and that he was interested in contacting supporters of AIM with a view toward soliciting their opinions on pro-life.
His name was Arthur Haines.
Today was Saturday. Annie was hopeful that Arthur Haines would be home when she visited him. The address to which the mailing list had been sent was in a complex of garden apartments in a residential section of Majesta. It was still raining lightly when she got there. The walks outside were covered with wet leaves. Lights were showing inside many of the apartments, even though it was not yet 1:00 p.m. She found the address—a first-floor apartment in a red-bri
ck three-story building—and rang the doorbell. The living room drapes were open. From where she stood outside the front door, she could see obliquely into the room. Two little girls—she guessed they were eight and six respectively—were sitting on the floor, watching an animated cartoon on the television screen. The eldest of the two nudged her younger sister the moment she heard the doorbell, obviously prodding her to answer it. The younger girl pulled a face, got to her feet, and came toward the front of the apartment, passing from Annie’s line of sight. From somewhere inside, a woman’s voice yelled, “Will one of you kids get the door, please?”
“I’m here, Mom!” the younger girl answered, just inside the door now. “Who is it?” she said.
“Police officer,” Annie said.
“Just a minute, please,” the girl said.
Annie waited. She could hear voices inside, the little girl telling her mother the police were at the door, the mother telling her daughter to go back and watch television.
Just inside the door now, the woman said, “Yes, who is it, please?”
“Police officer,” Annie said. “Could you open the door, please?”
The woman who opened the door was eminently pregnant, and possibly imminently so. It was almost one in the afternoon, but she was still wearing a bathrobe over a nightgown and she looked as bloated as anyone could possibly look, her huge belly starting somewhere just below her breasts and billowing outward, a giant dirigible of a woman with a doll’s face and a cupid’s bow mouth, no lipstick on it, no makeup on her eyes or face.
“Yes?” she said.
“I’m looking for Arthur Haines,” Annie said. “Is he here?”
“I’m Lois Haines, his wife. What is it, please?”
“I’d like to talk to him,” Annie said.
“What about?” Lois said.
She stood in the doorway like a belligerent elephant, frowning, obviously annoyed by this intrusion on a rainy Saturday.
“I’d like to ask him some questions,” Annie said.
“What about?” Lois insisted.
“Ma’am, may I come in, please?”
“Let me see your badge.”
Annie opened her handbag and took out the leather fob to which her shield was pinned. Lois studied it, and then said, “Well, I wish you’d tell me what—”
“Who is it, honey?” a man’s voice called.
Beyond Lois, who still stood in the doorway refusing entrance, her shoulders squared now and her belly aggressively jutting, Annie could see a tall, dark-haired man coming from the rear of the apartment. Lois stepped aside only slightly, turning to him, and Annie got a good look as he approached: Thirty-ish, she guessed. Easily six feet tall. A hundred and eighty pounds if he weighed an ounce. Brown hair and blue eyes.
“This woman wants to see you,” Lois said. “She says she’s a policeman.”
The word “policeman” amused Annie, but she did not smile. She was busy watching Haines as he came into the small entrance foyer now, a pleasant smile on his face.
“Well, come in,” he said. “What’s the matter with you, Lo? Don’t you know it’s raining out there? Come in, come in,” he said, and extended his hand as his wife stepped aside. “What’s this about, officer?” he said, shaking hands with Annie. “Am I illegally parked? I thought alternate side of the street regulations didn’t apply on weekends.”
“I don’t know where you’re parked,” Annie said. “I’m not here about your car, Mr. Haines.”
The three of them were standing now in an uneasy knot in the entrance foyer, the door closed against the rain, the two little girls turning their attention from the animated cartoon to the visitor who said she was a cop. They had never seen a real-life lady cop before. She didn’t even look like a cop. She was wearing a raincoat and eyeglasses spattered from the rain outside. She was carrying a leather bag slung from her left shoulder. She was wearing low-heeled walking shoes. The little girls thought she looked like their Aunt Josie in Maine. Their Aunt Josie was a social worker.
“Well, what is it then?” Haines said, “How can we help you?”
“Is there someplace we can talk privately?” Annie asked, glancing at the children.
“Sure, let’s go in the kitchen,” Haines said. “Honey, is there any coffee left on the stove? Would you care for a cup of coffee, Miss…I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Detective Anne Rawles,” Annie said.
“Well, come on in,” Haines said.
They went into the kitchen. Annie and Haines sat at the kitchen table. As Lois started for the stove, Annie said, “Thank you, Mrs. Haines, I don’t care for any coffee.”
“Fresh brewed this morning,” Lois said.
“Thank you, no. Mr. Haines,” Annie said, “did you write to an organization called AIM, requesting a list of their contributors?”
“Why, yes, I did,” Haines said, looking surprised. His wife was standing near the stove, watching him.
“How’d you plan to use that list?” Annie asked.
“I was preparing a paper on the attitudes and opinions of pro-life supporters.”
“For a magazine, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a writer, Mr. Haines?”
“No, I’m a teacher.”
“Where do you teach, Mr. Haines?”
“At the Oak Ridge Middle School.”
“Here in Majesta?”
“Yes, just a mile from here.”
“Do you frequently write articles for magazines, Mr. Haines?”
“Well…” he said, and glanced at his wife, as if deciding whether he should lie or not. She was still watching him intently. “No,” he said, “not as a usual practice.”
“But you thought you might like to write this particular article…”
“Yes. I enjoy the magazine, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen it. It’s called Our Right, and it’s published by a non-profit organization in—”
“So you contributed a hundred dollars to AIM and asked for their mailing list, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“You gave somebody a hundred dollars?” Lois said.
“Yes, darling, I told you about it.”
“No, you didn’t,” she said. “A hundred dollars?” She shook her head in amazement.
“How much did you expect to get for this article you were writing?” Annie asked.
“Oh, I don’t know what they pay,” Haines said.
“Did the magazine know you were writing this article?”
“Well, no. I planned to write it and then simply submit it.”
“Send it to them.”
“Yes.”
“Hoping they would take it.”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever actually write this article, Mr. Haines?”
“Uh…no…I never got around to it. I’m very involved in extracurricular activities at the school, you see. I teach English, and I’m faculty advisor for the school newspaper, and I’m also advisor for the drama club and the debating club, so it sometimes gets a bit hectic. I’ll get around to it, though.”
“Have you yet contacted any of the people on the mailing list AIM supplied?”
“No, not yet,” Haines said. “I will, though. As I say, when I find some free time…”
“What did you say this article was going to be about?” Lois asked.
“Uh…pro-life,” Haines said. “The movement. The aims and attitudes of…uh…women who…uh…”
“When did you get to be such a big pro-lifer?” Lois asked.
“Well, it’s a matter of some interest to me,” Haines said.
His wife looked at him.
“Has been for a long time,” he said, and cleared his throat.
“That’s news to me, the fuss you made about this one,” Lois said, and clutched her belly as if it were an overripe watermelon.
“Lois…”
“Totally news to me,” she said, and rolled her eyes. “You should have heard h
im when I told him I was pregnant again,” she said to Annie.
Annie was watching him.
“I’m sure that’s of absolutely no interest to Miss Rawles,” Haines said. “As a matter of fact, Miss Rawles—should I call you Detective Rawles?”
“Either way is fine,” Annie said.
“Well, Miss Rawles, I wonder if you can tell me why you’re here. Has my letter to AIM caused some sort of problem? Surely, an innocuous request for a mailing list—”
“I still can’t get over your paying a hundred dollars for a mailing list,” Lois said.
“It was a tax-deductible contribution,” Haines said.
“To a pro-life organization?” Lois said, shaking her head. “I can’t believe it.” She turned to Annie and said, “You live with a man for ten years, you still don’t really know him, do you?”
“I guess not,” Annie said. “Mr. Haines, do you know whether the following names were on the mailing list you received from AIM?” She opened her notebook and began reading. “Lois Carmody, Blanca Diaz, Patricia Ryan…”
“No, I don’t know any of those names.”
“I didn’t ask you if you knew them, Mr. Haines. I asked if they’re on that list you got from AIM.”
“I would have to check the list,” Haines said. “If I can even find it.”
“Vivienne Chabrun?” Annie said. “Angela Ferrari? Terry Cooper…”
“No, I don’t know any of those people.”
“Cecily Bainbridge, Mary Hollings, Janet Reilly?”
“No,” Haines said.
“Eileen Burke?”
He looked puzzled for an instant.
“No,” he said. “None of them.”
“Mr. Haines,” Annie said, slowly and deliberately, “can you tell me where you were last night between seven-thirty and eight o’clock?”
“At the school,” Haines said. “The kids put the newspaper to bed on Friday night. That’s where I was. In the newspaper office at the Oak Ridge Middle—”
“What time did you leave here last night, Mr. Haines?”
“Well, actually, I didn’t come home. I had some papers to correct, and I guess I went directly from the faculty lounge to the newspaper office. To meet with the kids.”
“What time was that, Mr. Haines? When you met with the kids.”
“Oh, four o’clock. Four-thirty. They’re very hardworking kids, I’m really proud of the newspaper. It’s called the Oak Ridge—”