by Frank Zafiro
“That figures.”
Chisolm shrugged. “They leave the light on.”
Katie rolled her eyes and flopped backward onto the queen-sized bed. “This is so stupid. If they are staking out my house, why can’t I just stay there?”
Chisolm reached for the door that separated Katie’s room from his. “I guess they just want to be as safe as possible,” he said diplomatically.
Katie snorted. “We both know that they’re only doing this because I’m a girl.”
Chisolm shrugged, swinging open the door from Katie’s side. “You’re probably right.”
Katie paused. Chisolm’s directness and honesty surprised her, as was always the case. After a moment, she followed up her thought. “Well, if that’s true, then it’s bullshit for them to do it.”
“Bullshit for who to do it?”
“I don’t know. The brass. Whoever decided.”
“You think it was Saylor?”
Katie thought briefly, then shook her head. “No. He said it came straight from the Patrol Captain. And Tower said that this whole bodyguard routine wasn’t part of his suggestion.”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
Katie squinted at him. “What’s that mean?”
“It means,” Chisolm answered, turning to meet her gaze, “that if I was Tower, I’d want you at home for bait. That is, if all I cared about was catching the Rainy Day Rapist.”
She considered his words. “You think that’s all he cares about?”
“I think that’s what he cares about most,” Chisolm said. “Why else would he have kept you on after the accidental discharge in Riverfront Park and then the assault at Corbin Park?”
“Maybe because he knew I could handle it.”
Chisolm shrugged. “Could be, but I doubt it. I’ve seen Tower’s kind before. He’s not totally hung up on himself like Kahn or Stone, but he’s still pretty self-centered. I don’t think he gave a whole lot of thought to how this was affecting you until after the Rainy Day Rapist grabbed onto you that night over on Mona Street.”
Katie looked up at the ceiling, thinking about what Chisolm had said. She didn’t want to believe it. She wanted to believe that Tower had believed in her as a cop. But she found it difficult to simply discount Chisolm’s view of things.
“So you’re saying Tower’s some kind of an asshole?” she asked.
“No,” Chisolm responded. He checked the bathroom, even going so far as to pull the shower curtain aside. “I’m saying that he’s focused on himself and his case. That’s his role. The captain’s role is something different. He has to take more of a global view.”
Katie sat up and stared at him. “Officer Chisolm,” she said, affecting shock and surprise. “Did you just defend the brass?”
Chisolm chuckled. “Hey, I believe in leadership. If it’s competent, that is. Saylor’s a good leader.”
Katie made a face, agreeing. “True. Not like Hart.”
Chisolm snorted. “Why do you think they shipped that idiot over to Internal Affairs? Hell, that move alone should tell you that the Chief has a pretty good idea what the score is. He’s a good leader, too. And so is Captain Reott.”
Katie shrugged. She had no opinion one way or the other. Generally, she was so removed from the leadership as a line officer working graveyard that she just hoped they would leave her alone to do her job. The only time she saw or heard from them was when someone screwed up, anyway.
“What do you mean by ‘global view’?” she asked.
Chisolm walked to the window and pushed aside the heavy curtain. Katie looked past him into the parking lot. He’d insisted on a second floor room, explaining that it kept the window from being as vulnerable. He gave her a similar explanation when it came to parking his car in the basement sally port and having them leave after work from that location, citing a change in pattern. “I mean, he had to balance the need to catch this prick with your personal safety. He decided that your house was enough bait and that he didn’t want to risk using you.”
“Right,” Katie said, “and would he have made that same decision if it was a male officer?”
“I don’t know,” Chisolm answered, snapping the curtains shut. “I guess it might depend on the officer.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that most officers, he’d probably do the same thing. Can you imagine the negative press if something were to happen to you, MacLeod? If they decided to use you as a worm on a hook and you got gobbled up? Even if we caught the fish, the fallout would be enough to bring down this Chief and probably the Captain, too.”
“Are you saying this was self-preservation on their part?”
Chisolm sighed. “Hell, every decision has elements of self-preservation. Have you ever arrested a guy for domestic violence on thin probable cause simply because you’re covered if you arrest him and you’re liable if you don’t?”
Katie looked away. “Sure. I suppose. PC is PC, right?”
Chisolm smiled. “Depends on if it is probable cause or probably cause.”
Katie chuckled. “Okay, I see your point. But honestly, do you think they’d have gone the whole nine yards with a bodyguard and everything if you were the target?”
Chisolm’s smile faded into a grimace. “Probably not.”
“Because you’re a man,” Katie said.
“No,” Chisolm answered. “Because I would have politely told the Captain to go run a leg up his ass.”
Katie laughed out loud. “Oh, I’d pay to see that.”
Chisolm shrugged. “When you’ve been here for fifteen or more years, you might know a thing or two about people that gives you a little leverage, MacLeod.”
“Like what?”
“Can’t tell you,” Chisolm said, “otherwise it wouldn’t be worth anything.”
“So this has nothing to do with me being a woman?”
“I’m sure it does,” Chisolm admitted, “but it is what it is.”
“Oh,” Katie said. “A philosopher and a medicine man. Impressive.”
“Probably why you picked me as your bunk mate,” Chisolm said. He pointed at the door. “I’ll be right through there. When I get into my room, I’ll open it from my side. We leave the doors between our rooms open. If you need some privacy, swing the door nearly shut but don’t latch it.”
“Yes, sir,” Katie said, saluting.
Chisolm ignored her and continued. “If there’s a knock on your door, you don’t answer it. You come across into my room and we’ll decide how to deal with it from there. Same thing with the phone. Don’t answer it. Okay?”
“Okay,” Katie said, firing another salute at him.
Chisolm gave her a gentle smile, then good-naturedly returned her salute. “Hey,” he said. “I’m working for you here.” He pointed to the door between their rooms. “I’ll be right in there,” he added, then turned to go.
“Tom?” Katie asked.
Chisolm turned. “Yeah?”
“Thanks,” she said, her tone warm and full of gratitude. “I mean it.”
“I know,” Chisolm replied. “I know.”
0916 hours
He cruised along Rowan, his eyes darting down every alley and into every car. He knew he had to be aware. Now that he’d tipped his hands, he figured the cops would be all over the bitch’s house. Still, he had to know. He had to see.
Besides, even if they saw him, even if they stopped him, what would they have? He’d used a condom every time, leaving behind no evidence for them. Most of the stupid bitches hadn’t fought back at all, and those that had raised some defense hadn’t caused him any serious injury. If they were vigilant and somehow spotted him, it wouldn’t matter. They had nothing to tie him to the rapes.
He even had his alibi worked out. His outgoing mail lay on the seat beside him. Just over on Division was a post office. If they stopped him, he’d just say he was looking for the back entrance to the post office in order to avoid traffic. They’d see the stamped, unsent letters on his passe
nger seat and that would convince them.
Cops, he had decided, were not that bright. They only caught on to the most obvious of facts.
When he turned onto Calispel, the first thing he noticed was that the Jeep was missing. He wondered if it were still at the police station or if she’d driven elsewhere. Perhaps tomorrow, he’d have to stake out the station and see.
The second thing he noticed was the gray four-door Caprice parked a half block from the bitch’s brick house. Two clearly male figures sat inside.
Cops.
Jesus, he thought. Could they be more obvious?
He fixed his gaze straight ahead, then made a point to feign that he was fiddling with the radio as he rolled up the street at just under the speed limit. He used his peripheral vision to check the two of them out as he passed the gray car. They appeared to be deeply involved in a conversation.
Probably sports, he guessed. Cops were all the same. In all likelihood, arguing about the prospects of the Seattle Seahawks or the Seattle Mariners. Or, if they had a more local focus, the minor league hockey team, the River City Flyers. Some sort of knuckle-dragging sports endeavor that people with low IQs seemed to enjoy.
As he neared the end of the block, he signaled and turned right. A quick glance in his rear view mirror told him that the gray car was not following him. That meant they hadn’t even noticed him.
Good. That would make things easier.
Mid-block, he paused and peered down the alley. He saw no cars. No coverage. Could it be that they were only watching the front of the house?
He smiled. Things just went from easier to perfect.
The waiting would be the hardest part, he realized. He’d have to rein in those powerful emotions. He couldn’t afford to let them spill out anywhere. Not on those useless prostitutes. Not on any other deserving women. No, he had to save his energy for the one that got away.
He had to be smart.
He had to be careful.
He had to plan.
Most of all, he had to be patient. And he knew he could. He’d already proven it.
Part III
October 1977
Seattle, Washington
Every sweet has its sour; every evil its good.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
EIGHTEEN
October 1977
Anticipation. As a child, anticipation ruled his life early on. There was no double-edged aspect to that particular brand of anticipation, either — not for a seven year old, at least. The joy of anticipating an event like Christmas (or in this case, his father returning home after a long deployment) occupied his mind and kept his thoughts alive all hours of the day. Nothing could dampen his enthusiasm. Not the long wait, which was usually where that other edge cut the other direction. No, waiting was just fine with him. In fact, the longer he had to look forward to something, the better the experience.
His mother seated sullenly in her chair didn’t leach away his happiness, either. He didn’t entirely understand why she wasn’t as excited as he was, but figuring that mystery out wasn’t a requirement for him to be excited for the big event.
He had a few strange memories from the last time, but they weren’t scary so much as puzzling, so he simply brushed them aside. Those shadowy recollections from when he was only five didn’t matter, anyway.
What mattered was that his daddy was coming home.
That was all he cared about.
It didn’t matter that his daddy hadn’t remembered his birthday back in August when he turned seven. He was an important man on a big ship. He was really, really busy. He had to watch over all the other sailors. And he had to fight the enemy. He couldn’t be asked to do all of that and still remember a birthday, could he?
Then again, a birthday was a super big deal. It was as big as Christmas and Halloween. Sure, he cried when his dad didn’t call or send a present. Then his mother gave him a sharp one across the cheek and told him to ‘button it up.’ She told him he was old enough to figure out what his old man was all about. She said that he could expect more of the same disappointment from him, if he ever came around.
He quit crying then, because he knew she’d lay another slap on him if he didn’t. He said, “Yes, Mother,” because she liked to be agreed with and she liked to be called Mother (never ‘mommy,’ she hated that word, said it was a peasant’s word), then waited for her to present her gift to him. His heart sank as soon as she produced the wrapped present. He could tell by the shape that it was clothing. He didn’t want clothes. He wanted Lego’s or Army men or maybe some cars, but not clothes. Clothes were awful. In fact, as far as a birthday gift went, clothes completely blew chunks.
His mother’s mouth hardened into a tight line. He knew what that meant, so he manufactured a smile. He pretended he was opening up a G.I. Joe complete set of action figures and tore off the wrapping paper with gusto. The plaid pants with reinforced knees and the matching turtleneck stared up at him in silent mockery.
Under his mother’s hateful stare, he managed a smile. He said, “Thank you, Mother.” Then he rose and tried to give her a hug. After all, even if her gift was the most stupidest gift ever, at least she got something for him. At least she said ‘happy birthday’ to him when she woke him up that morning. She even hinted that she might make some cupcakes, though he knew there wasn’t any cupcake mix in the cupboard and she wasn’t likely to go to the store because it wasn’t Wednesday and besides that, her ‘goddamn check’ hadn’t come in the mail yet (he always knew when that check had arrived, because for a day or so, the hard line of her mouth relaxed just a little bit and she seemed a little more at ease).
She allowed him a brief, cursory hug, then pushed him away. “Put your new clothes away,” she said, then motioned at the wrapping paper on the floor. “And clean up this mess.”
So he did, and that was it for his birthday. No cupcakes, either — he was right on that count — but she did make chili for him that night, which was his favorite. They sat in silence at the rickety kitchen table while he ate his chili and she drank her special stuff from a water glass. He wasn’t allowed to drink her special stuff, which was fine with him. He smelled it once and it hurt his nose. Besides, whenever she drank it (which was every day), it made her breath stink. Worse than that, it made her be mean to him.
None of that mattered now. Right now, he sat at the rain splattered window of their apartment and stared out at the gray street, waiting. His daddy was coming home. Everything was going to be better.
Maybe his daddy would bring his birthday present with him. Maybe he didn’t forget, but just couldn’t send it home. It wasn’t like there was a mailman who went out into the middle of the ocean to pick up mail, right? So they probably had to wait until the ship came into the dock before they could send mail. His daddy’s ship was out in the ocean for a long time, so that explained it.
A present between his birthday and Christmas. The prospect of a gift during that long present drought amped up his level of excitement even more. That would make up for a lot. It would make up for his daddy being gone, for the smacks and whacks he took from his mother, for all the troubles at school. A present in between his birthday and Christmas might just solve everything in the whole world, at least for a little while.
He figured his daddy could solve the rest. He could tell his mother not to drink any of her special stuff and then she wouldn’t be so mean to him. Maybe she’d even stop slapping him. And since his daddy was a boy, too, maybe he could help him with some things.
School, for instance. That was his biggest problem besides his mother. Maybe his daddy could help him with school. Maybe he could tell his mother that he didn’t have to go to school anymore. He hated going now, but his mother made him go there anyway. He was in second grade and it was terrible. He’d liked Kindergarten. They got to play and take naps and eat snacks. The teachers never got mad when he had an accident or did something wrong. Miss Reed had been his favorite. She was really, really tall and pretty and had long,
long hair and she smiled at him and called him ‘Jeffrey’ instead of ‘Jeffie.’ She always liked his art projects that he made, too. He tried to give them to her, but she made him take them home to his mother.
“I’m sure your mommy will want to put them on the refrigerator or something,” she’d said, and because she was so beautiful, Jeffrey wanted to believe her. So he took the colorings and the finger-paintings and the macaroni projects home. He showed them to his mother (never ‘mommy’), who gave them a critical glance and tossed them on the table.
“Miss Reed said you should put them on the fridge,” he told his mother.
“Miss Reed does not run this house,” his mother snapped back. She took another drink from her water glass full of her special stuff. “Go do your chores and I’ll think about it.”
He did as he was told, but the colorings and finger-paintings and macaroni projects only sat on the table, never on the fridge. Sometimes, they sat for a day or two, sometimes for weeks. Her water glass full of special stuff made little ring marks on some of them. He imagined those to be like the little happy faces Miss Reed drew on papers when he wrote his numbers and letters really good.
Eventually, though, all of those papers all ended up in the kitchen garbage, covered in coffee grounds and empty bottles of her special stuff.
Once, he drew a picture of his family. The three figures took up the entire piece of construction paper. He made sure his mother and daddy were standing next to each other, holding hands. He gave his mother a giant smile, but then he drew the eyebrows wrong. They slanted inward toward the center, giving her an angry look. He tried to fix it, but everything he did just made things worse-
“All you ever do is make things worse!”
— so that his mother looked like she was enraged. There was nothing he could do, so he moved on to his daddy. He made sure to draw his Navy uniform as best that he could. He used the one picture he had as a guide, even making certain that he put the right number of stripes on his sleeve. Three below, then one on top with an eagle. After that, he carefully colored it in, taking his time and staying mostly inside the lines he’d drawn. When he’d finished, he thought it was perfect. In fact, it was probably the best drawing he’d ever made. Miss Reed agreed with him, putting her gentle, warm hand on his shoulder when she told him so.