Closer Than You Know

by Brad Parks

  “Yes, of course,” she said, falling further under his spell.

  “In that case, I don’t think there’s any question. Alex is an infant. He’s still breastfeeding. I’m sure you know the health benefits of that, just as you’re familiar with the literature about attachment theory. This is an absolutely critical time for our family. I don’t think there’s any question that it’s in Alex’s best interest, both now and going forward, to be returned to his mother and father. We’ll happily submit to whatever monitoring you’d like to put us under. We’re very reasonable people, and I know you’re a reasonable person too. I’m sure there has to be a way to make this happen that allows you to follow your rules but also returns the baby to us. Please. Make this a win-win.”

  Hope surged in me. Nancy Dement brought her hands up onto the table and folded them.

  “Mr. . . . Barrick, is that right?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  And then that hope was dashed.

  “Are you the child’s biological father?”

  Ben and I exchanged wary glances.

  It was as obvious as his mocha skin color that he wasn’t. I had convinced myself it didn’t matter, because he had convinced me it didn’t matter. Until, suddenly, now, it did.

  “Ah, I . . . I mean, no, not in the biological sense, obviously,” Ben admitted. “But in every other—”

  “Have you been appointed by a court as the child’s legal guardian?”

  “No,” he said flatly.

  We hadn’t even thought to do it.

  “Well, then, I’m afraid you don’t get a lot of say in this situation. We can’t consider you as a temporary guardian because there have been illegal drugs found in your residence. I’m glad you’re here to support your wife and I’m sure she appreciates your presence. But legally you have no standing.”

  Whatever air there had been in the room seemed to have left. Nancy Dement’s ruling was an insidious cruelty: I was essentially being punished for having been raped. As if the first victimization wasn’t enough.

  I felt my insides giving way.

  “Where . . . where is Alex right now?” I asked.

  “As I said, he’s with an approved foster-care family,” Nancy Dement said.

  “When can I see him?”

  “That’s not possible right now.”

  “But I thought . . . I mean, you guys do supervised visits, don’t you?”

  “I’m sorry. That’s not going to be happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ms. Barrick, I have to be candid with you. We’ve been made aware . . . ,” she began, then stopped, like she was reconsidering her words.

  When she resumed, she spoke deliberately: “There’s an allegation that you have been making arrangements to sell your baby on the black market.”

  TEN

  The house was midway up a large hill, which told Amy Kaye a little something right there.

  In the Shenandoah valley, as in so many other parts of the world, elevation was a proxy for social status. Rich people lived up on the hill. Poor people populated the hollows.

  The address Daphne Hasper had given Amy was somewhere in between, a nice—but not too nice—split-level not far from New Hope.

  Hasper was one of the earliest victims, from 2005. She had been twenty-four at the time, a second-year teacher at New Hope Elementary. She was living just outside Staunton city limits, by herself, on the first floor of a garden-style apartment.

  The report on her assault bore similarities to the others, but it also had its idiosyncrasies. She had been out at a concert in Gypsy Hill Park with some friends earlier in the evening, then at a bar. Around midnight, she had been driven home by a male friend, a fellow teacher.

  She went to sleep shortly after getting in. An hour later, she was awakened when a man in a ski mask peeled back her bedsheets. She described her attacker as a white male, approximately five foot ten, in his early to mid-twenties.

  He was on top of her before she could react. He showed her the knife, then whispered to her that he didn’t want to use it.

  “The victim stated she closed her eyes and told him, ‘Just get it over with,’” the deputy’s report read. “The suspect proceeded to sexually assault the victim. The victim stated the assault lasted for approximately three minutes.”

  After he was through, he took her panties and the sheets. But he hadn’t been very thorough about cleaning up his semen. Traces of it remained on Hasper, who called the authorities immediately after the attack and had a rape kit administered within the hour at a nearby hospital.

  The investigation immediately centered on the man who drove her home. Other teachers said they thought he had a thing for Hasper. Her broad description of the attacker loosely fit him. But she couldn’t say for sure whether it was him. It had been dark. She had kept her eyes closed. It had been over with so quickly.

  The man had no alibi for the time of the assault. He claimed he went home and went to sleep, but his roommates, who were still out at the bar, couldn’t confirm that.

  Augusta County Sheriff’s deputies extensively canvassed the neighborhood with the man’s picture, looking for anyone who might be able to place him there after he dropped off Hasper—hanging around and waiting for her light to go off, hiding in the shrubbery, whatever. The canvass came up empty.

  Then the DNA recovered from the rape kit came back. It didn’t match the sample the lead suspect had voluntarily provided. With no other leads, the case went cold.

  Hasper finished out the school year, then moved to Oregon. At first, there were notes in her file from when she had called the Augusta County Sheriff’s Office, asking if there were any updates on the case, or to give them a change of address so they could contact her if something came up. The last call had been eight years ago.

  She was now thirty-seven. When Amy tracked her down through her parents, she had been reluctant to speak. She explained how, after a few painful years and some therapy, she had decided to move on. She was married with three kids now. She couldn’t see the point in rehashing it. They hadn’t caught the guy, and as far as she was concerned, they never would.

  Amy explained she was doing a routine review of unsolved cases—that was the line Aaron Dansby had insisted on—and would appreciate her cooperation. Hasper refused, but Amy wore her down with you-never-knows and a talk of the improvements to DNA testing that had occurred since 2005.

  Hasper finally agreed to talk. But not over the phone. She had said she just booked a plane ticket home to surprise her mother for her sixtieth birthday. Maybe they could talk face-to-face then? Amy insisted on nailing down a date and a time.

  That was two months ago. Amy had sent her emails since then. None of them had been returned. Now here was Amy, knocking on Hasper’s parents’ front door.

  A woman answered the door with: “Hi. Can I help you?”

  “Ms. Hasper?” she said.

  “Yes?” she said, blank-faced.

  “Hi, Amy Kaye from the Augusta County Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office.”

  Recognition dawned on Hasper. But not in a good way.

  “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry. I . . . I completely forgot about our meeting.”

  “Not a problem. I’m glad I caught you. Can I come in?”

  Hasper glanced behind herself, then walked out onto the porch, closing the door behind her.

  “Look, I’m sorry, this isn’t a good time,” she said quietly.

  “I understand. Do you need me to come back later? Or tomorrow or—”

  Hasper was shaking her head. “I just don’t . . . It turns out my dad is having surgery tomorrow. It’s sort of unexpected and this . . . I don’t want to put him through everything again. He’s just finishing his breakfast right now, and I don’t even want him to know you’re out here. I’m sorry to make you come all the way out h
ere for nothing. I’m sure you understand.”

  Amy Kaye smiled weakly in acknowledgment but wasn’t deterred.

  “I do understand. But I’d still really like to talk with you. We could take a walk or a drive so your dad doesn’t hear. Tell him I’m an old high school friend.”

  Hasper made a face. She was a nice woman, a first-grade teacher who didn’t like confrontation. “I’m sorry, I just . . . I just don’t see the point. I mean, it’s not like there’s any new evidence or anything, is there?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then I can save us both the time and trouble,” she said, getting a little more firm. “Because I told the police everything I could think to tell them thirteen years ago and I’ve spent a lot of time since then trying not to think about it.”

  “I understand, but—”

  “And it’s my mom’s birthday this weekend and now my dad is sick and he’s probably already wondering what I’m doing out here and, I’m sorry, it’s just too much. Too much.”

  “Ms. Hasper, I’d really appreciate if you could spare just a few minutes here.”

  “I’m sure you would,” she said, edging toward the front door. “But I’m going to go back inside now. You can check off that you talked to me and there was nothing new.”

  “No, please, wait.”

  But Hasper had already reopened the door. She was about to disappear inside.

  Then Amy blurted, “You’re not the only one.”

  She wasn’t supposed to say anything like that. She knew the rules. Aaron Dansby would regurgitate a voting booth if he found out.

  Hasper’s momentum toward the inside of her parents’ house had momentarily stalled. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  There was no stopping now.

  “You’re not the only woman this guy has attacked,” Amy said. “There have been others. Lots of others.”

  “How many?”

  “At least eight that I have confirmed through DNA evidence, but almost certainly more. More than twenty. Maybe more than thirty. I’m not really sure. These cases have been out there for a long time, but no one ever tried to tie them together. It’s been a lot of work over the last three years just getting what I’ve gotten so far. I’ve worked nights and weekends trying to nail this bastard and I’d really appreciate your help. A case like this just needs one break. For all I know, something you say might be that break.”

  Hasper still looked unconvinced. Amy plowed ahead.

  “He’s still doing it. The most recent attack was four months ago. Based on his previous patterns, that means he’s due for another one soon. I think he attacks someone, is satisfied for a little while, then starts stalking a new victim. He’s very careful, so he takes his time. The attacks are usually anywhere from three to five months apart. And he’s been doing it for years. You can’t tell anyone, but I’m afraid you’re one of many.”

  Hasper was absorbing this with relative stoicism. At least outwardly. Amy could only imagine what was boiling underneath.

  “And why can’t I tell anyone?” she asked.

  “Because, to be perfectly honest, my asshole boss thinks it’ll make him look bad in front of the electorate, and he’s ordered me to keep it quiet until we have a suspect. But it’s hard to get a suspect if I can’t appeal to the public for tips and I can’t get the victims to talk.”

  Hasper took one last glance behind herself, toward the interior of the house. Then she stepped out onto the porch and quietly closed the door behind her.

  “Okay,” she said, “let’s take a walk.”

  * * *

  • • •

  As they climbed the hill, toward the rich people, Hasper recounted the details of the attack.

  There was, true to her word, nothing she hadn’t previously told the authorities. By the time Hasper was through with her account, they were a half-mile away.

  “So it sounds like the entire investigation focused on the man who drove you home,” Amy said. “Did they ever look at anyone else?”

  “Not that I know of. They had zeroed in on him from the start. They quoted those statistics about how whatever-percent of sexual assaults are committed by acquaintances. And then when two of my girlfriends told them they thought the guy had a thing for me, it was pretty much over.”

  “Did you think it was him?”

  “I didn’t know what to think. But not . . . not really. I knew he was interested in me. He had made that pretty obvious. But he wasn’t pushy about it like some guys, you know? Once I heard he volunteered a DNA sample, I sort of knew it wasn’t him.”

  They were getting to a spot on the hill where they could start to make out the Blue Ridge Mountains, ringing them like a majestic purple bowl in the distance. Hasper, who had been talking almost nonstop and was getting a little winded, stopped to take in the view.

  Amy thought it was a good time for a short break. She couldn’t cite the science behind it, but there was something about being high up that put people in an expansive mood. Or maybe it had nothing to do with science.

  After a little while, Hasper turned to Amy.

  “All this time, I always wondered if there were others. I mean, just the way the guy went about things, I thought . . . Well, I wondered. It seemed like he had done it before. And I did enough research online. I know sexual predators don’t usually stop at one. What were . . . I mean, if I can ask, what were the other victims like?”

  “A lot like you, actually. They were young and either lived alone or were alone at the time of the attack. If you can promise you’ll keep it to yourself, I can give you a look at the other names. I’ve been wanting to figure out if this guy went after women he knew or whether he picked random victims. If it turns out some of you know each other, you might have also overlapped with the attacker in some way.”

  While she was trying to maintain the facade of the dispassionate prosecutor, Amy was feeling tremendous excitement. This was the kind of investigating she had always wished she had been able to do—full contact, not hampered by the anchor that was Aaron Dansby’s political calculations. She should have started going behind his back like this a long time ago.

  “Yeah, like, maybe we all shopped at a store where he worked or something?” Hasper asked.

  “Something like that. Though, based on the distribution of the attacks, I don’t think the guy was local at first. You were part of the early wave. Maybe number six on the list, though I’m not sure which one of the early ones I should count.”

  “When did he start?”

  “Maybe 1997. It’s tough to tell, because there’s no DNA from that one. There were three during nine months that stretched from 2002 to 2003. I’ve confirmed DNA in one of those. Then came you in 2005. But they stayed pretty sporadic for a while after that. It didn’t start picking up in frequency until the last seven or eight years. I always thought the guy was maybe a trucker who passed through now and then or a salesman who had Augusta County as a territory and then decided to move here. Something like that.”

  Hasper’s face went slack.

  “What’s the matter?” Amy asked.

  “A trucker,” Hasper said, her voice thick.

  “It’s a possibility, yes. Why?”

  Hasper didn’t speak for a short while. She had returned her gaze to the mountains in the distance and seemed to be having a debate with herself. Amy wasn’t going to rush her.

  “I never said anything about this,” Hasper finally said. “The investigators were so sure they had the right man and . . . all I had was this sense of who it might—just might—be. To call it a hunch would be too strong. It was really just this . . . this feeling I had.

  “And the thing was, I saw the hell my friend was being put through. I mean, we waited four months for that DNA test, and the whole time everyone was treating him like a rapist. The school district made him take a leave of ab
sence. He lost all his friends. To this day there are people who look at him like he did it, even after the DNA cleared him. And I didn’t . . . I didn’t want to ruin someone else’s life with a false accusation.”

  “But you weren’t really the one making the accusation,” Amy pointed out. “It was the Sheriff’s Office.”

  Hasper’s eyes were still fixed on a faraway point.

  “I know,” she said. “But I also felt like, I don’t know, like I already had my bite at the apple. Four months later, it was too late to start all over again. I just wanted to move on.”

  “It’s never too late,” Amy said. “This guy is still doing to other women what he did to you. If there’s someone you think it is, even if it’s just a vague feeling. I can be discreet. There are enough other victims that if it’s not him, I’ll be able to rule him out pretty quickly. But if it is him . . .”

  She let that thought dangle.

  Hasper took in a deep breath and let it out unevenly. She brought her hand over her heart.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “I can’t even believe I’m back here. I . . . You have no idea how hard I worked to bury this and . . . I just wanted it to stay buried.”

  “I know, I know,” Amy said. “I can’t imagine how hard this is.”

  Hasper wiped at the corners of her eyes.

  “I seriously, seriously don’t know, okay? But there was something about the way the guy moved that made me think it was this guy I went to high school with. He was always . . . He was just a bit of a creep, that’s all. He went to work for his dad as a trucker after we graduated. That was another reason I didn’t want to tell anyone about him. I didn’t think he was even around. But I kind of kept track of him after the attack, because I always . . . I just had this feeling. And last I heard, he got off the road a few years ago and was now working for his dad in the front office.”