Miami, It's Murder

by Edna Buchanan

  I wound a strand of hair around and around my index finger, my eyes compelled to return to the words in the open notebook in front of me.

  The rapist would press a hunting knife to his victim’s throat and warn her not to look at him. When she was overpowered, blindfolded, and gagged, he would take a paper towel from the dispenser, print OUT OF ORDER on it, and tape it to the rest-room door.

  The familiar rhythm of my mother’s voice was a surrealistic accompaniment to the chilling image of the rapist at work.

  “Some of the girls from my building, and of course everyone from work is going.” I tried to focus on what she was saying. Something about a luncheon and fashion show at the Falls. “All the guests get favors, little goody bags, you know, full of cosmetics and perfume samples from the participating stores at the center.”

  My unwilling eyes were irresistibly drawn back to my notes. Her wrists were bound to her ankles, convenient for what he did next.

  “Some of the fall lines are simply divine,” my mother said. “The colors and the adorable knits are to die for.”

  Downtown rest rooms were now dangerous places for grown women. Police were advising them to go only in pairs—impossible, of course, for the employees of many small offices. Half a dozen attacks in four buildings.

  My weakness for Cuban coffee dispatches me on endless quests for rest rooms. Such places had never struck me as unsafe. Until now.

  “Britt? Britt! Are you there?”

  I tore my eyes from the pages. “Mom,” I blurted, “have you been reading about the rapist? Do you know he attacks women in rest rooms?”

  “Ours are locked,” she said after a pause, sounding slightly puzzled at the sudden change of subject.

  “Mom, he gets into them anyway.” My eyes drifted back to my notes. “I’m working on a project about the Downtown Rapist.”

  “The what …! Oh, good Lord, Britt!”

  “Don’t fret, Mom. You’re in more danger than I am.”

  “Don’t you tell me not to worry, Britt. I read in Newsweek just the other day that at least sixty journalists were killed or reported missing last year.”

  “Mostly in Yugoslavia or El Salvador. I promise not to go there.” These were tough times in the newsroom. With the budget crunch I was lucky to receive twenty-two cents a mile for driving to a shooting in Opa-Locka, much less airfare to a war.

  Reporting can be risky business in Miami, though I would never admit it to my mother. One journalist lost both legs to a car bomb, and some of us have been shot at, beaten, threatened, and stabbed, to say nothing of rocked, bottled, and mugged. But all in all the profession has a lower casualty rate than more death-defying occupations, such as all-night service station attendant and convenience store clerk.

  “A lot of reporters also go to prison.” Her tone seemed to imply that that was where I was headed.

  “That’s Cuba, Mom, not here.”

  A beat passed, then two. “You know I’m not comfortable discussing that.”

  I wondered where that line came from and whether she was seeing a therapist. “Look,” I said, suddenly contrite. “Where is this thing you want me to go to?”

  She told me.

  “Okay, if things stay slow on the beat Saturday, I’ll try to take a break and come by to say hello. If not, let’s have dinner on Monday, my day off,” I said.

  “Fine,” she trilled. “But let’s make it this Friday, instead. The Fine Arts Center is opening a wonderful new show, the Headache Art Exhibit.”

  “The what?”

  She laughed. “It was written up in your own paper. It’s the work of artists with headaches, exposing their pain.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “You’ve heard of suffering artists? This gives new meaning to the phrase. Your art critic said it’s wonderful. The self-portrait by one artist shows his skull exploding; another depicts a hand yanking a fistful of brains like taffy from the head of a screaming man. There might be some interesting people there,” she said meaningfully.

  Exactly what I need after a hard week’s work, I thought. My lower right eyelid had begun twitching almost imperceptibly. It does that occasionally. I pressed my fingers against it, squinting. How did this happen? Dinner on Monday had evolved into some sort of extravaganza on Friday, with the specter of matchmaking lurking behind the scene. My mother picked up on my silence.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. My eyelid is twitching.”

  “Lack of potassium. Eat a banana, dear. Or bake a nice sweet potato. You don’t eat or sleep right.”

  “I don’t know about Friday.”

  “He’s an ophthalmologist, Britt.”

  “Who?” I knew it, I thought.

  “My friend Emma’s son. She can’t wait for you to meet him,” she gushed. “He’ll only be in town for a few days.”

  I sighed, holding my eyelid tight as something inside it did the polka. With the other, I saw Billy Boots boldly force his whiskery face into Bitsy’s dish. The dainty little dog stopped eating and politely sat down, watching the cat devour her beefy food.

  “Britt, I hope they find the rapist, but why are you always so fascinated by the dark side, engrossed in contemptible things that shouldn’t involve you?”

  “Contemptible?”

  “Yes,” she snapped. “You’re just like … like…”

  “Say it,” I said wearily. “Like my father.”

  Stretching the phone cord and my right leg to the max, I tried to move Bitsy’s dish to safety with my foot, but the greedy cat moved with it, picking up speed, wolfing the dog food with amazing speed.

  “None of us is young forever,” my mother said. My attention wandered back to my notebook. “Opportunities don’t always come again,” she warned.

  They come far too often for the Downtown Rapist, I thought.

  “Uh-oh, something is boiling over in the kitchen,” I said. “Have to go now. Call you tomorrow. ’Bye.”

  Burdened by guilt, I glared at poor Bitsy, who was sniffing at her empty dish. “What’s wrong with you?” I scolded. “Why don’t you ever stick up for yourself?”

  I opened another can for her and warmed up a slab of leftover pulpeta for me. My Aunt Odalys’s homemade meat loaf is a winner, concocted with ham, beef, hard-cooked eggs, and stuffed olives. She had delivered it in a Care package the day before. My father’s youngest sister and my mother have not been on friendly terms since my fifteenth birthday. I made a note to buy some bananas, tossed a light ensalada with an oil and vinegar dressing, poured a glass of red wine, and cut a slice of crusty Cuban bread.

  Feeling better after dinner, I clipped my beeper to the waistband of my running shorts and took Bitsy for a stroll around the block. The night was beautiful, with pale trailing clouds strewn like fishermen’s nets across the sky. A few neighbors waved, stopping to chat along the way.

  The rapist stalked the forest of my mind, casting his shadow across every man we passed, particularly those young and dark-haired and his height. Strangely, no one but his victims had ever seen him. No strangers had been reported wandering the corridors of the buildings.

  I checked the time, displayed in lights high atop the landmark 407 Lincoln Road Building, and wondered if Harry Arroyo, the lead detective on the case, would be working late. This might be a good time to call him. I didn’t look forward to it; I would win no popularity contests at the Sexual Battery office right now. But I’m used to rejection, I thought glumly. The rape squad lieutenant had already hung up on me twice today, but Arroyo was usually less testy. Anybody was usually less testy than the lieutenant.

  Years ago the then all-male members of the rape squad liked to refer to themselves as the Pussy Posse. The department had come a long way since those days, but rape investigators could still be difficult and sometimes insensitive. Detectives had tried to keep the lid on this case, hoping to apprehend the rapist in the act. I heard about him after the third attac
k, but the lieutenant had warned that publicity would tip off the suspect. “The rapist will become more cautious, change his turf, alter his MO, making it tougher to catch him,” the lieutenant had insisted.

  That thinking always confounded me. A man out there raping and robbing must assume that the cops want a word with him. Besides, they had been unable to stop him. How many big-city bathrooms could a handful of cops keep under surveillance? How many other women would fall victim? News coverage might flush him out or provide valuable new information. The rapist’s wife, mother, or lover, a neighbor, co-worker, or employer might grow suspicious, I argued, and turn him in. If nothing else, it would at least alert potential victims to better protect themselves.

  The first story dubbed him the Downtown Rapist. He was not scared off. The man either didn’t read the newspaper or didn’t give a damn. He either had chutzpah or was powerless to control the demons that drove him.

  I fumbled with the key, suddenly aware of the darkness around my front door. Unsnapping Bitsy’s leash, I walked into the kitchen and found that Billy Boots had upchucked on the floor.

  “What did you expect after pigging out on that dog food? I told you it wasn’t good for you.” I mopped up the mess with a paper towel, then picked up my notebook and settled back into my favorite stuffed chair next to the telephone.

  What I needed was a news peg. I pushed number five on the automatic dialer. I listened to it ring, wondering if perhaps my mother was right. Normal people program the numbers of best friends, lovers, close relatives, and maybe their favorite boutiques or pizza delivery chains into their telephones. Mine connects me to the homicide bureaus of two police departments, the morgue, the fire alarm office, the rape squad, the police public information office, the County Hospital emergency room, the city desk, and Lottie.

  Harry Arroyo answered. “Hey, Harry, this is Britt Montero, from the News.”

  “No shit. I know who you are and where you’re from.” He sounded sullen, as I had expected.

  “Anything new on the Downtown Rapist?”

  “Not for publication.”

  I pretended not to hear. “Do you have a composite yet? What about a psychological profile?”

  He answered with a question. “Any idea how much grief you’ve caused us?”

  I hate that. “What do you mean, Harry?”

  “TV is busting our balls! The Downtown Development Association is mad as hell.”

  Each of the three new rapes since the original story had been reported in increasingly hysterical tones on TV.

  “The Chamber of Commerce is calling the chief, he’s busting the lieutenant’s chops, and the lieutenant is busting ours. Feminist groups are hassling the mayor—and now you call, all sweet and innocent, and ask what’s going on. You know what’s going on, for Christ’s sake; you started it!”

  “Harry, nobody wants to see you catch this guy more than I do.”

  “Oh, sure. Bet you’d love to see him locked up. How would you sell papers then?”

  “This isn’t about selling newspapers, Harry. You know that.” I tried to sound sincere and helpful. “Have you checked to see if maybe the same guy worked in more than one of those buildings?”

  He sighed and replied grudgingly. “We’re going through the personnel records now.”

  “Anything?”

  “It’s not easy. Each building has a maintenance staff or a hired cleaning crew. Office cleaners come and go; records on those kinds of low-paying jobs aren’t kept so good. Then each office has its own employees. They’ve got runners, messengers, delivery men, Fed Ex, UPS, all kinds of people coming and going.” The anger had faded from his voice, replaced by the weariness of a frustrated cop at a dead end.

  “Odd that nobody but the victims has seen him. Must mean he blends into the woodwork. He either belongs there or looks like he belongs there.”

  “Maybe he does.”

  “Like a security guard?”

  “We’ve looked at some of them.”

  “What about recently paroled sex offenders? Or maybe one of the service companies hires prisoners on work release.”

  “We’re checking; no lack of them either.”

  “What about the composite? The victims agree it looks like him?”

  “Pretty much.”

  I scribbled furiously in my notebook. This was the first official confirmation that a police artist drawing had been done.

  “What about the psychological profile?”

  “Not for release to the media.”

  Yes! I thought. They’ve got one! “Why not?” I complained. “Half a million readers. Somebody out there might recognize him and drop a dime.”

  “Don’t ask me, ask the lieutenant.”

  “Where does he carry the knife? Is it in a sheath?”

  “Some kind of bag—like a gym bag or carryon.”

  “That must be where he puts the money and jewelry he takes from his victims.” We had reported that the women were also robbed. “You think he’s a rapist who robs, or a robber who rapes when he has the chance?”

  “A rapist. A lot of guys take jewelry to convince themselves they’re really robbers, not rapists, but the loot is strictly secondary with this guy. And that fits in with the other stuff he takes.”

  “What other stuff?”

  “We ain’t saying.”

  “What do you mean? What other stuff? What else does he take?” No answer. I would have to coax the information out of him, bit by bit. “Harry?”

  His chair creaked as he changed position. “Yeah?”

  “He takes their underwear?”

  “Ummm, not exactly.”

  “Shoe fetish?”

  “Nah. Let’s just say he takes selected items of their clothing.”

  “What for? Think he masturbates on them later, while he relives the rapes?”

  “Won’t know till we can ask him. Let’s just say the man likes souvenirs. But don’t you print that, Britt! You hear?” His stress level rose, infusing his weary voice with new energy. “He reads that, he’ll dump the evidence, and we need to catch him with it.”

  “He knows what he took, Harry. Reading it would be no surprise to him.”

  “Yeah, but he don’t know for sure that we know.”

  I sighed. My neck felt stiff and my head began to ache again. “What about his accent?”

  “The two Spanish-speaking victims say he sounds Cuban.”

  “Is he circumcised?” American-born Cubans usually are, those born in Cuba are not.

  “Nope.”

  “Think he’s a Marielito?”

  “Possible. Won’t know till we catch him.”

  “Tattoos?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Where are they? What are they?”

  “Britt.” His tone was exasperated. “The lieutenant finds out I’m talking to you, I’ll wind up on the Squat Team for sure.”

  “SWAT?” I said hopefully.

  “Nope, you heard me. Squat!”

  Mules arrived in Miami from Colombia, Bolivia, or Peru, their intestines and stomachs packed with cocaine-filled condoms. If they fit a certain profile—one clue was a Colombian peasant in a three-piece suit—Customs pulled them out of line to be X-rayed at County Hospital. Smugglers had a choice: immediate surgery or a powerful laxative. Most elected the latter. Their bodily functions were monitored by cops assigned to recover the drugs—the Squat Team. Police work is not all guns and glory.

  “They wouldn’t do that to you, Harry.” I hoped he could not sense my grin. “You’re too good a detective.”

  “Yeah, catch me talking to you? The lieutenant would freak, go on another goddamn rampage, and I wind up watching some—”

  “What about the lab work on the rapist?”

  “He’s a secretor.”

  A secretor’s sweat, saliva, and other body fluids, including semen, reveal his blood type. “Good, what type is he?”

  “I can�
��t say.”

  “What about the psychological profile? What do they think?”

  “He’s got no respect for women.”

  “Come on, Harry. We knew that.” Brutalized and humiliated, the women were left bound and positioned for maximum shock effect. Whoever opened the door found them naked and exposed. A young CPA trainee working late when attacked was not discovered until the next morning. She was still under sedation, weeks later.

  “You got to get all this from the lieutenant. Nothing came from me, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Probably has a history of arrests, not necessarily for rape, has trouble with male-female relationships, comes from a dysfunctional family, was abused psychologically and maybe sexually as a child. Had temper tantrums as a kid and has a love-hate relationship with an older, dominant female relative. May even live with her.”

  The usual. “Anything else?”

  “Above-average intelligence, holds a job, and lives or works in the downtown area, not far from the crime scenes.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “One other thing. He’s got gonorrhea, the penicillin-resistant strain.”

  “Oh, no! Are the victims infected?”

  “Two, so far.”

  “God, Harry, stop this guy!”

  “Tell me about it. I’m doing everything but putting on makeup, wearing a wig, and sitting on the potty in the little girls’ room. Now do us a favor, will you, Britt? Put our phone number in your story.” His voice was raspy with fatigue. “Ask anybody with information to give us a call.”

  “Sure. Now you do me a favor.”

  He groaned. “What, Britt?”

  I couldn’t help thinking about my mother. “Catch him, Harry,” I said.

  I reread my notes, then carried Billy Boots into the kitchen. Delighted at the attention, he suddenly stopped purring when he recognized the hairball medication. Dark and sticky stuff in a toothpastelike tube, it looks and smells like molasses. The blurb on the box assures pet owners that cats will lick it eagerly straight from the tube. I read this aloud to Billy Boots. Unimpressed, he tried to escape. I was too fast and forced it between his clenched teeth, telling him he’d thank me later. I held his jaws together as he struggled, then finally swallowed, a resigned expression on his face.