by Hill, Brenda
Chapter Seventeen
Karr sat in his recliner clad in shorts and undershirt, the chrome barrel of his Colt .45 and a soft piece of an old t-shirt on his lap. To his left, a dented metal snack tray held the rest of his disassembled gun, his cleaning equipment and a bottle of Hoppe’s Number Nine. Two empty beer cans and a full one sat on the end table to his right, and smoke from a lit cigarette made a trail to the ceiling where it hung in the still night air. It was muggy and supposed to rain again.
After he left Tracy, he kept out of sight.
Jesus, he didn’t mean to stick it to her right then and there, but that lush body squirming up against his had blown his good intentions all to hell. After all, how much could a guy take?
He didn’t wanted to hurt her, either. After all, she wasn’t like the others. If only she’d have let him love her instead of acting like he was trying to kill her or something.
He trailed her home, watching her get up and fall, get back up and go some more. Damn if he wasn’t tempted to go help her. What the fuck was wrong with him?
He saw the ambulance; then, keeping a good distance away, he trailed it to the hospital.
After that, he’d hightailed it home. And began cleaning his gun. It hadn’t been fired in so long he was afraid it would misfire or something.
The apartment was quiet; Rosa was asleep in the bedroom. He tiptoed in to be sure she was dead to the world. She’d have a shit-fit if she knew what he’d done, but what the fuck. If she’d put out a little more, he wouldn’t have to go looking.
Broads. All alike. Tempt and tease, then yell when you want some. Christ, he hated them.
Karr took a swig of beer, picked up the remote and turned on the TV. Cheers and catcalls from the TV caught his attention. He hit the mute and listened for a moment to make sure Rosa didn’t wake up.
On one of the talk show reruns, a good-looking black broad was talking. He raised the volume just enough to hear.
“—and I should be able to wear anything I want without being hassled.” Enthusiastic applause broke out from the audience and she stood and bowed playfully. Almost six feet tall on spike heels and endowed with a figure most women would kill for, she was a knock-out. Decked out in a clinging lavender jumpsuit with a plunging v-neck, she drew the male eye like a fly to a fly-trap.
Another broad, Caucasian, looking about sixteen, dressed in a short leather skirt and one of those vest-things, got up from the row of chairs on stage and slapped the black broad’s hand with a high five. They both acted like they’d really scored or something. Disgusting.
The camera followed the female moderator to a kid in his early twenties, standing and waving his arms.
“Sure, you can wear anything you want to,” the guy said, “but if you go around wearing stuff like that, don’t act so bugged when guys look at you. That’s why you’re wearing it, ain’t it?”
Another round of applause. The black broad looked like she’d just sucked a lemon.
“Fucking two-faced cunts.” Karr muted the sound. He took a long swig of his beer. Dammit, what was wrong with women? Why couldn’t they stick with one person, be faithful, no matter if it was a lover, husband, or even a son? But no, they were always out there, strutting their asses in front of someone else’s nose.
He drained the can and wiped the wet streak from the corner of his mouth. God, he hated women. Always treating him like a sack of shit, like he didn’t have no feelings.
Showing him he didn’t count.
Just like Tracy. Always cutting him off like he wasn’t important. Well, he showed her.
But what if she talked? Not only would his career be in the toilet, but his whole fuckin’ life would go down. He didn’t think that mousey little tramp would say anything because he sure as shit had scared the crap out of her.
Was he willing to bet his life on it? He crushed the beer can with his fist. Maybe, just to be on the safe side, he’d disappear for awhile. Yeah, that’s what he’d do. Wouldn’t take long to pack. There wasn’t much around there he cared about, just his clothes, uniforms, and of course, his gun and stuff.
In the bedroom he opened the top dresser drawer and lifted the cheap flowered jewelry box. Rosa had just gotten paid and hadn’t had time to take care of the bills yet. He took three twenties, leaving her with a ten and some ones. Ah, Christ. He put a twenty back in the drawer. At least she had put up with him all this time, and he supposed she loved him, in her own way.
Dressed in jeans and his black windbreaker, he picked up his cardboard box of books from the floor and set it by the front door. He was an avid reader, with books on firearms and Karate, which he practiced religiously, books on police work, and his collection of porn and action-novels.
From the kitchen, he got a couple of paper bags, one for his toiletries, the other for his underwear. He carried the bags down to his car, then returned for the rest of his things including his box of ammunition and various pieces of gun cleaning equipment.
He could keep better watch on things from his van anyway.
Chapter Eighteen
Tracy couldn’t delay any longer; there was just so much table left. She slid to the edge, and then, of all things, started to cry. A person wouldn’t think there’d be any tears left, but there they were, rolling down her face and into her hair.
Jean stepped up to the table to raise Tracy’s feet and place them properly in the stirrups, but Tracy had such difficulty opening her legs that the nurse had to pry them apart. Then she draped a sheet across them.
Finally everything was in position. When Dr. Cole leaned toward her, Tracy’s knees came together.
“Tracy,” he said, looking up, “I need your cooperation.”
Tracy swallowed helpless tears. “I’m sorry. Please, can’t you do this later?”
“We realize this must be hard for you,” Jean told her, “but it’s necessary. If you just try to relax and let the doctor proceed, it’ll soon be over and you won’t have to think about it. The longer you delay, the longer you’ll be in here.”
Tracy turned her head away and opened her knees. She stared at a crack in the wall.
“Vaginal lacerations,” he said to Jean, “on and around the vulva. It sounds worse than it really is, Tracy. It’s actually a few small tears, but they do need suturing. We’ll apply a local anesthetic so you won’t feel a thing. We’ll do that toward the end of the exam, right before the sutures. It won’t be any worse than stitches after childbirth.”
Cooper made notes.
The doctor inserted the speculum. “Abrasion of the fornices and cervix,” Tracy heard him say. “That’s medical speak for bruising,” he told her, “and time will take care of it.” He continued his examination. “The next step involves evidence of sperm. We’ll do a wet prep and a UV.”
Tracy closed her eyes.
Dr. Cole explained the process to Tracy. “What we’re doing, aside from checking for injuries, is keeping the evidence separate and labeled. When the police get the guy, the court will know the chain of evidence has been preserved. That way they can use it against him.”
Tracy turned her face away. She didn’t care about chains or anything else while she lay spread open and exposed. She counted the minutes while he did something with glass slides.
Dr. Cole showed Tracy a small comb with bristles on the end.
“This is to collect foreign pubic hairs.” He gently combed Tracy’s pubis, then, with tweezers, dropped the hairs into the envelope Cooper held.
“I’ll have to use tweezers to remove a few of your own. It might sting.” He pulled a few and repeated the process with Cooper.
“Next we’ll use a special light to check for semen.” Jean handed him a rectangle light, about eight by two. He turned it on and ran it over Tracy’s body, then scraped at something on her thighs and vagina. Again, he carefully gave Cooper something. “We’ll administer the anesthetic now,” he told Tracy, “for the stitches. Then one more injection, a couple of pills, and we’ll be finishe
d.”
“Another injection?”
“For sexually transmitted disease prevention. The pills are Ovral, an emergency contraceptive and considered very effective. You’ll take two now and two more in twelve hours.” He stood up and peeled off the gloves. “Good news, Tracy. We’re finished. After you take your medications, you’ll be moved to your room.”
“Thank God,” she whispered.
Jean helped her out of the stirrups, then folded them back under the table. She acknowledged Tracy’s look of distaste. “Nobody likes them, not even me.”
“Good night, Tracy,” Dr. Cole said, leaving the room. “Get some rest, and I’ll check on you tomorrow.”
Sharon stepped in as Jean administered the injection.
“It’s over and you made it,” she said encouragingly.
Tracy turned away, too fatigued to talk or think. She just wanted to wrap herself in a protective cocoon and drift away.
***
In the hallway, Cooper approached Reese.
“You were awfully quiet in there. What’s the matter? Is it getting to you?”
Reese said nothing. He had wondered the same thing. He headed for the ER doors.
Cooper kept pace with him. “She’s lying, you know.”
“Why don’t you ease up a bit, try being human again.”
“Take lessons from you, you mean?”
Reese stopped and looked at her, jaws working. “Take it easy, Cooper, this isn’t the Peterson case.”
Her face flushed a deep red. Her eyes narrowed.
“She’s lying and you know it,” she said in a low voice. “If you want to pussyfoot around to make up for the past, that’s your business. I’ve got a job to do.”
“You don’t think she was raped?”
“Oh, no question she was raped. I just think she’s hiding something and I intend to find out what it is.”
With a scathing glance at Reese, Cooper turned and walked away, her heels clicking on the tile.
***
Reluctant to go home, Reese drove aimlessly around the city. Nothing about his apartment appealed to him. It was just a place to sleep and shower, a place to where he’d retreated after Julie walked out last year. Contrary to departmental regulations that a police officer must live in the same city he worked, Reese had rented a small place in the north suburbs, as far away from the old neighborhood as he could get.
He was afraid to go home. He’d just sit in front of the TV, waiting for the dawn, fighting his need for a drink.
Tonight, he just might lose.
He had hoped this was the one, that this vic would lead him to his guy. Instead, he’d taken one look at her and crumbled.
Dammit, Cooper was right. He was wracked with guilt and his judgment was off. So much so that he doubted his ability to do his job.
When he first saw Tracy’s battered face, every instinct demanded that he hunt down the bastard and pound his head into concrete. And when she looked at him with those soft brown eyes, he was reminded of another pair of eyes, and he had wanted to hold Tracy and never let anyone harm her again.
Cooper was right about something else. Tracy was hiding something. It had been almost painful watching her stumble for answers.
He should have stuck with hard questions instead of letting Tracy slide with half-assed answers and obvious lies.
Could he keep an emotional distance and do his job? At this point he didn’t know. But he had to try.
Ahead, the neon lights of a gas station blurred. He blinked, trying to ease his scratchy eyes. Cold seeped through his tired bones. Time to head home.
He swung north onto I-25 and exited on 104th Avenue. He cracked the window and took a deep breath, the fresh air clearing away the stale hospital air.
When he passed a Denny’s restaurant, he realized he hadn’t eaten all day. Their Grand Slam breakfast was good and plentiful, so he gave a signal and made his turn. Maybe hot coffee and something to eat would chase away the chill he couldn’t seem to shake. Probably just a band-aid to cover a festering wound, but right now, he’d settle for anything.
Chapter Nineteen
Karr parked his van across from the museum and angled so he could watch the front door.
At this black hour of the morning the lot was empty except for vehicles belonging to various night watchmen in the area. He was careful to park on the far side of the streetlight, in the shadows of a faded brick office building. He’d already changed license plates, using one of several he’d previously picked up from a salvage yard owner who, for the right price, didn’t ask questions.
The museum was quiet, so he’d sit tight and catch a couple hours sleep until it opened. He’d tell that red-headed hot pants some sob story about having to leave his shift early and needing his pay.
But he had to make sure it was safe. If that little bitch had turned him in, he’d have to think of something else for some fast bucks.
No, she wouldn’t rat to the cops, not that mousey little thing. Remembering the scared look on her face, he grinned. Zipping up his jacket, Karr leaned back and closed his eyes.
***
Reese turned onto his side, punched the pillow and lay quietly, trying to let his body drift into sleep. If he could get a couple of hours he would be okay.
The old apartment building creaked and groaned as it greeted the morning. A dog barked and howled. Crashing, slamming sounds came from a garbage truck as it emptied metal cans into its belly. From within the apartment complex a baby wailed.
Reese rolled onto his back. Flashes of lightning streaked through the window blinds and bounced on the ceiling. A roll of thunder followed.
Why had Tracy lied? Why would an assault victim protect the perp? Was it fear? Shame?
His phone rang. He let the machine pick it up. Cooper, with an edge to her voice, demanded he meet her at Tracy’s apartment. A few minutes later his pager beeped. He ignored that, too.
Maybe Tracy didn’t want a boyfriend or an ex-husband to know. Or perhaps she and the assailant had been having an affair and he got too rough. Maybe he had a wife and Tracy didn’t want her to find out.
But none of that rang true. He’d stake all his years on the job that Tracy was truly a victim.
He had to talk to her again, get her to tell what she knew. How could he do that without causing further harm? Right now she was in a fragile state, emotionally as well as physically. As long as she was covering something, demanding answers at this point could drive her further into silence.
Or, it could break her, something he didn’t want to risk. He had to get more information, and he needed to do it without Cooper’s abrasive manner. He had never liked working with a partner. He couldn’t think with someone at his side constantly suggesting and theorizing. Even though Cooper had more experience in sex crimes, it still boiled down to good detective work and gut instinct.
If he could trust what instinct he had left. He had to try. Maybe then he could sleep.
***
They thought it was because of the attack. Dr. Cole and the nurses assumed Tracy’s continuous need to check on Ritchie was because she had been brutalized.
They were right. But that wasn’t all.
It was the image of chicken necks that drove her to incessantly pick up the phone and call Diana.
She had seen Karr’s eyes. She knew he was capable of snapping her son’s neck as easily as she would snap a twig.
So she had to get out of the hospital, get Ritchie and go as far away as her small savings would take them.
Just as soon as she could walk.
She had spent the past few hours doing what the doctor ordered, trying to sleep, eating when she could. Medications helped ease the pain, and a Sitz bath and sprays kept the stitches bearable.
The headaches were violent and bouts of vertigo kept her in bed. Time, Dr. Cole told her. Time and patience.
How could she have patience when Karr was out there?
***
After a breakfast
of coffee and aspirin, Reese headed for the station. Cooper had started a file on Tracy and placed it in the top drawer of his desk. Inside was a note with Cooper’s bold script.
“Don’t you ever answer your phones? I’ve got a raw throat and I’m going home. Strep in the family and don’t want to spread it. You take over, Sanders, and for heaven’s sake, do your job.”
Reese crumpled the note and tossed it into the can. He was sorry Cooper wasn’t well, but he felt like a parolee whose parole officer suddenly left town. If only his other problems would go away as easily.
“Christ almighty!” Detective Paul Haggerty, another twenty-plus-year veteran, entered dripping water, his jacket pulled tight around his chunky body. “Any more rain and we’ll have to build an ark.”
Detective Dean Parrish, an ivy-league man who was Haggerty’s new partner, followed right behind him. Although his Brooks Brothers suit was wet, nothing was out of place, including his neatly-trimmed blond hair.
Haggerty unbuttoned his collar, mopped his face with a handkerchief and made his way to a desk next to Reese, collapsing heavily in the chair. Parrish perched on the corner.
“You desk jockeys got it made,” Haggerty told Reese. “Staying in where it’s dry, sipping coffee and pushing papers all day.”
“Careful,” Reese said, grinning, “your age is showing.”
“You go door-to-door awhile. You try to get information from tight-lipped, door-slamming assholes.”
“What? And deprive this young man here of the opportunity to observe coercion at its best? Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Fuck you,” Haggerty said.
“Wish someone would, because it’s been too long since I got laid. Got any prospects?”
“Don’t know anyone that desperate.”
Reese laughed. “Did you get anything?” Both detectives were working with Cooper.
“You kidding? The usual. No one in a five-block radius saw or heard anything. Have you heard from Coop? She went home sick. Can’t ever remember that happening before.”