“You really think he was the rapist? Torrey?”
“Sure he was. Sure. He was there in the Riverfront when you blabbed about walking the dog, wasn’t he?”
“I didn’t blab, it just slipped out while I was talking to Mrs. Lyman.”
“Whatever. He was there, that’s the point, so he knew right where to wait for you. It had to be him.”
“I guess so. I hope so.”
Ladybug started whining again in the kitchen. I’d put her out there when Lieutenant Ortiz showed up. She’s real friendly and I didn’t want her jumping all over him like she did the first time he came to the apartment. I went out there and got her. My wrist is mostly healed, but I still have to be careful picking her up even though she doesn’t weigh very much. I had to be real careful at Riverfront, too, now that the cast was off and I was back at work, not to carry glasses and trays the way I used to.
I don’t know what breed Ladybug is. I got her from the animal shelter and they didn’t know either, but she’s got this soft fur that’s a sort of orangey brown with little black spots here and there like one of those cute little ladybugs. She wiggled against me on the couch like she does, wagging her tail and licking my chin.
Jason made a face. “Stupid dog.”
“She’s not stupid, she’s a sweetie. Aren’t you, Ladybug?”
“What good is she? Didn’t even try to protect you that night, just turned tail and ran.”
“She’s only a little dog.”
“Came home and hid in the bushes out front. Not a peep out of her. If she’d barked, I would’ve gone out and found you a lot sooner.”
“It’s not her fault. She hardly ever barks—you always said that was what you liked about her, how quiet she is.”
“Yeah, well …”
Neither of us said anything for a while after that. Jason finished his first joint and fired up the second and smoked that one pretty fast. Uh-oh, I thought then. He had that look on his face, like he did sometimes when he was high.
“How about we go to bed?” he said.
“It’s too early for bed—”
“Not too early for what I’m thinking about.”
“Honey, I can’t yet. I just … can’t.”
“It’s been five weeks now. You’re all healed up. Besides, I just want to do it the usual way.”
Outside I was healed up, but not inside. I still got bad headaches, and pain sometimes when I went to the toilet. Just the thought of sex made me go all cold and twitchy. “I want to, honest I do,” I said, “but I’m not ready yet.”
“Yeah. Right. But five weeks is a long time for a guy to go without. You could give me head. Or a hand job at least.”
“I can’t do that, either. I wish I could, for you, but I can’t. Please don’t be mad at me. Please.”
“I’m not mad at you.”
Oh, God, I thought for about the dozenth time, what if I’m never ready for sex again? What if what happened that night made me frigid? Jason’s such a stud, he can’t get enough … What if he leaves me because I can’t make him happy in bed anymore?
My eyes were wet, all of a sudden. A sob built up in my throat. I held on tight to Ladybug and buried my face in her fur.
“Hey, you crying?”
“No … no …”
“Yeah, you are.” He got up from his chair and came over to the couch and sat down next to me, pushing Ladybug away so he could put his arm around me. “Hey, come on, there’s nothing to cry about.”
“I’m so sorry, Jason …”
“Hey, it’s not your fault. I know how hard it’s been for you. Every time I think about what that son of a bitch did to you …” He shook his head, pulled mine in against his chest. “It’s over now,” he said then. “Won’t be long before everything’s back to the way it used to be. Right?”
“God, I hope so. I love you, Jason.”
“I know it.”
“You still love me, don’t you?”
“Sure I do. Sure.”
We sat quiet for a time. Then he said, “Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”
Weed always made him hungry as well as horny. I wasn’t. I didn’t have much appetite; I’d lost four pounds from not eating since it happened. But I said, “I’ll go fix us something.”
“No, you won’t. I feel like going out. Celebrating with a pizza and a pitcher of beer.”
“Celebrating what?”
He winked at me. “What do you think?”
EILEEN JORDAN
Arthur called to tell me the news about Martin Torrey. He was excited, or as excited as he ever becomes, but I had no reaction. Whether Torrey was the invader or not was of little importance. I didn’t tell Arthur that. It would only have dismayed him.
“I would’ve come and told you in person,” he said, “but … well …”
“You needn’t explain.”
He cleared his throat. “How are you feeling?”
“Well enough,” I lied.
“No, um, complications or anything?”
“No.”
“That’s a relief. How soon are you going to start teaching again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Eileen, are you sure you’re all right? You sound … I don’t know, listless, distant.”
“Do I? I don’t feel that way,” I lied.
“But you don’t seem very …” He cleared his throat again. “Well, I thought the news would perk you up.”
“Why should a man’s violent death perk me up?”
“If he was the one who attacked you …”
“Do the police know now that he was?”
“No, I don’t think so. But whoever killed him believed it.”
“I don’t condone murder, Arthur. Not for any reason.”
There was a small silence. “Well … George and I just wanted you to know in case you hadn’t heard.”
No, George hadn’t. George Medlock was the reason Arthur had telephoned instead of coming in person. George disliked me as much as I disliked him, a mutual distaste that had nothing to do with his and Arthur’s sexual orientation. I have no prejudice against homosexuals. I do have a prejudice against bullies and lazy individuals who refuse to seek gainful employment. Arthur paid all their bills and was rewarded with abuse—verbal, and for all I knew physical.
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate the call.”
“If there’s anything you need …” He’d said that before, half a dozen times.
“Yes, I’ll let you know. Good-bye, Arthur.”
I had been dozing in Grandmother’s slat-backed walnut rocker when he called. My nights had been mostly sleepless since the invasion. That was how I thought of it, an invasion not only of my body but of my life, my soul. Until that night I had been unafraid of the dark; now I kept it at bay with lamplight from dusk until dawn. And still I couldn’t sleep. Night sounds refused to allow it; no matter how ordinary, they seemed like little whispers of menace. Brief naps during the day had become a necessity.
The tea I had brewed earlier was cold. Brew another pot? It didn’t seem worth the effort. I lowered myself slowly and carefully onto the thick cushion I had placed on the chair. At my age broken bones and internal injuries do not heal as rapidly as they once would have. Even after almost two months, every movement I made caused considerable discomfort.
I sat listening to the empty silence. I had lived in this tiny cottage for nineteen years now, ever since moving from Walnut Creek to accept the teaching position at South Santa Rita Elementary School. Three rooms and a bathroom just large enough for a stall shower. Tiny front yard, somewhat larger backyard and garden. No garage or carport. The rent was reasonable enough, though the owner had seen fit to raise it again last year.
Home. For the rest of my days. The only real home Miss (never Ms.) Eileen Jordan had ever had.
I looked around the oh-so-familiar living room. Wall of books, mostly classics acquired at thrift shops and library sales, small credenza, small l
ove seat (a misnomer here if ever there was one), cretonne-covered armchair, elderly television set, roller cart on one side of the rocker that served as an end table, floor lamp on the other side. And in the other rooms, utilitarian basics—and a full-length bedroom mirror that I had turned to the wall after my return home from the hospital.
How long had it been since my last visitor? The better part of a week. At first I had a sporadic stream of them, mostly during my four-day stay in the hospital. The police, of course. Arthur. Barbara Jacobs, my one and only real friend. Nancy Potter, a casual acquaintance. Principal Tate and three fellow teachers at South Santa Rita Elementary. None had stayed longer than a few minutes, and all except Susan Sinclair, the victims’ advocate, had seemed uncomfortable as well as sympathetic. Only the policewoman, Barbara, and Mrs. Bellarmine from across the street had come to the house during the early period of convalescence. And only Barbara more than once, to bring me groceries and medicines until I was well enough to go out on my own, though she still called every two or three days to ask how I was.
Alone again now, as I had been most of my life. An unattractive, middle-aged old-maid schoolteacher—a literal stereotype—with no surviving relatives except Arthur, no close confidantes, not even a pet because the owner refused to allow so much as a caged parakeet. Unwanted and unloved. Teaching not because it fulfilled me as it once had, but because I had no other skills and no other prospects. Neither a popular nor an unpopular teacher, neither a good nor a bad one. Half a century on this earth, and I had done nothing worthwhile, nothing that made a difference in anyone’s life. Not one of my former students had ever sought me out to say that I had been a motivating force in even the smallest of ways. Not one in thirty years.
Once I had consoled myself with the thought that my life would have been different if David had not been killed in the Persian Gulf. David, the only man I ever cared for who had shown interest in me in return. David, the only man I had ever willingly allowed inside my body—on two occasions before he was shipped overseas, and so long ago I could barely remember the experience. But over the years I had grown less and less convinced that he would have kept his promise of marriage if he had survived the war. More likely he would have found someone else, someone more attractive than a tall, spare woman with the kind of face a cruel individual had once likened to a horse’s, and breasts another cruel individual had referred to as being “like two fried eggs.”
Portrait of a barren life.
I made an effort to banish these bleak musings, without success. Before the invasion, I hadn’t often permitted an indulgence in self-pity; I had wrapped myself in an insulating blanket of normalcy. Now I seemed incapable of pretense any longer. Nothing cheered me. Not the prospect of returning to my classroom duties, or I would have done so by now. Not gardening—I hadn’t tended to the plants in the backyard since coming home. Not reading—my powers of concentration were no longer acute. Not the classical music of Brahms and Beethoven I had once enjoyed—it all seemed overly loud now, bombastic. Now and then I would turn on the television, but for the sound of voices rather than for knowledge or diversion.
It was as if I had been infected by a debilitating disease that had no cure. That was why the sudden demise of the man who may have been responsible had no effect on me. It made no difference who the invader was. The invasion itself was all that mattered. The act had ravaged me and would continue to ravage me for as long as I lived.
GRIFFIN KELLS
Martin Torrey’s abandoned vehicle had contained no useful evidence. Joe and Robert had gone over it carefully before having it towed to the police impound garage for further examination. The glove compartment contained the usual insurance and registration papers and little else. Nothing was hidden under the seats, the floor mats, or the interior or trunk carpeting. Perhaps Joe would find something when he fingerprinted and vacuumed the interior, but none of us held out much hope of it.
I pulled up the combined files on the four rapes. I’d combed through them a dozen times before and I knew each by heart, but now that our primary suspect was dead, another look couldn’t hurt.
There was no doubt that the assaults had all been committed by the same man; his actions and what vague piecemeal descriptions we’d gathered from the victims proved that. Average size and weight, of indeterminate age, and strong. Wore a ski mask, gloves, dark clothing. Wielded a knife of unknown type, threatened to cut the victims’ throats if they resisted. Forced each to lie facedown, ripped off clothing and underpants while spewing threats and obscenities in a raspy voice, then brutally beat and sodomized them. The attacks had been increasingly violent. Robert was of the opinion that if they were to continue, the next victim might not survive. I agreed with him.
Whoever the serial was, he’d been cunning and incredibly lucky. Four assaults in four months despite increased police patrols, stepped-up neighborhood watches, public warnings to women not to go out alone at night and to take security precautions when home by themselves. And each one committed without leaving a single solid clue to his identity.
No DNA evidence. A condom had been used each time and carried away afterward, none of the victims had managed to mark the man in any way, and no hairs or saliva or any other testable substance had been discovered. Sexual-assault evidence kits had been assembled on three of the four victims—Eileen Jordan had refused, her prerogative—and the only one processed so far, from the first victim, Sherry Wilder, had yielded nothing of any use. Chances were the two on-hold kits wouldn’t either, when they were finally processed.
No crime-scene evidence of any consequence. No significant mouth or body odors other than a general agreement among the victims that the assailant was clean smelling, as if he’d washed or showered not long before. No witnesses to anyone lurking in the areas before or after the assaults. And no significant pattern to his MO other than the use of a knife, the sodomizing and battering of the victims, the foul language, and threats of bodily harm. Usually in serial cases there are similarities in the places and types of victim chosen. Not so in this one. The crimes had taken place in different sections of town, on different nights of the week. The victims were of different ages, body types, hair color, employment, and social status. None knew or had any connection with the others, except for the tenuous and indirect link that had put Robert onto Martin Torrey in the first place.
Sherry Wilder. Age twenty-five. Married, no children. Slender, athletic. Blonde. Residence: Rancho Estates. Part-time instructor at Norden’s Health & Fitness downtown. Date of assault: December 16, last year. Place and time: Echo Park, approximately seven P.M. She often went jogging in the park, usually during daylight hours, but on that day chose the evening because of a late stay at the fitness club and the unseasonably warm weather. Attacked and dragged off one of the paths into the woods northeast of the children’s playground. She fought him, despite the knife, and he gashed her neck above the shoulder, a deep four-inch wound that required stitches.
Ione Spivey. Age forty. Married, one child. Stocky. Brunette. Housewife. Residence: Denton Street, a lower-middle-class neighborhood. Date of assault: January 19. Place and time: her home, approximately nine P.M. Alone in the house, her husband away on an overnight delivery to the Bay Area, her son spending the night with a friend. Home-invasion assault, entrance gained through an unlocked kitchen door. She had just gotten out of the bathtub and was entering the bedroom when the light suddenly went out and she was grabbed and dragged to the bed. Punched in the face when she screamed, the blow breaking her nose. Punched again and her cheek cut when she attempted to open the nightstand drawer where her husband kept his .38 revolver. Submitted passively after that. Perp took the handgun with him when he left, the only time he’d stolen anything from his victims.
Eileen Jordan. Age fifty. Unmarried. Tall, thin. Gray haired. Schoolteacher, fourth and fifth grades at South Santa Rita Elementary. Residence: Pine Court, middle-class neighborhood, southeast side. Date of assault: February 15. Place and time: South
Santa Rita Elementary, seven forty-five P.M. She’d driven to the school to retrieve some forgotten notes for a lesson she was preparing. Grabbed from behind while on her way to her classroom from the parking lot at the rear and assaulted in a grassy area between two wings. Despite passive submission, battered repeatedly on the head, neck, and rib cage during the act, resulting in two broken ribs. Also suffered severe rectal damage.
Courtney Reeves. Age twenty-two. Petite. Ash-blonde hair, turquoise streaked in the modern fashion. Unmarried. Employed as a waitress at the Riverfront Brew Pub, where her live-in boyfriend, Jason Palumbo, also worked as a bartender. Residence: apartment at 2644 Ninth Street, across from the high school football and track field. Date of assault: March 9. Place and time: under the west-side bleachers, approximately eight P.M. Accosted while on her way home from walking her dog on the field, the side gate to which had at that time been left unsecured at night. Struck violently on the head when she struggled and cried out, then thrown to the ground with enough force to break her right wrist. The dog had been of no help to her, having fled as soon as she was accosted. In addition to the broken wrist, suffered a concussion and multiple cuts, contusions, and abrasions.
Rape is about power, not sex, and is usually though not always motivated by a pathological hatred of women. Whoever had committed these atrocities was a sicker, more sadistic predator than most. A psycho who needed to satisfy his demons monthly, who would eventually cross the line into homicide if he wasn’t stopped. All the more reason to hope Robert was right and he’d already been stopped.
We’d painstakingly interviewed dozens of individuals. Santa Rita had eight registered sex offenders, none with a record of violent rape, all with unbreakable alibis for one or more of the assaults. Same with registered sex offenders in this county and neighboring counties. Same with men who had records of domestic violence or crimes against women involving actual or threatened physical abuse. Not a single viable suspect had surfaced until the fourth assault, when the link that led Robert to suspect Martin Torrey had turned up.
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