Robert had spoken to Torrey at Soderholm Brewery after the assault on Ione Spivey, one of a half dozen warehouse employees who knew in advance that her husband would be away from home on an overnight haul. Torrey’s name came up again when Courtney Reeves gave her statement. Few people knew that she walked her dog alone on the football field at night, she said; she didn’t advertise that because dogs were prohibited on school grounds. But she remembered revealing her “secret” during a conversation about dogs and dog-walking with one of the brew pub’s women customers. One other person had been within earshot at the time—the man delivering kegs of Soderholm beer, Martin Torrey.
A tenuous link at best, and to only two of the assaults, but enough to tweak Robert’s bloodhound instincts. Torrey had been nervous, somewhat evasive, during a second round of questioning. That, plus his inability to supply alibis for the times of any of the assaults (the claimed penchant for solitary night driving), his average size and the strength necessary to wrestle kegs and cases of beer, and that he was a loner not particularly well liked by the brewery’s other employees, had raised the red flag even higher. An NICS background check had revealed Torrey’s past history in Ohio, and that in turn led to the discovery of his failure to register as a sex offender with the California justice system.
His case history and psychological profiles, which we’d received from the Ohio authorities, showed him to be what was termed a paraphiliac, his voyeuristic urges dating back to his midteens. It wasn’t the sight of naked women that got him excited, it was the secrecy in spying on them. He hadn’t approached any of his three peeping victims, only fantasized about having sex with them while masturbating. According to the psychiatrist who’d examined him prior to his trial, and to the ones who’d treated him after he was institutionalized, he harbored no aggressive tendencies toward women and was a danger only to himself. They stated that he was deeply ashamed of his affliction and consumed with self-hatred, but he had responded well to therapy and been pronounced fit to return to society after nine months.
The caveat in all of this, a consulting psychiatrist in Sacramento had told me, was that paraphilia had no cure and could not only reoccur but in rare cases mutate into other, dangerous forms of sexual perversion. Among the causes in those cases were frustrations in the individual’s day-to-day existence, changes in his attitudes and feelings toward women, the inability to derive satisfaction from normal sexual relations, and the viewing of violent forms of pornography.
This information plus the felony failure-to-register charge was enough, once we had Torrey in custody, for a judge to grant search warrants for his home and the Camry. But we hadn’t found even one scrap of evidence linking him to the assaults. Nor had we found any printed or computerized pornography in his possession. He’d vehemently denied any interest in porn, and both he and his wife refused to discuss their sex life.
Ted Lowenstein had played down the investigation and the felony-arrest story in the Clarion, but the county’s largest newspaper, the Riverton Sentinel, gave it plenty of space and also ran a photograph of Torrey. One of the TV stations did likewise. His wife’s scraping together enough money to meet his bail kept him in the public eye, his freedom fuel for fear, anger, resentment.
And so here we were, once more in a holding pattern exacerbated now by Torrey’s assassination. Was he or wasn’t he the serial? If he was, how were we going to prove it? If he wasn’t, how were we going to catch a mystery man, who had eluded us for four months, before he struck again?
There was a knock on the door and Sergeant Eversham poked his head inside. “First out-of-town reporters just showed up, clamoring for an interview with you. Send them in or stall them?”
I stifled a sigh. “No point in stalling. Go ahead, send them in.”
ROBERT ORTIZ
I made my second visit to the Spivey home after determining that Jack Spivey had returned from his hunting trip with his son. Although I was careful not to say anything to him that could be taken as an accusation, he was upset at being questioned and surly as a result. He admitted threatening Martin Torrey in the Safeway parking lot—“I couldn’t stand to see him walking around loose after what he done, I just lost it for a minute, that’s all. I never would’ve shot the son of a bitch, but I’m glad somebody did. You find the guy blew him away, I’ll shake his hand.” But Spivey’s alibi appeared solid. He had gone bowling on Friday evening, as Mrs. Spivey had told me, and he provided the names of teammates on the Soderholm Strikers as witnesses to the fact.
Jason Palumbo remained a suspect despite his and Courtney Reeves’s claim that he had not left their apartment Friday night. One spouse or partner will often lie to protect the other. And I still did not care for Palumbo’s smug attitude, his approval of the manner of Martin Torrey’s death. My gut instinct was that he was capable of homicidal revenge, particularly if he was under the influence of drugs. The only doubt I had concerned his ability to premeditate a crime with as many oddities and complexities as this one appeared to have.
Sherry Wilder was the only other suspect thus far. Her alibi was insupportable, her anger and hatred were very much on the surface, and she appeared to have developed an alcohol problem. Liquor mixed with rage can be a lethal combination.
It was nearly seven when I left the Spivey home. I checked in with Griff again—he was still in his office, as I expected he would be. He’d put in many long hours since the serial rapes began and would continue to do so until that case and the Martin Torrey homicide were resolved. Captain Judkins, had he been promoted to chief, would not have been up to the task. No le pidas peras al olmo. An old Mexican proverb that translates to “Do not ask something from someone who cannot do the job.”
I did not envy Griff’s position in the slightest. I have no difficulty commanding men, but no aptitude for administrative duties and little for public relations, and I do not suffer fools well; I would not make a proper police chief in Santa Rita or anywhere else. My goal is to become a high-ranking detective with the state police or the police department of one of the larger cities. Such a place in law enforcement best suits my abilities. I had not yet applied for one because Sofia and I did not want to uproot our family while our daughters were still in school, but perhaps one would be forthcoming if I was instrumental in ending the crime wave here. One can always hope.
In my father’s time, rising even to the rank of detective lieutenant in a town the size of Santa Rita would have been difficult if not impossible for a Mexican American. Now, with Hispanics comprising more than 40 percent of California’s population, professional and political opportunities for men and women of my race have risen substantially. Not to an unlimited degree, nor will they as long as racism has a voice, but perhaps when any grandchildren Sofia and I are blessed with are grown, that day of unlimited opportunity will come. After all, who would have thought as recently as twenty years ago that a half-black man would be elected president?
There was no need for me to return to the station tonight. I drove home to Riverview Acres, the new subdivision in the low hills east of town where we had lived for five years. The house and property are of good size, attractive enough in the modern ranch style, comfortable enough, but not the sort of permanent home I wished my family to have. If there was to be a larger, more attractive, more comfortable one for us, it would not be in this town where I had lived most of my life.
Sofia met me with words of comfort. A beautiful woman inside and out, my Sofia. I marveled to look at her, for she might still be the girl of twenty I had married eighteen years ago. Her face, Madonna-like to my eye, was unlined, and not a single strand of gray blemished her thick black hair. No day passed that I did not thank God for uniting us.
I kissed her, held her in a tight embrace. Yet I did not take as much simple pleasure in the moment as I would have at another time. Behind her I could see the large bronze crucifix adorning our living room wall, and once again I thought of the strangeness of the pose of Martin Torrey’s body. Why had his k
iller laid him out in such a blasphemous way? Mocking religious symbolism, as Griff had suggested? A twisted apology to God for having broken the fifth commandment? The contrary offering of a damned soul to Satan? Or was there another reason for the unholy pose, sane or insane, that might be a clue to the perp’s identity?
Sofia was speaking to me. “You must be hungry, querido.”
I wasn’t, but I said, “Yes. A little.”
“Come into the kitchen. I’ll fix you something.”
“Where are the girls?” I asked, following her.
“Daniela’s in her room, no doubt talking or texting on her phone.”
“What a surprise.” The girl, fourteen now, might as well have had the instrument surgically attached to her hand, if not her ear; she was never without it, even while she slept, she kept it under her pillow. “Valentina? In her room as well?”
“No. Out on a date.”
“A date?”
“It’s Saturday night.”
“Not with that Rodriguez kid. I don’t trust him—”
“No. She has a new boyfriend. Joe O’Reilly.”
“O’Reilly. An Anglo.”
“Irish. But his people aren’t supporters of the IRA.”
“Please, Sofia, I’m not in the mood for jokes. What do you know about him?
“He’s a nice, polite boy. From a good Catholic family—his father is an attorney and he was an altar boy. Valentina seems to like him very much.”
“She’s only seventeen.”
Sofia laughed. “Not that much. And this is only their first date.”
“Where did they go?”
“To a movie. I don’t remember which one.”
“The boy knows to have her home by midnight?”
“Yes. Roberto, don’t worry so much. Valentina and Daniela are good girls—both will be virgins on their wedding nights. As I was, or have you forgotten?”
That night was forever burned into my memory and I said as much. “It’s not the girls I worry about. Or teenage boys, either.”
“The assaults? There’ll be no more if the demonio is dead, as you believe.”
“No more by him. But there are other predators out there. Too many, these days.”
“But not in Santa Rita. Dios prohibe.”
“From your lips to God’s ear.”
LIANE TORREY
In my dream, Martin came into the bedroom and sat next to me on the bed. Bright moonlight shone through the window so I could see him clearly. He was much younger, the age he’d been when we first met at the Fourth of July picnic, the year after I graduated from high school and he moved to Massillon from Cincinnati to take a job with a construction company. His face fuller and unlined, his hazel eyes clear, his hair—the same auburn color as mine—thicker and the cowlick he’d never been able to tame more pronounced. But he wasn’t smiling as he had often done back then. He looked lost, miserable.
He took my hand. His was cold, so cold I wanted to pull mine away. But I didn’t. “I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you, Liane.”
“I know you are.”
“I never meant you to be hurt. Not in any way.”
“I know that, too.”
“Do you still believe in me, even now?”
“Yes. I never doubted your innocence.”
“I wasn’t innocent in Ohio. Those terrible things I did—”
“You were sick then. You weren’t sick anymore when we came here.”
“The police thought I was. Other people. The one who killed me.”
“Wrong, they’re all so wrong.”
“You’re better off without me,” he said.
“No. No, I’m not.”
“You should have divorced me when they sent me to that hospital. You should have started a new life.”
“I couldn’t leave you at a time like that, even if I’d wanted to. And I didn’t want to. My life was with you, for better or worse.”
“For worse, then and now. Did you really believe things would be better when we moved out here?”
“Yes. I did.”
“The way they were before my sickness? The good times we had then? Picnics, barbecues, dinner parties with friends. The driving trip to St. Louis, the steamboat cruise down the Mississippi.”
“I thought we could have good times here, yes. A new place, a fresh start.”
“But we didn’t, did we. No cruises on this river, no trips anywhere. No picnics or barbecues or dinner parties. No friends.”
“Holly and Nick—”
“Neither of them liked me. They only tolerated me for your sake.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true. You know it is.”
“I was starting to make friends, you would have, too, eventually—”
“No, I wouldn’t. I used to like people and people liked me. Some people, anyway. But not here. Everyone looked and acted as if they sensed something wrong with me. That’s why I kept to myself at work, why I quit Nick’s bowling team after three weeks. I told you that. You said you understood.”
“I did understand. Things would have gotten better, if …”
“If I’d registered as a sex offender as I was supposed to. If my past hadn’t caught up with me, if our new life hadn’t come apart at the seams.”
“I don’t blame you for that. Nick couldn’t have gotten you the job at Soderholm if they’d known about … if they’d known.”
“I could have found another job. The police would still have accused me of being a rapist, registered or not.”
“It’s a monstrous coincidence the rapes started after we moved here. You had nothing to do with them, you couldn’t have because …”
“Because ever since I got out of the hospital, I was impotent. They wouldn’t have believed me if I’d told them. Or you, either.”
“It wasn’t a permanent condition—”
“Wasn’t it?”
“You just needed more time to heal, to adjust.”
“You kept saying that. Heal, adjust. ‘We’ve only been here a few months, Marty, give it more time.’ Trying to convince me or yourself?”
“You.” But that was a lie. Me, too, yes. Yes.
“Even when I could get it up, I couldn’t give you a child. But I’m glad I couldn’t. You should be glad, too.”
“Oh, but I’m not.” That was also a lie. I wanted children very much in the beginning, and if I had had a baby, then it would have given me comfort during the long, lonely months Martin was away, but by the time we came to California it was too late and I was no longer sorry we were childless. And now? Now?
“I can’t cry for you, Marty,” I said. “I want to but I can’t.”
“I’m not worth crying over,” he said. “I never was. I’ve brought you nothing but pain and misery. I’m better off dead. You’re better off too.”
“Don’t say that.”
“You know it’s true.”
“No, I don’t know it. You’re a victim, too, violated just like those poor women—”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.” He let go of my hand and stood up. “Don’t grieve too long, Liane. Start over again with somebody new. Somebody like Allan Zacks.”
“I don’t have any feelings for Allan.” Another lie?
“He has feelings for you. He’s the kind of man you need, strong, reliable, emotionally stable.”
“No …”
“Yes.”
He backed away from the bed, and a dream mist seemed to be around him, making him look shimmery, indistinct. And then he was gone. He didn’t say good-bye, he just vanished into the mist. Gone.
Gone.
I lay there wanting him to come back and not wanting him to come back. And hating myself because I was as glad as I was sad that my life with him was over.
PART TWO
SUNDAY, APRIL 17–THURSDAY, APRIL 21
GRIFFIN KELLS
Sunday morning.
Nice one, too, weatherwise. Birds racketing in the p
ine trees outside, sunlight slanting into the bedroom through the space between the drapery folds.
The kind of day even an overworked, harassed servant of the people ought to be able to enjoy.
When there were no crises to deal with and I wasn’t required to appear at some community event, Sundays were reserved for Jenna and me. Once a month we attended church. Neither of us was much taken with formal religion, but Jenna felt, rightly, that it was politic for the chief of police to be seen now and then praying along with the rest of the flock. The other Sundays we’d make love, stay in bed for a while afterward reading the newspapers, then have breakfast at home or brunch out and spend the rest of the day doing whatever we felt like.
This would have been a good Sunday to spend boating on the river, in the small Chris-Craft inboard we kept berthed at the North Park Marina. In the summer months Jenna liked to water-ski. She was good at it, too; she had the willowy body and coordination of a young girl. The water was too cold for skiing this time of year, but on sunny late-April days like this one, it wouldn’t be too chilly for a bundled-up boat ride as far south as the Tule Bend marshes. Jenna would have been all for it. Art was another of her talents; she was particularly good at depicting marsh birds in both charcoal sketches and watercolors, and this was the perfect time of year for bird watching and sketching. I’d have liked nothing better today than to let the cold wind and the quiet marsh sloughs clear away some of the overload of stress, sharp this morning after another restless night. Not even two Ambien got me more than four or five hours of sleep these days.
Well, there was one thing I’d have liked better right now. Jenna was still asleep, lying on her side facing toward me. She’d thrown the covers partially off, and the shorty nightgown she wore had hiked up over one slim, bare hip, revealing some of the curly ash-blonde hairs at the shadowed joining of her legs. I felt a stirring of desire, but I didn’t do anything about it. There was time enough, but I was too tired, too tense, too distracted, for the kind of slow, leisurely lovemaking we both preferred.
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