I knew that. But why would she say no? Some victims do, it’s true; Eileen Jordan, the grade-school teacher, had also refused. Humiliated enough already, she’d said. Maybe that was Angela’s reason. Or maybe it was because only the first of the rape kits taken in the other assaults had been processed—lack of funds, lack of initiative, the same old goddamn story—and had yielded no DNA, no physical evidence transferred onto the victim at the scene. Angela knew that; I’d written an editorial about the backup and slow processing of rape kits statewide…
The nurse who showed me to Angela’s room reiterated Ferguson’s instructions: maximum stay of three minutes, view but don’t touch the patient. I had myself girded before we went in, but it nonetheless felt like being struck a physical blow. One of a loving father’s worst nightmares, knowing what had been done to his daughter and seeing her like this.
She lay flat on her stomach, the visible side of her face chalky and scrunched up, one hand touching her chin—the kind of sleeping pose she’d favored as a child. IV tube taped to one arm. Bandage on her temple, another on her neck partially visible beneath the drawn-up covers. Swelling bruise on her cheekbone.
The fury simmered, threatened to take over again; I battled it down. Took a step toward the bed, but the nurse laid a restraining hand on my arm and I stood still again. The constriction in my chest made it difficult to breathe. I had never felt more helpless in my life.
I made no effort to stay in the room more than the allotted time. Three minutes was all I could bear right now; later, when she was awake, when I’d had more time to clamp a lid on my emotions, it would be a little easier to look at her in that bed with my eyes dry and my vision clear.
GRIFFIN KELLS
It was early morning before Susan Sinclair called from the hospital to report that Angela Lowenstein was well enough to be interrogated.
She also reported that a forensic medical exam had been refused. No reason given by the victim, but she had been made aware of what it entailed; Susan thought that the necessity of providing a complete and thorough medical and sexual history, as well as being subjected to a full-body physical examination, was the reason the girl had balked. Sexually active young women are not always comfortable discussing their private lives with strangers, especially when they have a father as doting and straitlaced as Ted Lowenstein. The refusal was of no real consequence, given the backlog of rape-kit testing and the unlikelihood of one revealing anything useful.
I had been at the station all night and I was dog tired. A couple of hours of sleep on the sofa in my office hadn’t done much except make me feel logy and short-tempered; a shower and a shave and half a pot of coffee hadn’t helped any, either. The lack yet again of leads in this fifth assault and its probable repercussions were a heavy weight.
Calls had begun to pour in to the police lines and my cell as word spread. The only ones I deemed necessary to deal with immediately were from Ted Lowenstein, Frank Judkins, District Attorney Gavin Conrad, Councilman Hitchens, and Mayor Delahunt. The mayor was full of outrage, moral indignation, and his usual criticism of me and my department’s methods; he demanded I meet with him in his office at eleven o’clock, implying without saying so that others would be present. Pendergast and Young, probably. An adversarial meeting, in any event. I told him tersely I’d be there unless police business intervened and cut him off.
Lieutenant Ortiz had conducted the four previous interrogations, but I felt that I ought to handle this one because of my personal acquaintance with the victim. I had always gotten along well with Angela, as I had with her father, and I believed I had her trust; she might be more comfortable with me asking intimate questions than Robert, who tended to be blunt. Also, if she was able to tell us anything that required immediate action, I would be right there to set the wheels in motion.
Robert and I left the station together but drove to the hospital in separate vehicles. Susan, in uniform, her short graying hair finger-rumpled, was waiting outside Angela’s private room. She is a highly competent officer, compassionate in her role of victims’ advocate, but with an otherwise no-nonsense attitude learned from her father and grandfather, both of whom were retired policemen. Ted Lowenstein was with his daughter now, she told us before we entered.
It wasn’t easy, walking in on them. Angela’s battered condition was gut-wrenching because of the personal connection. She lay half over on her left side in the elevated bed, in obvious discomfort, but her eyes were clear except for flickers of pain. Her father sat beside her, holding her hand, unshaven and gaunt from his all-night vigil. For the first time since I’d known him he wore a jacket, an old brown corduroy with patched elbows, and a white dress shirt instead of one of his trademark Hawaiian shirts. He wanted to stay during the questioning, but Angela said, “No, Daddy, no, please,” and I asked him to leave. The room was already crowded and it wouldn’t have done him any good to hear the details of the assault.
When he left, I sat in the chair he’d occupied and told Angela how sorry I was. Ghost of a smile in response. Susan pulled the only other chair over alongside me and set up the portable recorder. Robert went to stand against the wall next to the door to observe and listen.
Susan began the interrogation by saying, “If any questions make you feel uncomfortable, Angela, you don’t have to give specific answers. But as we discussed before, the more information you can provide, the better.”
“I’ll tell everything I can remember.” Small voice, but steady.
I said, keeping my tone gentle, “The man was waiting in your apartment when you arrived home, is that right?”
“In the dark, yes. He grabbed me before I could turn on the lights.”
“The door was securely locked?”
“Yes. I never leave it unlocked.”
“Do you have any idea how he got in?”
“No.”
“Does anyone besides you have a key?”
“No. Well, Tony did.”
“Tony?”
“My boyfriend. Tony Ciccoti. He lives in Riverton.” Angela’s lips trembled; she caught the lower one between her teeth. “You called him, didn’t you?” she asked Susan.
“Of course. He should be here by now.”
“He must have been upset … wasn’t he?”
“More than upset and very concerned. You can see him after we’re done here.”
The answer seemed to relieve Angela. As though she’d been afraid he might not want to come, might somehow blame her for the attack—a typical victim response. She must really care for him, to need him as much as she needed her father.
“About your apartment key, Angela. You said Tony did have one. Meaning he doesn’t any longer?”
“No. I had to ask for it back.”
“Why?”
“I lost mine.”
“Oh? When was that?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“Do you know where you lost it?”
“No. It must have fallen out of my purse. I couldn’t find it anywhere.”
“Only the apartment key, or others as well?”
“Only that one. I kept it separate, on a small dream catcher.”
Dream catcher. Native American object decorated with beads and feathers that is supposed to filter out bad dreams, ward off evil spirits.
“Was there anything else attached to the key or on the key itself with the address of your building?”
“No. Just the key and the dream catcher.”
“Do you always keep your purse with you?”
“Yes.”
“Never leave it unattended for any reason?”
“Unattended?”
“Where someone might have access to it.”
“You mean my key could’ve been stolen? No. I wouldn’t … no.”
I let a few seconds pass before I asked, “Have you noticed anyone hanging around your apartment building, a man who doesn’t live there?”
“No.”
“Someone following or watching
you, in a car or on foot?”
“Stalking me?” Angela was silent for several seconds, working her memory. Then: “No. Nobody like that.”
“Have you received any anonymous phone calls, cell or landline?”
“You mean … obscene? No.”
“A caller hanging up when you answer?”
“No.”
“Has a man made advances to you recently?”
“… Sexual advances? No.”
“Not necessarily sexual,” I said. “Asked you for a date and became angry or aggressive when you rejected him.”
“I get asked sometimes, but … no, nothing like that. Why? You don’t think the man might be somebody I know?”
“We have to look at all the possibilities.”
“Yes, but … He’s the same one who raped those other women, isn’t he? What he did to me … he must be the same man. A stranger … picked me at random like the others …”
She was becoming agitated, fright and confusion like a shadow play on her pale, bruised face. Susan calmed her with a gentle touch and a few murmured words.
“Are you up to talking about the assault now?” I asked.
“… Yes.”
“You said the assailant grabbed you before you could turn on the lights.”
“I heard him breathing and I tried to get away, but he … his arm was around my neck and his hand over my mouth. Then he pushed me up against the wall and stuck … stuck me with the knife.”
“So you didn’t get a clear look at him at any time during the attack.”
“No. It all happened in the dark.”
“Can you estimate his size? Tall or short, thin or fat?”
“Not much taller than me … not fat …”
Average. Same description as in the previous four cases.
“His age? Twenties, thirties, forties?”
“Not forties …” Angela hesitated, working her memory again. “Young, but not very young … not a teenager.”
“A man under thirty.”
“I … think so.”
That was something different. Maybe. The consensus among the other victims was that the perp had been older, thirties, possibly forty. Angela could be misestimating his age; traumatic experiences can blur and distort specific details.
“What did he say to you?”
“He said … he said if I screamed he’d slit my throat.”
“Was his voice familiar?”
“… It was muffled … the mask.”
“But it might have been familiar? Do you have that impression?”
“I don’t know … maybe, but I can’t be sure.”
“Was there anything distinctive about it?”
“Raspy. A fast, raspy whisper.”
“Fast?”
“His words … he ran them all together.”
“What else did he say?”
“Nothing until after he dragged me over to the couch—” She broke off, shifting position, the pain flickers in her eyes again. “Straight to the couch, in the dark. He must’ve been there for a while.”
“Why do you say that?”
“There’s usually a chair between the couch and the door. He must’ve moved it out of the way.”
Susan said, “Either he put the lights on to look around or he had a flashlight. Making preparations while he waited.”
Which implied that he’d had some kind of advance notice that she wouldn’t be home and when to expect her back. Stalking her whether he was known to her or not.
“He threw me down on the couch,” Angela said, “fell on top of me with his knee in my back. He said if I moved or made a sound he’d kill me. Then he … then … he kept hitting me, panting like an animal, like a dog, and I heard him … he …”
Her eyes were squeezed shut, the anguish again audible in her voice.
Susan said, “It’s not necessary for you to go into any more detail.” But Angela didn’t seem to hear her. “Giggling the whole time he was doing it … but thank God it didn’t last long, he didn’t last long … I thought he was going to kill me when he was done, but all he did was tell me not to scream or he’d come back and … fuck me again, and then he was gone and I … I …”
Reliving the ordeal was too much for her. She buried her face in the pillow, her body shaking with smothered sobs.
Susan stood up, saying, “That’s all for now, no more questions,” the words directed to me as much as to Angela, then reached for the bell to summon a nurse.
Robert and I got out of there as soon as the nurse arrived. My mouth was dry and there was a hard knot in my throat that made it difficult to swallow. You get hardened to victim interrogations along with everything else in police work, but now and then emotions seep through the shell and you’re not quite able to dam up the leaks.
Ted Lowenstein was waiting with Angela’s boyfriend, Tony Ciccoti, a good-looking young man with a mop of shaggy black hair. The anger and anxiety they were feeling was palpable. Ted asked if she had been able to tell us anything that would help identify her assailant, if it was the same man who had committed the previous assaults. I hedged by giving the same answer to both questions: too soon to tell. Which was the truth, but not what he or the boyfriend wanted to hear.
Susan and the nurse came out of Angela’s room. Angela was asking for Tony; Susan took him in to her.
“Christ, Chief,” Ted said to me, “you’ve got to nail the bastard this time. You’ve got to, you hear? You’ve got to!”
It’s foolish to make premature vows in police work, but I made one anyway—for my temporary peace of mind as well as for Lowenstein’s. “We will,” I said, thinking, This time, by God, we’d better.
HOLLY DEXTER
Nick and I heard about it at breakfast. He likes to listen to the news on the local radio station while he’s eating, God knows why, as depressing as it usually is. But this morning I was glad he did.
Well, glad isn’t the right word. It was a shock, really, and I didn’t know how I should feel. I mean, I had all sorts of conflicting emotions. I was sorry for the poor Lowenstein girl, and outraged and nervous again because women in Santa Rita were still at risk, but at the same time I felt relieved—mainly for Liane, but for myself, too. I never believed for a minute, any more than she had, that Marty was the rapist, and now we had proof of it. Proof that his murder was utterly senseless. I hoped to God the crazy person who’d shot him was feeling sick now over the mistake he’d made, maybe even sick enough to turn himself in to the police.
I said that to Nick as I got up from the table, and he said, “Don’t bet on it. He probably still thinks he was justified.”
“Why would he think that, after what just happened?”
“Took a sex offender off the streets, didn’t he?”
I glared at him. “For God’s sake, how can you say that? Marty never hurt anybody. And he paid for what he did in Ohio, paid and paid—”
“I didn’t say that’s how I feel, I said that’s how the guy who pulled the trigger might feel.”
“The cops better catch him.”
“Chances are they won’t,” Nick said. “They still haven’t caught the rapist, have they?”
Great. Terrific. Mr. Optimist.
I went to call Liane and tell her the news if she hadn’t heard yet. But there was no answer on her cell or her landline. That added worry to the rest of what I was feeling. She should be home at this hour, it was only a couple of minutes past eight o’clock. Well, maybe she’d changed her mind about going back to work right away. Zacks’ Dental Care opened for business at eight. I called, but the woman who answered said no, Liane wasn’t there and wasn’t expected. Allan was busy with a patient so I couldn’t talk to him.
“I can’t get hold of Liane,” I said to Nick. “I’ll drop you off at work and go try to find her.”
He doesn’t like me to drive his pickup, he says I grind the gears when I shift, but he didn’t put up an argument. Good thing he didn’t because I was in no mood for hi
s whiny complaints. All he said was, “She’s probably home. Just not taking calls.”
“Well, maybe, but does she know about the new rape yet or not, that’s the question. I hope she doesn’t. I should be the one to break it to her.”
“Uh-huh.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being snotty or not, so I just let it pass.
He insisted on driving to the brewery, and when we got there, he told me before he got out to be careful not to grind the gears. I ground them deliberately when I left him standing at the main gate. Damn the gears! As if they were important at a time like this.
I rang the bell when I got to the Grove Street house, but the door stayed shut. I used my key and went all through the house. Liane wasn’t there. And my car wasn’t in the garage or anywhere on the street.
Now I was really worried. Where could she have gone so early in the day?
HUGH DELAHUNT
There were seven of us at table in the conference room. In addition to me: Craig, Frank Judkins, Vernon Nichols (there to take notes), and three members of the city council, Evan Pendergast, Aretha Young, and Oliver Bonnard. I had arranged the meeting for ten thirty, to give us time for discussion before Chief Kells arrived at eleven. If he arrived on time.
Heaven knows I take no pleasure in the misfortune of others, even those who have, for no supportable reasons, declared themselves my enemy, but if another poor woman had to be raped in Santa Rita, I could hardly be unhappy that it was Angela Lowenstein. I had nothing against the girl, although she had been as unpleasant to me on occasion as her father always was. Naturally I was appalled by what had been done to her, and as concerned for her well-being as I had been for that of the other rape victims. But I would be less than honest if I didn’t admit that the assault had its beneficial aspects where my interests were concerned.
Lowenstein would be too preoccupied for quite a while to continue his badgering tactics, and by the time he resumed, if and when he did, they would no longer have much impact. And if Kells and Ortiz continued to fail at catching the rapist, Lowenstein would surely be disinclined to continue his support of them. But it wouldn’t do for me to wait for further proof of their incompetence. The time to begin strongly lobbying for Kells’s dismissal was now, while matters were in flux.
The Violated Page 13