The Violated

by Bill Pronzini

  “You all know why I called this meeting,” I began. “Another vicious rape, this time the daughter of a fairly prominent citizen. Until now we all believed, or at least fervently hoped, that these atrocities had ended with the death of Martin Torrey. Obviously that is not the case. The maniac responsible, whoever he is, continues to pose a grave threat. He must be stopped, and quickly.”

  I paused for a moment while heads nodded in agreement. Then I said to Judkins, “Frank, has any progress been made as yet?”

  “As far as I’m aware, no.”

  “As far as you’re aware? Surely Chief Kells and Lieutenant Ortiz keep you informed.”

  “Usually.”

  “Usually?”

  “When they have something important to discuss.”

  “Only then? No strategy meetings or the like?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You outrank Lieutenant Ortiz. Yet Chief Kells seems to have given him carte blanche in these investigations.”

  “Well, not quite. Ortiz is in charge of the IU, and my duties are mainly administrative.”

  “Nevertheless. Do you consider him a competent investigator?”

  “He’s well trained and has a good record.”

  “That isn’t what I asked. Is he competent?”

  Frank ran a hand over his liver-spotted pate, then adjusted his tie. He, at least, wore his uniform regularly, as befitted a ranking police officer—another point in his favor as Kells’s replacement. “Seems to be. Most of the time.”

  “Have you spoken to him or to Chief Kells today?”

  “Both of them, briefly. They had nothing definite to report.”

  “Which means, then, that once again they’re completely stymied.”

  “Well, for the time being, anyway. There were no evident leads at the crime scene, but it’s early yet. Something may develop.”

  “Something may develop,” Evan Pendergast repeated. His chair creaked as he shifted his nearly three-hundred-pound bulk. “We’ve heard that for almost five months now. What about the Torrey murder? Has anything developed yet on that?”

  “No.”

  “So we have five months of investigation into five brutal rapes and a homicide, and nothing worthwhile has come to light.”

  Aretha Young cleared her throat. She was a middle-aged, feisty black woman whose support I had cultivated when I first ran for mayor. The more minorities in my camp, the better. For their cause, too, of course. “Suppose you were in charge, Captain,” she said. “Would you have handled the investigations any differently than Kells and Ortiz have?”

  “There are some things I’d have done differently, yes.”

  “Such as?”

  “Called in more outside help, for one thing. Not just from the DA and sheriff’s department—from the attorney general, the FBI.”

  “FBI?” Oliver Bonnard said. “These rapes aren’t federal crimes.”

  “No, but the FBI will sometimes provide assistance on such cases.”

  “Requesting help from the Bureau was suggested to Chief Kells. He told us the FBI seldom becomes involved in such matters, and then when they do, it’s at their instigation.”

  “Not always at their instigation,” Frank said. “A request for assistance can be made to the Justice Department.”

  “Aren’t such requests usually declined?”

  “Well, yes, but again, not always.”

  “Chief Kells believes that bringing in more outsiders would create jurisdictional problems. You don’t agree?”

  “No. I believe I could prevent that from happening.”

  “Captain Judkins is much more diplomatic than Chief Kells,” Craig chimed in. Every now and then he surprises me by making a worthwhile contribution.

  “And considerably more experienced in police work,” I said. I ran a forefinger over my mustache. The hairs were so fine they had an almost silky feel, which my wife, Margaret, had remarked upon more than once in an intimate moment. “You’d have given the outside investigators more time, more latitude—in other words, taken full advantage of their expertise?”

  “I would have, yes.”

  “And you believe that with their help the rapist would have been identified and arrested by now?” Bonnard asked.

  “I do.”

  “In which event,” I added, “the tragic death of Martin Torrey, a less than stellar but innocent individual, would have been prevented.”

  Bonnard nodded. He had been a Kells supporter all along, but that was because he invariably sided with the majority in any council decision. He was a fence-straddler by nature, and I was fairly sure he could be pushed over to our side, which was why I had invited him. All we would need then was one more vote, and with continued failure by Kells and Ortiz and sufficient pressure, we’d get it.

  “It is my considered opinion,” I said, “that it’s time, past time, to make a leadership change in the Santa Rita Police Department. Are we all in agreement on that?”

  “I don’t know,” Bonnard said, “it seems a little premature to me.” Still fence-straddling. But not for long.

  Evan said, “Premature? Five months, man. Five months and no end in sight with Kells in charge!”

  “I meant premature because the attack on Ted Lowenstein’s daughter happened only last night. I’d like to hear what Kells has to say about it, what he’s doing and what he intends to do.”

  “So would we all,” I said. “And we soon will, if he arrives on schedule. But I doubt he’ll have anything to tell us that will change our minds about his lack of competence.”

  He didn’t. I would have been amazed if he had.

  He was ten minutes late. He presented an even more undignified presence than usual—his suit looked as if he had slept in it, which he probably had—and he answered our questions with an uncharacteristic snippiness. All of that, plus his steadfast refusal to call in outside assistance “except as a last resort,” made a poor impression. Very poor, indeed. Bonnard was off the fence and on my side by the time Kells left the conference room.

  All it would take to convince one more council member to vote for Kells’s dismissal was a few more days of ineffectual police work. I was convinced of that by the time the meeting ended. Just a few more days.

  LIANE TORREY

  I couldn’t stay cooped up in the house after Allan called to tell me the news. I’d just ended the brief conversation with him when my cell rang again, then the landline right after that. Holly. She knew now, too, and she’d insist on coming over, on talking and talking about what had happened last night and what it meant, and I wasn’t ready for that. She meant well and I loved her, but I didn’t want to see her this morning. Or Allan or anybody else. I wanted to be alone for a while in some other place, somewhere empty of people, to try to sort out my feelings.

  Before I left, I parted the curtains in the front window. There was no sign of any reporters yet, but they’d be around soon enough, ringing the bell, knocking on the door—another reason not to hang around here. I locked up and backed Holly’s Subaru out of the garage and drove away quickly.

  South of downtown, I turned inland on the county road that leads into the foothills to the east. There are several of them in long, rising folds with narrow little valleys tucked in between, the grass still bright green and studded with wildflowers, the live oaks and madrones and other trees in thickening copses the higher and farther I went. Hardly any traffic up here, and only scattered homes and ranches.

  For a while, when the road crested a hill, I had glimpses of the winding course of the river in the distance. But then, as I climbed higher, I could no longer see it from any elevation. I preferred it that way. There was something about the river that I didn’t like—a barren quality despite the trees and farms it serviced, a muddy-brown loneliness.

  The road dropped down into a valley somewhat broader than the previous ones. Rolling meadows stretched away on both sides, bright with wild mustard and purple lupine, an intermingling of cattle and sheep grazing
in little clusters. Halfway across, I pulled off onto the verge. A narrow stream ran between the road and the livestock fence here, stands of live oak hemming a section of open grassy bank that looked out over the meadow. A great many live oaks in these hills have succumbed and are still succumbing to sudden oak death, but these were a healthy-looking dusty green. A good place to sit and think, this—no cars, no people, no houses in sight. Quiet. Peaceful.

  I went to perch on a mossy log next to the stream. A fair amount of winter-snow runoff flowed between its low banks. I watched the swift-moving water form little pools here and there, shallow and clear so that you could see the rocks and moss under the surface. And after a while my thoughts settled, grew as clear as the stream.

  Another woman assaulted in the same way as the others, by the same man. I was sorry for that, but it was the kind of sorry you feel for any innocent stranger who has been badly abused, without strong emotional involvement. And there should have been because it meant that Martin was innocent, just as I had believed him to be; that now his memory would no longer be tainted by false accusations, false suspicion, and if the police finally did find out who had needlessly murdered him, his soul could rest in some measure of peace. This gave me a sense of vindication, satisfaction, imminent closure, yet those emotions were not as intense as they should have been. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make myself care as much as I should have.

  Weary, worn-out, scooped out … that was part of the reason, yes. But there was more to it than that. I had grieved, but I hadn’t been ravaged by grief. I had loved, but the love had grown tepid, and now it wasn’t even that, it was cold. As cold as what had been left of Martin before they put him into the crematory oven.

  What I was mostly feeling right now was a deep melancholy. I told myself that was only natural, that one day it would pass and I would regain my emotional equilibrium. I found a small stone in the grass and tossed it into one of the little pools, watched the ripples form and spread and then fade until the water was still and clear and peaceful again. Like that. Ripples that were soon enough gone, to be replaced once more by calm and clarity and peace.

  Let me have that much, I thought. Please. Let calm and clarity and peace be my legacy.

  The thought, unbidden, was almost like a prayer. But not to God, who could answer it.

  To Martin James Torrey, who couldn’t.

  GRIFFIN KELLS

  Damn Delahunt and his lynch mob.

  That was exactly what the gathering had been, a politically motivated lynch mob with the noose in Delahunt’s hands. Get rid of Griffin Kells, install yes-man Frank Judkins in his place. Run the police department the way he ran the city, the way he would run the county and then the state if he managed to get that far up the ladder.

  He’d been after me from the beginning. If it hadn’t been for the unwavering support of Dale Hitchens and the other three council members, and Ted Lowenstein and the Clarion, Delahunt would have had his way by now. Still would, after last night’s fifth attack, unless we put the perp or perps behind bars in a hell of a hurry. Not even apprehending Martin Torrey’s murderer would be enough to save my job, and Robert’s. It had to be a definite end to the assaults.

  There had been a time, between the third and fourth rapes, I’d considered resigning. My men and I hadn’t been able to accomplish our sworn duty despite every effort; maybe somebody else in charge could. But Jenna had helped talk me out of it. My replacement would have been Captain Judkins then, as now—Delahunt would have seen to that—and Frank was no more qualified to head up this kind of investigation than I was. Less. Considerably less.

  I’m a lot of things, but incompetent isn’t one of them.

  Delahunt might succeed in making me the scapegoat and getting rid of me, but I wouldn’t go quietly. No pompous, self-promoting, mean-spirited politician was going to get away with impugning my dedication and my integrity, with leaving an undeserved black mark on my record and jeopardizing my future in law enforcement. I’d tell him and his cronies what I thought of them before I left Santa Rita, to their faces and in no uncertain terms. And then make sure Ted Lowenstein and other media outlets quoted me verbatim.

  Hang me, Mayor?

  Hang you!

  EILEEN JORDAN

  “You haven’t heard?” Barbara said. “Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news …” Which she proceeded to bear, as people always do after that sort of preface.

  I was not surprised. I had no reaction at all to the invader having claimed another victim. She might have called to discuss the weather or some other innocuous subject.

  “That poor young woman. Isn’t it awful, Eileen?”

  “Yes, awful.” But my response was automatic. I should have felt something—compassion, anger, something—but I felt nothing. It was as if all my emotions had withered away, and what remained were no more than dim impressions.

  Shadows. Nothing left but shadows.

  “… some company?”

  “I’m sorry, Barbara. What did you say?”

  “I asked if you’d like some company. We could go out, have lunch, spend the day together—”

  “Thank you, no. Not today.”

  “Forgive me for saying this, but you really should start living normally again. It isn’t healthy to stay cooped up alone all the time.”

  Living normally. Meaningless phrase. What is normal? Is there such a state for a whole person, much less a shadow?

  “Yes,” I said, “you’re right. But I’m just not feeling very well at the moment.”

  “Oh, of course—the shock. Why can’t the police catch that maniac? My Lord, it has been nearly five months and they don’t seem to have a clue who he is.”

  “No, apparently not.”

  There was a pause, indicating she was at a loss for anything else to say. I remained silent so as not to encourage her.

  “Well,” she said at length, “are you sure you don’t want me to stop over, just for a little while?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Sometime soon, then. I worry about you, I really do.”

  “You needn’t. I know what’s best for me.”

  “If you say so. Good-bye for now, then.”

  “Good-bye, Barbara.”

  I put the phone down on the roller cart next to the rocker. I had been sitting here for a long time now, most of yesterday, all of last night, all of this morning. Not once had I had gotten up. There was no need for food because I wasn’t hungry, no need to go to the bathroom because I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in some time. Nor had I gotten dressed since my outing to Safeway. Sitting in my robe in the light, the dark, the light again. Thinking sporadically now and then, but with my mind mostly a blank slate. Waiting for enough strength to move.

  Barbara’s news about the invader had provided it. I stood with difficulty, shuffled slowly into the bedroom, into the bathroom. For the first time in weeks I looked at my image in the medicine-cabinet mirror. The horse face seemed whole, if drawn and doughy, but that was illusion; it was nothing more than a mask hiding the shadow within. A mask that might have been made of wax, for the more closely I looked, the more the features seemed indistinct, as if they were beginning to melt into an unrecognizable mass.

  I opened the cabinet to hide the mask and reached inside for the vials of Xanax and Vicodin. My fingers were steady as I removed the caps. Both containers were nearly full. I filled the water glass from the tap, swallowed a few of each of the tablets. Not too many at once or I might vomit them up. I refilled the glass, carried it and the two vials into the bedroom, and sat on the bed for a little time to make sure my stomach wouldn’t rebel. Then I swallowed several more Xanax, several more Vicodin.

  I had thought, during the long night, of writing a note. But what would I say to Barbara or Arthur or anyone that would have any meaning? How could I explain that the emptiness, the sense of self being reduced to shadows and invisibility, meant I was already dead and had been in soul and spirit since the
night of the invasion?

  When I began to feel sleepy, I lay back with my eyes closed to wait for the final darkness.

  JENNA KELLS

  I consider myself a tolerant person. I know television and newspaper reporters have jobs to do, and I try to be cordial and cooperative with them. But I draw the line when they persistently hound Griffin and then come around and hound me by quoting disparaging remarks that have been made about his competency.

  One particularly obnoxious woman is employed by the Riverton cable TV station, an adversarial type whose primary objective seems to be stirring up controversy in order to further her image and her career. She and her camera crew showed up at the house this afternoon, after conducting an interview with Mayor Delahunt. The disparaging remarks were his, of course. He had not only questioned Griff’s abilities, referring to him as “a disappointment to the beleaguered citizens of Santa Rita,” but outrageously implied that Griff’s “failures” were partially responsible for the latest assault on Ted Lowenstein’s daughter and indicated that his tenure as chief of police would end unless the rapist was quickly identified and arrested.

  The woman took ill-concealed glee in relating this to me, clearly hoping for an inflammatory reaction. I could have given her one, complete with appropriate four-letter words, but I managed to restrain myself. I defended Griff quietly and politely, saying he and his officers had done and were doing everything humanly possible, and implied that he was the victim of a political witch hunt and that Mayor Delahunt was full of shit. Smiling all the while, the same sort of phony smile Delahunt assumes when he’s dealing with the media.

  Once the reporter and her crew were gone, I allowed myself a small private rant. Damn that smarmy political hack! Damn all the media lackeys! None of them knew Griff the way I did. They had no idea how hard he worked, how much he cared, how much harrying he’d been subjected to, the toll this series of crimes was taking on him physically and emotionally. No idea!