The Violated

by Bill Pronzini

  The rant made me feel a little better. But the empty house was having a claustrophobic effect on me now. What I needed was to talk to someone who understood how I felt, who was experiencing the same frustrations and sense of helplessness. Sofia Ortiz. On impulse I went out to the car and drove across town to the Ortiz home.

  She was in, fortunately, and welcoming as always. We were friendly without being friends, drawn together by our husbands’ jobs, but she and Robert were private people, as Griff and I were, and so we hadn’t quite been able to bridge the racial, social, and familial differences between us. There was simply not enough common ground. Except for what had brought me here today.

  I only wanted to talk, but Sofia insisted on serving coffee and sweet rolls in the living room. I told her about the TV reporter’s visit, and what the mayor had said about Griff. She wasn’t aware that Delahunt had included her husband in his disparaging remarks, and I didn’t enlighten her. It would have been unkind.

  “Have the media bothered you today, too?” I asked.

  “They were here, yes. But I did not speak with them.”

  “I wish I hadn’t. There’s so much cruelty in the world without those people adding to it.”

  “Yes,” she said, and her eyes were sad. “So much cruelty.”

  “How do you deal with it, Sofia?”

  “With prayer. Every morning and every evening I pray.”

  “Sometimes it seems God isn’t listening.”

  “Oh, but He is. He has answered my most important prayer.”

  “May I ask what that is?”

  “That each night He sends Roberto home safely to me and our children.”

  I smiled and nodded. It must be a great comfort, I thought, to have faith as strong as hers. I wished mine were half as steadfast.

  ROBERT ORTIZ

  The assailant had giggled throughout his assault on Angela Lowenstein. Her word—giggled.

  None of the other four victims had mentioned the perp giggling or laughing; I rechecked the interrogation transcripts to make certain. During each of those assaults the perp had been said to spew threats and foul language, to breathe heavily and grunt, but that was all.

  She had also stated that he spoke rapidly, running his words together, and “panted like a dog.” The cause of both might have been intense sexual excitement, but there was another possibility, too, which would explain the giggling—that he had been high on something. Not alcohol, or she would have smelled it on him and reported it. A controlled substance, the kind that can increase both aggressive behavior and sexual fervor.

  When Griff returned from his meeting at the mayor’s office, I went in to get his opinion. He did not want to discuss the details of the meeting, but I could guess how it had gone from the tension in his body language, the angry clenching of his jaw. What I had to say did not improve his disposition, though he was not unreceptive.

  “I noticed the disparities, too,” he said. “You may be right that the perp was high on some kind of drug, but that doesn’t have to mean it’s not the same man.”

  “It could, though.”

  “Perps change their MOs sometimes, you know that, Robert. On purpose or for circumstantial reasons. There were differences in each of the four previous assaults.”

  “But none as significant as this.”

  “You’re not thinking copycat? Two crazies attacking women?”

  “One new psycho, the other one dead.”

  He knuckle-massaged his tired eyes. “You just won’t let up on Martin Torrey.”

  “Not unless we have conclusive proof that he wasn’t guilty.”

  “Or conclusive proof that he was. All right. Let’s suppose last night’s assailant is a copycat. We’re still left with two perps to track down—Angela Lowenstein’s rapist and Torrey’s murderer.”

  “He could be someone she knows,” I said. “Her missing apartment key could have been stolen rather than lost. The fact that it disappeared two weeks ago is suspiciously coincidental.”

  “Granted. But coincidences do happen. And according to her statement, she never lets her purse out of her sight.”

  “Never is a word people sometimes use loosely, when what they really mean is hardly ever.”

  “No argument there.”

  “Another thing,” I said. “When you asked her if the perp’s voice was familiar to her, she did not rule out the possibility that it was.”

  “She didn’t support it, either.”

  “Still, this could be something more than a copycat crime.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Personally motivated. All the serial trappings just a smoke screen.”

  Griff frowned. “Somebody with a grudge against Angela?”

  “Yes. It seems certain she was targeted ahead of time.”

  “So was at least one of the other victims. Ione Spivey. Home invasion there, too. Targeted doesn’t have to mean Angela knows him, or that he had a personal motive for assaulting her.”

  “No,” I admitted, “it doesn’t.”

  “Look, Robert, I don’t want this to be the work of the serial any more than you do. I hope to God it isn’t. But the public is going to think it is. People were afraid enough before, but this assault is liable to start a panic. We’ve had one possible vigilante killing already. Christ knows what might happen if more lynch-law types start roaming the streets with guns.”

  He was right, of course. The tasks we faced and their potential consequences were the same no matter who had assaulted Angela Lowenstein or what his motive had been.

  COURTNEY REEVES

  I like working at the Riverfront Brew Pub. Or I did until I was raped and my whole life started falling apart.

  It’s on the turning basin downtown, where boats come up the channel from the river and sometimes tie up for a night or two along the floats there—sailboats and small yachts and other kinds that are nice to look at. The patio’s small, with about a dozen regular tables and picnic-type benches, and there are a few more tables in the inside section, so it’s pretty easy to waitress there. It’s where I met Jason. He’d been tending bar at Riverfront for about a year when they hired me. I liked him right away and played up to him until he asked me out, and I went to bed with him that same night. That was when I knew I loved him. And I thought he loved me, too, when he asked me to move in with him.

  Now…

  Now I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be working at the Riverfront much longer. Or living with Jason much longer, either. I can put up with a lot, but not his lying to me and selling meth again and cheating on me even if he had some cause. Once we broke up, as we probably would, I wouldn’t be able to stand seeing him almost every day. He wouldn’t quit his job, so I’d have to quit mine. I’d have to be the one to move out and find some other place to live, too.

  I almost didn’t come to work today and I wish I hadn’t. It was hard being here with him, knowing what I knew and feeling the way I did, and what made it even worse was the new rape last night everybody was talking about. Angela Lowenstein, the newspaper owner’s daughter. Everybody was real upset about it. Customers were giving me looks and whispering again like they had after it happened to me, some feeling sorry for me with their eyes, a few acting like I had a contagious disease or something.

  God, it was awful. The new rape meant Jason had been wrong and the rapist wasn’t Martin Torrey after all. He didn’t like being wrong about anything, especially something like this. He kept snapping and glaring at everybody, me most of all. As if it was my fault the rapist was still out there hurting other women and nobody had any idea who he was.

  The day dragged on and on. There was a midafternoon slowdown, same as usual, only a couple of tables occupied on the patio—my section. I was out there taking an order for a couple of Lagunitas IPAs when the red-haired guy came in past the reception desk.

  I’d never seen him before, but I didn’t like his looks. He was dressed all right, in a shirt and slacks, but he had a funny, kind of spacey
look, there was sweat on his face, and he moved in a jerky way. I’m real sensitive to how people look when they’re stoned, now more than ever, and this guy was high on something and starting to come down. I knew it right away.

  He went straight to the bar inside. I followed after him to give Jason the IPA order. There weren’t any customers inside and Jason was standing behind the bar, fiddling with one of the draft spigots. But when he saw the red-haired dude he jumped like he’d been goosed or something.

  “What the hell’re you doing here?” he said in a low growl.

  “Have to talk to you, nobody else around who can fix me up—”

  “Not here, not now. Christ!”

  The guy twitched up close to the bar, almost knocking over one of the stools. “Listen, I’m sorry about the other night, I shouldn’t’ve gone off on you like that, but I—”

  “I said not now!”

  Jason saw me in the areaway and made a shooing motion with his hand, but I stayed where I was. My not obeying pissed him off even more. His teeth showed like a dog snarling.

  “I’m all messed up,” the guy said. “I need—”

  “Shut up!”

  Jason stomped down to the end of the bar, motioning for the guy to follow him, and then they both leaned over with their heads close and said some things back and forth in low voices. I couldn’t make out most of it, but I did hear one thing—Pooch’s name. Then Jason straightened up and I heard him say, “Now get your ass out of here. And don’t come back!”

  The red-haired guy came jerking and twitching my way. I moved quick then, off to one side, but he didn’t even look at me as he went out. Jason stomped back to the row of spigots, and when I stepped up to the bar, he said, “What the hell’s the matter with you? You had no business standing there with your ears flapping.”

  “Who is he, Jason? What did he want?”

  He didn’t answer. Just glared at me. The look in his eyes … God, it was almost as if he hated me.

  The rest of our shift he didn’t say a word to me. Sometimes I drive my car to work, but I hadn’t today so I had to ride back to the apartment with him. Well, I didn’t have to, I could’ve gotten a ride with somebody else, but I did because I had to find out some things so I could make up my mind what to do.

  On the way out of the parking lot, I said, “Jason, I want to know who that red-haired guy was.”

  “None of your business.”

  “Roy, the one you had the fight with. Right?”

  “Don’t you understand plain English? None of your business.”

  “He was stoned,” I said. “High on meth. I know the signs.”

  “You don’t know shit.”

  “He wanted you to sell him some more, didn’t he? That’s why he came in all messed up.”

  “You’re crazy. I don’t sell crank or anything else.”

  “You sent him to Pooch.”

  “The hell I did.”

  “I think you did. I think you’re using again and dealing again.”

  He didn’t deny it a second time. He didn’t say anything.

  I took a deep breath. “I think you’re cheating on me, too. Seeing another girl, screwing some other girl.”

  “Bullshit.” But he gave me a quick sideways look before he said it. And the truth was right there on his face.

  “I smelled her on you,” I said. “All over you. Dealing meth is bad enough, but being unfaithful is worse. Unforgivable the way things are with me right now. Why couldn’t you wait?”

  “Wait,” he said. “Wait for you to finally get over being raped? Wait for something that might never happen?”

  That hurt, really hurt. “You don’t care about me anymore, do you?”

  No answer.

  “No, you don’t. All you care about is yourself. Getting high, getting money, getting laid.”

  “Shut up, Courtney. I don’t need this kind of crap from you.”

  “I don’t need your crap, either.”

  “You don’t like me the way I am, maybe it’s time we called it quits.”

  “Maybe it is.”

  “Well, I’m not gonna be the one to move out.”

  “No, I will.”

  “Where the hell would you go? Back to live with that drunken old lady of yours?”

  “She may be a drunk, but at least she gives a shit about me and my feelings.”

  Neither of us had anything more to say until he pulled up in front of the apartment building. “All right, get out,” he said then. “I’ve got things to do.”

  “Sell meth to Roy, screw your new girlfriend.”

  “Maybe. Yeah, maybe.”

  “And maybe I won’t be here when you get back.”

  “So go if you want to. Just make sure you take that stupid goddamn dog with you.”

  He drove off with tires squealing. I went into the apartment and hugged Ladybug and fed her and then took her for a quick walk, and after I got back I started packing up my things. I didn’t have all that much so it didn’t take me long. I was still so hurt, so mad. But I was all through crying, all through loving Jason. All through being a victim.

  There wasn’t anything I could do about the rapist and what he’d done to me, but I could do something about Jason.

  I could get even.

  SHERRY WILDER

  So the bastard isn’t dead after all. He attacked another woman last night, victim number five. Whoever killed Martin Torrey shot the wrong man.

  I heard about it from Sam Norden. I decided it was about time I started working out again, and I went in to Norden’s Fitness this morning and he told me as soon as I walked in. He was pretty upset. So were his customers, especially the women. One of them, a chubby matron I’d never seen before, said the dirty rapist ought to be castrated on the spot when they caught him and then allowed to bleed to death, and that she’d volunteer to do the slicing and dicing. I agreed with her suggestion, but not with her method. Martin Torrey’s killer had the right idea. The Pink Lady and I would gladly, joyously shoot off his cock and balls, blow them into tiny bloody pieces. But of course we’d never be given the opportunity. Not with him, anyway.

  The news depressed me, and a strenuous workout on the cross-trainers and ellipticals didn’t help me feel any better. It was only eleven o’clock when I left Norden’s. I thought about driving down to Riverton for some target practice at Bull’s-Eye, but the place was so popular you had to make reservations to use the range. Besides, Tina would be busy working with other shooters—she was the most popular instructor they had. It wouldn’t be any fun practicing with one of the other instructors.

  I checked my voice mail. Three messages, two from women friends wanting to talk about the attack last night, and one from Neal. I didn’t listen to Neal’s. He’d be calling about the rape, too, and knowing him, he’d suggest we get together for lunch so we could talk about it … he could talk about it. No way. I didn’t want to hear his voice, much less spend even five minutes with him in the middle of the day.

  It was too early for lunch but not too early for Johnnie Walker. I drove over to the Santa Rita Inn and drank two doubles at the bar, taking my time with the second. But Johnnie didn’t bring me out of the doldrums, either. Around noon people started coming into the lounge, men in suits, men with roving eyes, and what they were thinking when they looked at me was as plain as if they were saying the words out loud. I wanted another drink, but not here, not with them and their dirty minds and leering mouths. It would be the same any other place I went, and I wasn’t hungry and I didn’t feel like company, so I just went on home.

  The landline was ringing when I got there. I let the answering machine pick up because it was sure to be Neal again. Right, it was. Wondering why I hadn’t called back and if I was all right. He sounded half-worried and half-pissed-off. Well, let him wonder. I erased him from the machine as soon as his message ended, along with two others that I didn’t listen to.

  The weather was fairly warm, so I sat out on the side terrace with Jo
hnnie, and after a while I fell asleep. It was nearly three when I woke up. I was still depressed, a pounding headache and a sour stomach making it worse. I went inside and showered and put on a caftan. My Baggallini was on the bureau; I took the Pink Lady out and sat on the bed holding her for a few minutes. She made me feel a little better.

  I made myself eat a piece of toast with cream cheese to stop the acidic grumbling in my stomach. You have to eat sometime, as my father used to say. He’d had a full complement of clichés like that, Pop had. In a way he’d even died of one—a sudden heart attack while he was on the golf course, getting ready to miss another short putt. I still missed him, but not as much as I had right after he died.

  Time for another communion with Johnnie. Maybe he would help cure the headache, if not the damn depression. But he didn’t. I was on my third round, sitting on the family room couch with my feet up, my temples still beating like a tom-tom, when Neal came home.

  “There you are,” he said when he saw me. “Where have you been all day?”

  “Out. And now back in.”

  “That’s no answer.”

  “It’s the only one you’re going to get.”

  He gave me one of his exasperated pinch-mouthed looks. “I called your cell and the house several times. Why didn’t you answer or call back?”

  “No reason to. I already knew what happened last night.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Sam Norden. If it matters.”

  “It does if you were at the gym today.”

  “Why?”

  “You always enjoyed working out, teaching, before—”

  “Go ahead and say it. Before I was buggered and sliced up like a piece of raw meat.”

  “Sherry, please …”

  “Sherry please what? That’s what happened, isn’t it?”

  “You don’t have to keep dwelling on it.”

  “No? How am I supposed to stop dwelling on it? He’s still out there buggering and slicing up other women, isn’t he?”