The Violated

by Bill Pronzini

  Not that I wanted those crimes to remain unsolved indefinitely. Certainly not. But the longer they were, the better the chances of convincing the council member holdouts to replace Kells and Ortiz. This might take longer than I had anticipated because of the Smith and Puchinsky arrests, but I remained optimistic that it would be accomplished eventually.

  I made the mistake of voicing these thoughts to Margaret, Craig, and Katherine over dinner. Margaret put on one of her disapproving moues and accused me of being petty and self-serving. Nonsense. I was merely being practical. I had suffered long and hard from Lowenstein’s unwarranted vendetta, hadn’t I? And it was in the community’s best interests to replace inept police officials, despite their recent strokes of luck, with more competent, less disruptive individuals.

  The four of us were having coffee and brandy in the parlor when my phone jingled. I had had two calls from the media already, and this was a third. But those first two had been welcome; this one wasn’t. Ted Lowenstein. Damn. I would have preferred to duck him, but that would have been unwise under the present circumstances.

  I waited to answer until I was on the way into the privacy of my study. “I was just about to call you, Ted.”

  “Oh, sure you were,” he said in that snotty way of his.

  “I was. To tell you how pleased and relieved I am that your daughter’s attacker has been apprehended—”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. You don’t give a flying fig about Angela or me. What pleases you is that Royce Smith worked for the Clarion.”

  “That’s not true. It was as much a shock to me as I’m sure it was to you—”

  “Bullshit,” he said again.

  “Now, Ted,” I said indignantly, “you have no cause to use such language with me.” I couldn’t help adding, “Or to continue your public harassment, for that matter.”

  “Are you going to continue yours?”

  “Mine? I have no idea what you mean.”

  “Your campaign to get rid of Griffin Kells and Robert Ortiz constitutes harassment in my book.”

  I stroked my mustache to give myself time to shape an appropriate response. “I believe, firmly and justifiably, that there are men who are better qualified—”

  “Yes-men. Toadies. Ass kissers.”

  “Now listen here. Just because Kells and Ortiz were lucky enough to catch your daughter’s rapist and close down a drug operation—”

  “Luck had nothing to do with it. Good police work did.”

  “If they are such skilled officers, why are the serial assaults still an open case? Why is Martin Torrey’s murderer still at large?”

  “Lack of necessary evidence.”

  “Proper effort provides necessary evidence.”

  “That’s right. Proper effort put Smith and Puchinsky behind bars. Sooner or later it will put the rapist, if he’s not already dead, and Torrey’s killer in there with them.”

  “‘Sooner or later’ is unacceptable.”

  “To you and your agenda.”

  “I have no agenda, as you put it—”

  Lowenstein laughed, nastily. “So you intend to go on pushing the council to fire Kells.”

  “Yes, for the reasons I just told you.”

  “Then you can expect my support to be twice as strong as before. My so-called harassment of you and your administration, likewise. All within strict legal boundaries, of course.”

  “I’m warning you, Lowenstein—”

  “No, I’m warning you. You know what you are, Mayor, you and all the politicians just like you?”

  I had no desire to have that question answered, so I held my tongue. But he answered it anyway, in even more detestable terms.

  “Vampire bats,” he said.

  “… What?”

  “You heard me. Bloodsuckers that care only about feeding themselves, that foul the public nest while feathering their own. Mixed metaphor, but apt just the same.”

  “How dare you—!”

  “The longer one of your breed survives and the higher it flies, the more damage it does. I won’t stand by and watch you get any more bloated than you already are, foul any more nests. Oh, hell, no. I’m going to see to it that you’re no longer a threat here or anywhere else in this state. I’m going to build a sharp journalistic stake and drive it through your black heart. That’s not a threat, it’s a promise.”

  He ended the call with that. I sat there, shaken. The man was mad, a stark raving lunatic. Vampire bat … journalistic stake through my heart … good God!

  Let him mount a scurrilous attack on me in print. People would see it for what it was, an attempted character assassination—the vicious ramblings of a diseased mind. None of my backers in the party would take him seriously. Neither would the voters. Of course they wouldn’t. That miserable little prick couldn’t possibly succeed in destroying my plans, my future.

  Could he?

  ROBERT ORTIZ

  After ten o’clock mass on Sunday morning I drove Sofia and the girls home and apologized once again for abandoning them on the Sabbath.

  Sofia said, “Please, Roberto, you know we understand. You must do your job. Gracias estén a Dios that you and Chief Kells were not harmed yesterday—that is what is important.”

  I had not told her all the details of the incidents at the Puchinsky farm. We had no secrets from each other, but some things, those that needlessly frighten loved ones, are better left unspoken. “This summer,” I said, “we’ll finally take the family vacation you have all been asking for.”

  Daniela put her cell phone aside long enough to say, “Oh, Papa, you mean a trip to Disneyland?”

  “To Disneyland, yes.”

  “All the rides, all the attractions? That’ll take at least a week.”

  “Everything there is to see and do.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.” It was one I would keep, no matter what happened between now and then.

  I drove to the station. The latest media infestation had eased; I did not have to answer or dodge questions before or after I entered, fortunately. Griff had not come in yet, though he was expected.

  There was a stack of reports on my desk. The first I looked at confirmed that the mask, gloves, and knife used by Royce Smith had been recovered from his apartment closet, along with a small amount of marijuana. No methamphetamines; he had long ago abused his central nervous system with whatever supply he might have had. The evidence had all been tagged and checked into the property room. Later it would be examined by Joe Bloom, then sent to Ed Braverman for forensic tests.

  The report on the suicide of Eileen Jordan was a grim reminder of how vital it was to bring closure to the serial investigation. Perhaps the schoolteacher would have taken her life if we had already succeeded, but I could not help but feel we were partly responsible. That we had failed her, and failed the other three victims as well.

  Joe Bloom had finished his preliminary analysis of the bundle that had been found at the marina. The serial’s tools, no question of that now. The knife bore no identifying marks of any kind, and the handle had been wiped clean. Braverman’s tests of the blood residue on the blade would surely produce a DNA match with one or more of the assault victims. The gloves and ski mask were of ordinary and inexpensive manufacture, the kind that can be bought in any sporting goods or chain department store. The cloth they had been wrapped in was a plain white dish towel, also of ordinary manufacture.

  One potentially helpful fact was the nature of the oily residues on the towel. There were two types. One, in trace quantities, was a lubricant used to clean firearms. This indicated that the .38-caliber weapon stolen from the Spivey home may have been stored with the other items at one time. Why it had not been discarded as well had several possible answers, all of them speculative.

  The other type of residue existed in much greater quantity. Ninety-eight percent mineral oil, the other two percent unspecified friction modifiers and lubri
city agents. I had no idea what that sort of oil compound was used for. And it was not explained in the report.

  Joe Bloom’s wife answered my call to his cell. Yes, he was home, preparing for a backyard barbecue they were hosting. She went to fetch him.

  “Don’t tell me we have another crisis to deal with,” he said when he came on the line.

  “No. I have a question.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. Maybe I’ll actually get to have a pleasant Sunday off. What’s the question?”

  “I’ve just been reading your report on the oil residue on the towel. Friction modifiers and lubricity agents mixed with mineral oil. What would that compound be used for?”

  “Only one thing I know of. Didn’t I put it in the report?”

  “No.”

  “Sorry, I meant to. I worked late last night and I guess I must’ve spaced out toward the end.”

  “What is it used for, Joe?”

  “Conditioner for bowling lanes.”

  “Bowling lanes,” I repeated.

  “Right. I looked it up on the net. The mineral oil allows the balls—urethane coverstock, reactive resin, whatever they’re made of—to roll smoothly, and the additives regulate the viscosity, which in turn controls friction and the amount of hook and spin you can put on the ball.”

  “And the towel’s original purpose?”

  “My guess is it’s a bowler’s towel, used to wipe the ball between rolls to remove excess oil from the lanes.”

  I sat for some minutes after we disconnected, thinking, remembering, shaping an idea. Then again I picked up my phone.

  IONE SPIVEY

  I was cleaning out the kitchen cabinets, putting down new shelf paper, when the telephone rang. The cabinets didn’t need cleaning, any more than the floors had needed scrubbing or the pantry rearranging or the closets reorganizing, but busywork helps steady my nerves and keep my mind occupied. I’d done a lot of it these past few days. And I’d do more today, even though it was Sunday. All because of that god-awful assault rifle or whatever it is.

  Jack took it today to that ranch he’d told me about to practice firing it. And took Timmy with him. He wouldn’t listen when I tried to talk him out of it, any more than he had when I tried to talk him out of stockpiling more of the damn things. I’d talked until I was blue in the face about how dangerous it was to have weapons like that in the house, to let a ten-year-old boy shoot one, and he wouldn’t listen to that, either. Once Jack gets an idea in his head, you couldn’t get it out with a pry bar. He’s stubborn, hotheaded, foolish sometimes, but he’s never done anything to make me regret I married him or to frighten me so until now.

  It was Timmy I was worried about. He idolizes his father, to the point of being a mirror image of him. It wasn’t that I was afraid he’d grow up to be the kind of man Jack was, I was afraid he wouldn’t—that he’d grow up to be somebody I didn’t want to be my son.

  I couldn’t get the picture out of my mind of him holding and pointing that assault weapon. The look in his eyes, the almost sexual excitement … my Lord! Jack didn’t notice it, thinks I imagined it. Timmy’s just a boy, he says, lots of boys are fascinated by guns, it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal. What happens when Timmy is old enough to move out on his own, live his life without any supervision? What happens if his passion for guns becomes an obsession and he doesn’t have the same self-governing on his actions that Jack does?

  The phone ringing was a welcome distraction, or it was until I heard Lieutenant Ortiz’s voice. It put another scare into me because the first thing I thought of was that Jack and Timmy had been caught with that assault gun, arrested. But thank heaven that wasn’t why he was calling.

  He asked if Jack was home, and when I told him no, he said, “You may be able to help me, Mrs. Spivey. This may sound like an odd question, but I have a good reason for asking. Where does your husband keep his bowling equipment?”

  “… His bowling equipment? You mean ball, bag, shoes?”

  “Yes. At home, in his vehicle?”

  “Neither. In a locker at Santa Rita Lanes, so he doesn’t have to carry them back and forth.”

  “A locker.”

  “You know, like the ones they used to have in bus depots. Some league bowlers rent them, they’re not expensive.”

  “How are they opened? With a combination lock or a key?”

  “A key, I think.”

  “One with a small red dot on it?”

  “Red dot? I’m not sure, you’d have to ask my husband …”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said, and thanked me and hung up.

  I stood holding the phone for a few seconds before I put it down. Now what on earth was that all about?

  LIANE TORREY

  Ortiz again. I opened the door and there he was alone on the porch, big and grim looking as always.

  “I know about the man you arrested yesterday,” I said before he could say anything. “Are you here to tell me he’s responsible for all the rapes?”

  “No. Only the last one.”

  “Then what is it you want?”

  “Another look inside your garage.”

  “The garage? What for?”

  “Do you object, Mrs. Torrey?”

  “No. Why should I? Go ahead.”

  “I’d like you to come with me.”

  I was too weary, too discouraged, to argue. I shrugged and walked out there with him. Inside the garage, he led me around the Subaru to the catchall bench on the far wall.

  “You cleaned out some of what was here before,” he said.

  “I didn’t think I needed permission to give Martin’s belongings to a charity shop.”

  “That depends on what you gave away.”

  Ortiz walked alongside the bench, bent over at the waist to peer underneath. At the upper end he squatted and dragged out one of the few remaining boxes, the one with Martin’s bowling ball and shoes in it.

  “I saw these when I was here last week,” he said.

  “I doubted anyone would want them.”

  He ran his finger over the surface of the ball, over one of the shoes. “Dusty. How long have they been here?”

  “A while. Since Martin lost interest in bowling.”

  “When was that?”

  “After he quit the Soderholm team last year.”

  “He hadn’t been bowling since?”

  “No. Not that I know of.”

  “Why are his ball and shoes stored loose like this, instead of in a bag?”

  “I don’t know. He never said why he left them here like that.”

  “Did he have a bag to carry them in back then?”

  “I guess so. Yes.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said again. “I never thought to ask.”

  “Do you know if he rented a locker when he was with the team?”

  “He never said anything about a locker. Why are you asking all these questions?”

  “To get at the truth, Mrs. Torrey. Finally, after all this time.”

  “What truth? What are you talking about?”

  But he wouldn’t tell me. He went away and left me with a bad feeling—the kind of feeling I’d had the first time I set eyes on him.

  No. One that was even worse.

  ROBERT ORTIZ

  Santa Rita Lanes was located at one end of a large, fairly new shopping center on Hillsdale Avenue. I parked in its lot and entered the place for the first time in my life. Several of the lanes were in use, the crash and clatter of balls rolling and pins toppling loud in my ears. A middle-aged woman presided over the desk where lanes and shoes were rented. I showed her my badge, told her why I was there.

  There were thirty-six lockers in an alcove next to the manager’s office, she said, and yes, the keys all had small red dots. The establishment was not responsible for them; the company that manufactured the lockers made the keys that way, probably as a trademark. She had no authority to let me see a list of renters’ names.
I had to wait while she phoned the manager for his permission to bring up the list on the computer. Fortunately, he was spending his Sunday at home and proved cooperative.

  With his permission, the woman looked up the locker rentals list on the main desk computer. Number 32 had been rented to Martin Torrey on October 19 of last year.

  As I followed her to the alcove where the lockers were located, I wished again that I had paid more attention to Martin Torrey’s red-dot key when I’d first noticed it on his key ring. Such a key is unusual, and we had not found anything incriminating at his house or in his Camry; he had to keep his rapist’s tools somewhere safe and accessible, and that usually meant under lock and key. With some imaginative police work I might have found out three weeks ago what that key opened. He would not be dead if I had; he would be in jail awaiting trial on four counts of criminal assault. And Angela Lowenstein might not have been brutalized by Royce Smith.

  But it was foolish and spurious to blame myself. How could I have made the connection between the key and the game of bowling without the towel and Joe Bloom’s analysis of the oil residue? I had never bowled in my life. Valentina is the only member of our family who has, a time or two on one of her frequent dates. Griff Kells is not a bowler, nor is anyone on the IU. Some in the department surely are, but I had had no cause to consult any of the rank-and-file officers about the missing key. Nor was the existence of the lockers common knowledge in the community. There were only thirty-six, which meant but a few of the many league bowlers chose to rent one. Most of those who bowled for recreation likely did not even know of their existence, much less that they were opened with a red-dot key.

  The manager, in addition to granting permission for Torrey’s locker to be opened, had authorized me to take possession of whatever it contained. But this was not necessary.

  I knew even before the woman unlocked number 32 with a passkey that the locker would be empty.