by Art Bourgeau
The policewoman kept her back until the conversation was finished, then brought her over to Sloan, who asked if she felt up to a few questions before they left for the hospital, and when she agreed the three of them went into the kitchen and sat around the table.
She let him coax her before she began to tell her story. "Two, or was it three, months ago I was introduced to a man named Felix Ducroit, a businessman from New Orleans. After that he began calling me. He was charming, so I went out with him a few times—nothing serious, just friendly. The opera, places like that. As time went on he got more serious about me, calling late at night and telling me how much he loved me. It was flattering but I knew it couldn't work out. I just wasn't attracted to him. That was why I invited him over tonight for drinks—to break it off. I wanted to be decent to him—champagne, caviar, the works—and let him down as easy as possible. Thinking about it more, I realize he must have known what was coming, because when I told him I couldn't see him anymore, he slapped me hard, and then took out a set of handcuffs . . . You know the rest . . ."
She paused to cry. It probably wasn't the right place for it, but if she'd stopped in the middle of her story she might have lost track and left out something important.
Sloan and Kane exchanged looks, and when Missy saw it she stopped crying. Never mind, let them be suspicious. She had the proof inside her—sperm from a blood type O secretor. Precisely the same as was found in Terri and Marie and Cynthia. Felix's type. No disputing that.
Sloan warned her about the personal nature of his questions and advised her of her rights about answering or not answering. She said she understood, and he then asked if she had ever before had sexual relations with Felix Ducroit.
Only moments before she'd told them that she and Felix had just been friends, but obviously her answer hadn't satisfied. For a moment she thought of changing her story, giving them something more juicy to bring them over to her side, but in the end she decided to stick to her original story.
"No, not until what he did to me tonight," she said, not sure whether to sound pitiful or angry.
Sloan went over her story from different angles, questioning her on each point until he seemed satisfied. Finally, to her relief, he moved on to a new topic. "Are you presently involved in a sexual relationship, having sex, even casual sex, with anyone else?"
"No, no one at all. Really . .
"I warned you the questions would be personal. Now, are you sure?"
"Yes, it's not exactly the sort of thing one forgets."
"Then could you explain why you have a kit in your bathroom to predict your ovulation cycle?"
Goddamn, she'd forgotten to throw that damn kit away. Nothing for it now but to go on the offense.
"I wasn't aware, officer, that I was the one on trial. In case you've forgotten, I'm the victim here." She was stalling to come up with some explanation.
"That's true," Sloan said. "Please don't be offended, but that's one of the standard moves for the defense—to try to discredit the victim. I was just testing you as an attorney would. We're on the same side here."
And now she had her explanation. "I see, I'm sorry I snapped at you. The reason I have that kit is that I have a hormone imbalance and have to keep track of my cycle."
Her answer seemed to satisfy them. And when Sloan mentioned Cynthia, it was all Missy could do to keep from smiling. They had made the connection.
"During your evenings with Mr. Ducroit did he ever talk about his ex-wife?"
"Yes, occasionally. I know that they weren't on very good terms. He seemed to have bad feelings over the break-up of their marriage. But why would you ask?"
He ignored her question. "Do you know if he saw her recently?"
"Well, yes. We both saw her at the opera. She made a small scene there and he was terribly embarrassed, so much so that we left after the first act. Later he said he was unhappy about some conversations she'd had with a local newspaper reporter . . . but I don't see what all this has to do with what he did to me? The man raped me, and then tried to kill me. I'm not really very concerned about his ex-wife," she said, hoping she wasn't overdoing it.
Neither Sloan nor the policewoman gave any clue about what they expected from her. Both just sat there watching her. Missy tried a new tack. "God, I could use a cigarette," she said, turning to look for some. When she saw a pack on the kitchen counter and moved to get up, the policewoman stopped her with a firm hand on her forearm.
"Stay put," she said, "you've been through a lot. I'1l get them."
The policewoman returned with her cigarettes and sat down again. Missy took one and tightened her bicep to make her hand shake as she brought it to her lips. Before she could light it, she felt the policewoman's warm hand taking the matches from her.
"Let me," she said softly, and lit it for her.
"You're right to be concerned about the things we're asking you," said Sloan. "But please understand, while it might not seem so to you these things have a bearing. We're not here to annoy or ask off-the-wall questions. We're trying to see that every base is covered."
"I don't know anything more about his ex-wife than what I told you," she said flatly.
"All right, let's get back to Mr. Ducroit. For us to nail him, we need your help. We need to do three things," he said, ticking them off on his fingers as he spoke. "You must press charges, you must identify him from the lineup and you must testify and be cross-examined in open court. Will you do these things?"
Missy took an angry drag on her cigarette. A vision of her earlier scene with Felix flashed across her mind. She had been raped, in a way. He'd violated her by his terrible rejection . . .
"He deserves to be punished for what he did to me," she said. "And I'll do anything to see that it's done. He took everything, my self-respect. He violated me and when he was finished he left me for dead."
This time when she raised her cigarette to her lips she didn't have to tighten her bicep to make her hand shake. She was trembling with anger.
Sloan smiled. "Good. Now we can get on it and put this guy away."
"Believe me, we'll do it, too," said the policewoman. "All we need is your cooperation."
Missy looked from one to the other. "What did you think—that I wouldn't press charges?"
The policewoman said, "You'd be surprised. After something like this most women just want to put the whole experience behind them. It's wrong, and we have to do our best to convince them that if they don't do their part there's nothing we can do and the scum who did it to them will walk away free to repeat. But sometimes, too many times, it doesn't do any damn good."
"Well, you can count on me. I'll do my part," said Missy, a part of the team.
"If you feel up to it, there are just a couple more points I'd like to go over with you and then we'll get you over to the hospital for the night," Sloan said.
”I'm okay, go ahead and ask."
"From the look of your neck, the bruises and the chafing, it looks like he seriously tried to kill you. What did you do to stop him? I mean, why didn't he succeed?"
Missy's hand went to her throat, which was red and raw in places and darkening in others from where she'd pulled the chain tight and sawed back and forth on herself.
"What did I do? I didn't do anything. I didn't struggle; I didn't scream. What I did was try to appease him and stay alive. When he choked me I passed out. That's the last thing I remember until I woke up, knocked the phone over and somehow managed to punch out nine-eleven with my hands cuffed and call for help."
The policewoman nodded. "You're very lucky to be alive."
Missy was getting to like this woman. If she wore her hair differently she would be quite pretty. Maybe after all this was over . . .
"I second what she says," Sloan added, paused for a moment and then said, "We're also fortunate here because not only are you able to identify your assailant, you know him. From the things he did to you, we have reason to believe he may be involved in other crimes we're currently inv
estigating. Do you know of any interests he might have had in South Philly?"
"Interests? You mean like the Mafia," she said, pretending not to know where this line of questioning was heading.
"Business, social, whatever."
"No, not really. I mean, nothing unusual. A few times he wanted to go down there for Italian food. Afterward we would ride around for a while. That's all I know about Felix and South Philly."
"Where did you ride?"
"Oh, I don't know. Everywhere, I guess." She paused for a moment, as if thinking it over. "That's not right, either," she said. "Most of the time we stayed near the river. It would be after dinner. We'd ride a bit, then take Delaware Avenue up to Society Hill for a nightcap at Lagniappe or one of the other places. Sorry if I can't be of more help to you." And then, as if it had just occurred to her, she added, "Does this have anything to do with those teenagers I read about in the paper?"
"Could be," Sloan said.
"Oh, my God," said Missy, putting her hands to her face.
Sloan turned to Kane. "l think we've got enough from Miss Wakefield for now. One of the officers will take the two of you to the hospital for her examination. Stay with her tonight after it's finished."
Kane got up and went around the table to where Missy was sitting with her hands still partially covering her face. Missy let Kane help her up . . . the woman's strength was comforting. As they walked to the door, Sloan said, "When you're at the hospital, be sure to have them do a pregnancy test."
His words startled Missy. "Why?" she said, pulling away slightly from the policewoman.
There was sympathy in Sloan's voice. "Because the lab man tells me if that ovulation test is accurate you're fertile today, and there's a good chance this attack may result in your getting pregnant——"
Missy screamed. And this time it was no act.
CHAPTER 26
PHILADELPHIA IN the morning had never so glistened or sparkled for Laura as it did when she and Felix drove across the Walt Whitman Bridge together.
The rain was gone, the day was new and she was in love. For her, nothing could be better, and not even the heavy rush-hour traffic streaming in from South Jersey could dampen her feelings.
Several times during the trip from Cape May she had reached over just to touch him, to reassure herself that he was there, that it was real, what had happened, and each time he had rewarded her with a smile that seemed to light the depths of her. She was thinking how good it had felt when he had awakened her in the middle of the night and made love to her again. She didn't just welcome his desire, it was like feeling reborn. A man saying she was a woman in the way that really counted . . .
When they had gotten up near dawn to return to Philly, she had gladly agreed when he insisted that she leave her car behind and go back with him. She had only half-listened when he said that he would have her car picked up and brought back later in the day. Who cared? What was important was that they spend as much time together as possible. On the ride back they had stopped for coffee at a rest stop on the Garden State Parkway, and she watched as though he was performing magic as he tore "trucker's holes" in the plastic lids of the cups so they could sip without slopping. It was delicious; his every move pleased her . . . But after a while she couldn't resist asking him about Missy and what in the world had happened. He wasn't too anxious to talk about it, not, he said, because anything had happened between him and Missy . . . it had not . . . but because it had all been so unexpected and, in a way, sad. She was so set on this pregnancy business, but it really didn't seem to have anything to do with him—or rather he was just, he felt, a sort of object in her plan . . . as though he was a substitute for somebody else. But when she had gotten abusive, he had decided enough was enough and he had gotten out of there.
"And you know," he said, "the whole business of Cynthia and me breaking up over not having children was really only part of the story. Eventually I'd probably have gone along, if we'd stayed together. But what really tore it was prison . . . She just couldn't handle that, not that I blame her . . . Anyway, children aren't my top priority right now; the right woman is, and I've found her."
As they approached the toll booth on the Walt Whitman she settled back, smiling to herself, feeling almost guilty about how happy she was, even willing to forgive Missy for all her little tricks . . . Once through the toll booth she noticed he had ignored the exit for her house and was going on toward Center City.
"Hey, mister, what are you doing—kidnapping me?"
"That's right, I'm taking you to my apartment where I plan to do unspeakable things to you, providing I don't do them before we get there."
"Whatever you say, I can hardly wait." She meant it.
"Well, once we get to my place I'm going to change out of these work clothes and call my lawyer, and then I'm going to drop you off and try to take care of this business about Cyn . . . Meanwhile I want you to take a hot bath and get a few hours of sack time. You must be bushed. It also won't kill you to take a day off. That's one of the reasons I wanted you to leave your car behind. I figure without it you'll maybe listen to me."
Laura protested but Felix wouldn't budge.
"I don't have to be a doctor to see how tired your eyes look. I'm not going to have you killing yourself with exhaustion—specially now that I've got a lifetime investment in you."
How nice to have someone care, Laura thought. "All right, you win, I'll do it, but on one condition. As soon as it's over you'll come to my place and tell me everything that happened."
He hesitated. "Is that because of us, or because you're a reporter?"
She answered truthfully. "For both reasons."
"Good," he said. "It's a deal."
They took the Thirtieth Street exit from the Expressway, made a right on Chestnut. Across Market, Laura could see the imposing columns of the entrance to the train station. Mostly in the past she had just hurried past them to catch a train to New York or Washington to interview someone. Now she saw them. Being with Felix made all her senses come more alive . . .
At Nineteenth they made a right and drove the short distance to Rittenhouse Square, where a fair with brightly colored booths was going on for the benefit of Graduate Hospital, and with the break in the weather business seemed brisk.
Felix stopped in front of the Excelsior, his apartment building, and left the motor running as he got out and went around to open the door for Laura. At her unspoken question he told her the doorman would put it in the garage—
But suddenly two men had come up to them, men with red tough faces. Angry faces, the kind you saw in brawls in the upper decks at Eagles games. Each wore a sport coat and a tie, and neither looked comfortable in his get-up. They quickly closed in.
Laura looked at Felix. His face was very white.
"You Felix Ducroit?"
When Felix nodded, one of them showed a badge. "You're under arrest."
They handcuffed him, and one of the officers read him his rights. Laura was shocked . . . she knew that Sloan suspected Felix but this was too much . . .
"What are you arresting him for? He hasn't done anything."
At first everyone, including Felix, ignored her. Then Felix turned to her, his eyes cold, questioning, but not saying a word. He didn't have to. She could read in that look what he was thinking, and it terrified her.
"Darling, believe me, I didn't know . . . I'll get your attorney. Just tell me who it is, we'll get you out—"
"I'll take care of it myself. You've done enough." He turned and went with the detectives to their car parked at the corner. Laura watched them go, then realized that she had no car. Hers was still in Cape May.
Throughout all this, the Excelsior's usually omnipresent doorman had stayed inside the building. Now that the police were gone he was coming out to move Felix's car. Laura stopped him with an upraised hand. ”Never mind. I'll take care of it," she said as she went around to the driver's side of the Jaguar.
* * *
The car res
ponded unlike anything she had ever driven, but as she sped across town toward the Roundhouse at Eighth she barely noticed, she was so furious at Sloan for ordering Felix's arrest.
At police headquarters Sloan kept her waiting for a good half hour. When she finally did see him, he had a big smile on his face and before she could say any of the things on her mind he was saying, "We've got him," and smacking his fist into his palm. "We've got him dead to rights."
"What do you mean, we've got him?"
"I mean Felix Ducroit. Last night he raped another Center City woman, only this time she lived to tell the tale and she just identified him from the lineup. He's our man, all right. I wanted to tell you before we started the interrogation. He already has some high-priced legal talent in there with him but it's not going to do any good . .
Laura shook her head. "No, he couldn't have. He was with me last night—all night."
Now Sloan was paying attention to her, and his voice had become very quiet. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, last night Felix Ducroit and I were together—spent the night together in Cape May. So it couldn't have been him . . . Your victim is wrong. What's her name? We've got to convince her that she's made a mistake. People do that all the time, right?"
The news obviously did not set well with Sloan. "I'm not allowed to release the name of a rape victim . . . but you say all night. From what time to what time?"
She told him and his face relaxed. ”Laura, it happened earlier in the evening. Before you were together."
"You're wrong, it's not possible—"
"Why not?"
Laura felt herself blush but looked at him squarely. "Because he made love to me—twice—last night."
"Laura, don't be naive," Sloan said and left her standing there alone . . .
The next hour seemed like twenty-four as Laura paced and smoked in the hallway. Finally two men emerged from the interrogation room. Laura recognized one of them from charity functions they had both attended—Coleman Green, the city's top criminal lawyer. Obviously the high-priced legal talent Sloan had mentioned.