The Weatherman

by Steve Thayer

  “Any history of bizarre behavior?”

  “Other than a lifelong obsession with the weather, none that I could find.” Stacy was amazed. “Doctor, if obsession with the weather were considered

  bizarre behavior, nine out of ten Minnesotans would be put into straitjackets.”

  The courtroom burst into laughter. Even the judge smiled at that one. Stacy continued. “Doctor, have you ever heard of a serial killer who killed out of this obsessive love?”

  “I’m not familiar with any particular case.”

  “Isn’t it an accepted fact in your profession that the average American male will fall in love three times during his lifetime?”

  “Yes, I accept that.”

  Stacy shrugged her shoulders. “So what’s so unusual about Dixon Bell having been in love twice—my God, once in high school?”

  “But he had no relationship with these women.”

  “No relationship? He talked with them, worked with them, laughed with them, shared sorrow and pain with them day in and day out for years at a time. How

  else do you fall in love?”

  “But he had no intimate relationship.”

  “Oh, you have to sleep with a woman to fall in love with her?” Stacy went on with her questioning, clutching the doctor’s book to her heart the whole time.

  “Isn’t it a fact, Doctor, that in our society men and women are breaking each other’s hearts every day? That every hour of every day someone is saying, ‘No, I don’t want to date you,’ ‘No, I don’t love you,’ or ‘No, I can’t marry you’?”

  “Yes, but you’re missing—”

  “And isn’t it possible, Doctor—indeed, probable—that Dixon Bell just isn’t lucky? That two out of the three times he was supposed to fall in love he just plain

  struck out?”

  “I’m not sure that’s the case here.”

  “But isn’t it possible?”

  “Well, yes, it’s possible.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. No more questions.” Stacy started back to the defense table; then suddenly she stopped and wheeled about. “Oh, one more thing, my good doctor. In your reading of the diary, did you happen to come across a murder?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  So the state went through seven murders in six weeks, one piece of circumstan tial evidence piled atop another, a partial fingerprint that may or may not have belonged to the Weatherman, and two shrinks who said exactly what they were paid to say. As he neared the end of his case, Prosecutor Fury introduced a surprise witness—too much of a surprise for the defense. He called to the witness stand a young woman named Davi Iverson. She was blond, a bit chunky, a nice complexion with too much eye makeup, heavy on the purple. She was no beauty, nor was she unattractive. Meanwhile, Stacy Dvorchak was searching the witness list for her name. No Davi Iverson was listed. Stacy loudly objected, halting the proceedings. Judge Luto Slawski called the attorneys to the bench, or in this case to the side of the bench opposite the witness stand, where he could walk down and converse with the woman in the wheelchair. Dixon Bell could see them mumbling so nobody could overhear what they were saying. Jim Fury spelled out what he was up to. It almost brought Stacy Dvorchak back to her feet. She could be heard loud and clear. “Outrageous.

  Mistrial. Miscarriage of justice if this is allowed to continue.”

  Dixon Bell along with the jurors sat staring at the young woman on the witness stand, wondering more than ever who she was and what she had to do with the

  case. The judge got Stacy settled down and they went back to arguing points of law, with Prosecutor Fury shaking his head in disappointment. Finally the attorneys returned to their tables and Judge Lutoslawski instructed a deputy to excuse the jury. Stacy informed her client that the witness must testify in front of the judge first; then he would decide if the testimony could be heard by the jury. She assured him that would never happen.

  Prosecutor Fury: “State your full name.”

  “Davi Faye Iverson.” She had a soft voice, very nervous.

  “Where do you live, Miss Iverson?”

  “I rent a town house in Edina.”

  “Do you live alone?”

  “Yes. I’m single.”

  “And what do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a bank teller at First Edina Savings on France Avenue.” “Miss Iverson, have you ever been raped?”

  Oh, God! Dixon Bell thought he was going to be sick. If this didn’t beat all. Hecouldn’t hide his disgust. The deputies were glaring down at him. Stacy told him to relax; the jury was out of earshot. The red light atop the TV camera looked like a blazing fire.

  Everybody in the media section, including the masked asshole, were stretching their necks like giraffes. Nothing like an alleged rape victim to spice up a slow news day. “Yes, I have,” she told Jim Fury.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Davi Iverson poured herself a cup of water, stalling for time. She stared at the floor out in front of her. She spoke in a slow, halting voice that was so soft she

  could barely be heard. Fury pushed the microphone closer to her mouth. “It was really hot that night and I left the patio window open. I must have forgot to lock the screen door because that’s how he got in. He just walked in. I thought I heard something, but I was too scared to get up and look. Then I saw this big shadow come through the bedroom door, and I was going to scream but he got to the bed really quick and put his hand over my mouth.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, he talked in a real soft whisper and told me if I didn’t scream I wouldn’t be hurt, and if I did scream, he said he would snap my neck.” “Those were the words he used, ‘snap your neck’?”

  “Yes, the first night. He let go of my mouth and I didn’t scream, but I was still scared.”

  “Go ahead.”

  She cleared her throat and drank some more water. “This is hard to explain. He kept petting my hair and talking in a really sweet whisper. He told me we were going to make love and how beautiful it was going to be. He didn’t make it sound dirty or anything. He said I was his fantasy and that in the dark I could be anything he wanted me to be. He said I should do the same . . . let him be the man I always dreamed of.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Well, he started kissing me and stuff, and he put his hands on me and he told me how beautiful I was, and . . .”

  “Was he hurting you?”

  “No.”

  “Was he seducing you?”

  “Yes, kind of. He was very gentle, and he was saying sweet things to me that no man ever said before, and he said it in a really sweet way.”

  “What happened then?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Tell us what happened next?”

  “He, um, he pulled off my nightgown and my panties.”

  “Did you let him?”

  “Kind of.”

  “And?”

  “And then he got undressed and we had sex—he had sex.”

  “Did he force you to have sex with him that night?”

  “Kind of, because I thought he might kill me if I didn’t.”

  “And what did he physically feel like?”

  “He was a big man. Tall and kind of husky. Not fat, more like a football player. He had this thick curly hair and a round face. And he always smelled nice, kind

  of minty, like cologne.”

  “Would you know that smell again?”

  Stacy Dvorchak interrupted. “Your Honor, if she comes over here and begins sniffing my client you’re going to get laughed off the bench.”

  “Thank you, Counselor. The judge glared at the prosecutor. “Don’t even ask.”

  Prosecutor Fury went back to his questioning. “And after the sex, what happened?”

  “He was really sweet. He held me tight and whispered more nice things to me.” “Did you have sexual intercourse with him a second time that night?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when did he leave your
apartment?”

  “It’s a town house. After the second time.”

  “What did he say before he left?”

  “That we could do it again. That we could be secret lovers.”

  “And were you?”

  She didn’t answer for the longest time. Finally she muttered, “Yes.”

  “How did this work?”

  “Before he left the first night I gave him my telephone number. He would call me up after I was in bed. It was usually late. Then I would go unlock the patio window and screen and I would get into bed and wait for him to come, just like the first night.”

  “And would he show up?”

  “Yes.”

  “How often?”

  “Sometimes once every two or three weeks. Sometimes months would go by.” “How long did this dangerous affair go on?”

  “Almost two years.”

  “Why? Why did you let it go on? Why didn’t you call the police?”

  She choked on her shame and stared up at the ceiling lights, fighting back the tears. “I mean, everything I wanted, he did for me. And I would do everything for him. Some of us don’t get asked out, you know. In the light of day I’m not a pretty woman. I’ve never had anybody love me like that before. He would always ask what I wanted, what made me feel good, and he always did it. It was exciting. It made me feel good.”

  “When did it end?”

  She nodded at Dixon Bell. “After he was arrested.”

  “Objection, Your Honor.”

  “Overruled, Counselor. There’s no jury here.”

  Prosecutor Fury continued. “When did you realize your lover was the weatherman on Channel 7?”

  “After about a year. I was watching the news on 7 and they were joking around before he walked over to do the weather, and he leaned over the desk and

  whispered something to the lady anchor. They all laughed, but I froze. I found out he lived in Edina. I thought then that it was him.”

  “Did you ever confront him with this knowledge?”

  “No. I kept planning to, but I always chickened out.”

  “Is the man who prowled your neighborhood looking for unlocked windows, the man who would become your secret lover, is he in this courtroom today?”

  She looked surprised at the stupid question. “Yes, he is.”

  “Will you point him out, please.”

  “That’s him over there. Dixon Bell. The Weatherman.”

  The prosecutor walked up to the witness stand and patted her hand. “It took a lot of courage for you to come here today. Thank you.”

  The prosecutor returned to his table. Davi Iverson got up to leave.

  “Sit down!” It was Stacy Dvorchak. “I want to remind you, young lady, that you’re under oath, that there’s a man on trial for his life here, and that if you don’t

  answer my questions truthfully, you’ll roast in hell!”

  Even Dixon Bell was intimidated. Anger was a side of his attorney he had not seen. Davi Iverson took her seat again, looking like a frozen field mouse watching the descent of a hawk.

  Stacy wheeled her electric chair over to the witness stand faster than anybody had ever seen it move before. She lined herself up face to face with her client’s accuser, woman to woman. “Did you ever perform oral sex on this man who came in the night?”

  “Yes,” she muttered.

  “Did you allow him to have anal intercourse with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you allow him to tie you up?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the two years you prostituted yourself, did you ever—”

  “Objection, Your Honor.”

  “Counselor,” said Judge Lutoslawski, “behave yourself.”

  “In the two years you let this rapist into your bedroom and spread your legs for him—”

  “Counselor!” admonished the judge.

  Stacy rephrased the question. “In those two years, were the lights ever on?”

  “No.”

  “In those two years, were the shades ever up, allowing moonlight in?”

  “No.”

  “In those two years did he ever talk above a whisper?”

  “No.”

  “In those two years did he ever hint at who he was?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever whisper a forecast into your ears?” The courtroom burst into nervous laughter. “And this perverted affair happened in the two years before my

  client was arrested?”

  Tears were falling from Davi Iverson’s eyes now. Even Dixon Bell was feeling somewhat sorry for her. “Yes,” she answered.

  “In other words,” Stacy explained, “you repeatedly allowed this strange man into your apartment in the middle of the night knowing full well a serial killer was

  stalking the cities, and at the same time Edina police were warning the public about a rapist stalking that community, the very community you live in?”

  “Yes.”

  “For the record, Your Honor, Edina police investigated my client after his arrest and concluded in their written reports, quote, ‘Dixon Bell is no longer a suspect in the Edina rape cases.’ Unquote. Your Honor, I move this witness be dismissed and not allowed to testify before the jury.”

  The judge leaned over the witness. “Miss Iverson, the deputy will show you to the witness room. You’re to wait there.”

  The deputy took her arm and escorted the surprise witness from the courtroom. She appeared ready to faint.

  Prosecutor Fury addressed the bench. “Your Honor, there are a thousand unsolved rapes out there every year, and probably three times that many that go unreported. Dixon Bell didn’t just wake up one day and begin killing women. I’m establishing a pattern here. He probably began window peeping, moved on to rape, and then graduated to murder.”

  Stacy cut in. “Your Honor, I remind you that none of the victims my client is charged with killing was sexually assaulted. He has never been charged with any

  crime, much less a sex crime, and none of this woman’s incredible story is the least bit mentioned in his diary, which contains his innermost thoughts.”

  The prosecutor was having none of that. “As we’ve established, Your Honor, this is not a normal diary. It’s the sentimental ramblings of a psychopath. It’s not unusual that he would omit his crimes.”

  Stacy shot back, “Your Honor, in this state alone I can cite three news stories from the past two years where a woman claimed to have been kidnapped, only to

  find out it was a hoax. Nobody knows why some women make these things up, but they do. Trials like this bring out the wackos.”

  Judge Lutoslawski pressed his fingers to his temples, then ordered a recess while he considered his ruling.

  During this welcome break in the trial Dixon Bell was paging through the newspaper when he stumbled across two articles of interest on the penultimate page.

  NORTH SIDE RAPIST STRIKES AGAIN

  For the fourth time in as many months a man broke into woman’s home in North Minneapolis and raped the woman living there at gunpoint, Minneapolis police reported today.The suspect in all four rapes has been described as a darkskinned black man, medium build, wearing new athletic shoes. The latest assault occurred . . .

  When it was rapes in white-ass Edina, it was front-page news and TV coverage galore. When it was black women in the projects of North Minneapolis, it was two paragraphs in the back of the paper.

  The second article appeared in the gossip column.

  BARINGTON GETS NEW CONTRACT

  Sky High News Channel 7 anchorwoman Charleen Barington will be making her home in the Twin Cities for at least three more years. The forty-something redhead was given a new three-year contact to continue her anchor duties on the six and ten o’clock news shows, news director Jack Napoleon said in a statement. Rumors of Barington’s demise in the wake of falling ratings, plus her age . . .

  Dixon Bell folded the paper. Andrea Labore had to be depressed beyond words. Rick Beanblossom s
aid she’d been offered an anchor job at the Clancy station in Indianapolis. That had to have the masked asshole sweating bullets, if he could sweat. He couldn’t live without her enchanting looks any more than he could live outside of Minnesota. To what ends would Beanblossom go to hang on to that bewitching face?

  When court resumed, Judge Lutoslawski handed down his decision. In light of the fact that no crime was ever reported, Davi Iverson’s story lacked credibility and would shed unfair light on the defendant. Her testimony would not be allowed.