The Violated Page 3

  Initially, I had opposed his hiring. My choice had been Frank Judkins, no genius, either, but a political ally who deserved the promotion after more than three decades on the force. But the majority of city council members felt that his record was lackluster and that new, younger blood was needed. Kells had been only thirty-five at the time, and while his record in Fresno had been exemplary for the most part, his lack of experience at the administrative level and his nonaggressive methods militated against him in my view. While he had done an adequate if lackluster job until four months ago, he lacked the capability to cope with a major crime wave. He should have been removed by now and Judkins installed in his place, but again the majority of council members disagreed. So did Lowenstein, of course; he was one of Kells’s strongest backers. The devil with Lowenstein.

  One of Kells’s eyebrows lifted when he saw the editor. I said before either of them could speak, “Mr. Lowenstein was just about to leave. Ted, if you’ll wait in the outer office, you can talk to the chief when he has finished briefing me.”

  He ignored me. “Is there anything sensitive or private in your preliminary report that I shouldn’t know about or print?” he asked Kells.

  “No, not really. Preliminary, as you said.”

  “Then I’ll stay. No point in you wasting your time repeating yourself.” He waggled his cell phone in my direction. “You don’t mind if I record this conversation as well, do you?”

  Of course I minded. I could have made an issue of it, but that was what he wanted me to do—provoke him so he’d have more ammunition for one of his sniping editorials. I said, “As you wish,” through another thin smile, then put my eyes on Kells and kept them there. “There has been no arrest yet, I take it.”

  “No.”

  “Suspects?”

  “No. We’ve only just begun investigating.”

  “This is another high-priority case, Chief. You know that as well as I do. I’ll expect you and your officers to apprehend the murderer without undue delay.”

  Lowenstein made a sound that might have been a stifled laugh. One corner of Kells’s mouth twitched as he said, “Yes, sir.” I knew he disapproved of me as much as I did of him, though unlike Lowenstein, he had always been civil even when we were at loggerheads.

  “Go ahead with your report.”

  There really wasn’t much to it. He confirmed that Martin Torrey had been shot three times, once in the left temple, twice in the groin, all at close range. The weapon had not been recovered. None of the bullets had exited the body, the one in the head having apparently lodged against bone, but from the size of the wounds and the amount of damage, the weapon was probably one of the smaller calibers. Based on rigor and livor mortis, the coroner had estimated the time of death at between nine P.M. and midnight; the county’s forensic pathologist, Ed Braverman, would be able to narrow that down somewhat when he finished his autopsy. The body had already been released for transport to the central morgue in Riverton, with a request made for priority handling.

  Joe Bloom, the Investigation Unit’s evidence technician, had found nothing at the scene that might help identify the killer. Torrey’s car, a late-model Toyota Camry, had not been found in Echo Park or anywhere else so far, which indicated a likelihood that he had been taken to the park by the person or persons responsible. Kells and Lieutenant Ortiz had notified and interviewed Torrey’s wife, who had had nothing pertinent to tell them.

  “She may have been lying or withholding information,” I said.

  “I don’t think so, Mayor. I didn’t get that impression.”

  “Impressions are not always reliable.”

  “Neither are clichés,” Lowenstein said in his snotty way.

  Kells said, “I don’t see that she has any reason to lie.”

  “She would if she knew her husband was the rapist.”

  “While he was still alive, yes. Now … I just don’t think so. She has every reason to want his killer found as much as we do.”

  “Keep an eye on her just the same.”

  Lowenstein uncrossed his legs and got slowly to his feet. He said to Kells, “I’m wondering if there might be a witness out there somewhere, somebody who happened to be near Echo Park when Torrey and his killer arrived there. The next issue of the Clarion isn’t due out until Tuesday, but I can post an appeal on our website and my blog.”

  “I was about to make the same suggestion.”

  “As was I,” I said, though I hadn’t been. “When the TV people arrive and request interviews, Chief Kells and I will make the same appeal. Many more people will be reached that way.”

  Kells said, “There’s one more thing you can do, Ted. Check your files for any particularly angry or threatening communications the Clarion received since Torrey first came under suspicion.”

  “I don’t recall any. But, yes, of course I’ll check.”

  “If there’s nothing more right now, Mayor,” Kells said to me, “I’ll get back to work.”

  “Go ahead. We’ll confer again later.” I added meaningfully, “Just the two of us.”

  Lowenstein said he would be on his way, too. Finally. But of course he had to have the last word. “Be sure to read my posts tonight, Mayor. I’m sure you’ll find them interesting.”

  I smiled at him. Drop dead, you little prick, I thought.

  IONE SPIVEY

  I was working in the garden when Lieutenant Ortiz came. Weeding and planting more than my usual amount of annuals and perennials—pansies, zinnias, marigolds, begonias, tea roses. Come June, they would add a lot of bright color to the front and backyards.

  If only I could make myself care the way I used to.

  Maybe I would by June, maybe all the pretty blossoms would cheer me by then, but the way I felt now I wasn’t too hopeful. The garden didn’t seem important anymore. Planting the flowers was just something to do, a way to keep my mind as well as my hands occupied. And the house … I didn’t feel the same about the house at all. I wished we could sell it, move somewhere else, but Jack said no, that wouldn’t solve anything. Besides, we’d put a lot of time and money into it, and even though it was a seller’s market right now, we wouldn’t get enough out of it to buy another nice place in a neighborhood close to Timmy’s school. Jack’s right, I know he is. But after what happened that terrible night three months ago—

  No. I mustn’t think about that night, I must learn to block it out as if it had never happened. It was the only way my mind could heal as completely as my body had. Policewoman Sinclair’s advice, Dr. Adamson’s advice, Reverend Melrose’s advice, Jack’s advice, my folks’ advice. Good advice.

  But it’s so hard not to remember. Some days the mental wall I put up keeps the memories out, but other days, particularly when I’m in the bedroom, it crumbles and lets flashes come through … the helplessness, the pain, the violation, the terror. Those memories won’t always haunt me this way. I have to believe that one day I’ll be able to live my old life again, a normal life … have normal feelings, normal relations.

  Jack’s been patient with me, more patient than I ever thought he could be. He’s a gruff man by nature and he loses his temper easily, not that he’s ever laid a hand on me or Timmy. He’s a good provider, too. Puts in long hours driving for Soderholm Brewery, like the overnight haul he was on the night Timmy stayed over with the Peterson boy and I was alone in the house—

  No.

  But underneath, Jack’s still so angry. I can see it in his eyes, feel it like little pulses of heat when he’s near me. He’s having as much trouble coping as I am. As much trouble healing. He doesn’t like to leave me alone at night now—he swapped with one of the other drivers so he won’t have to make any more overnight hauls, and he won’t let Timmy sleep away from home. I told him we can’t put our lives on hold, keep living in fear, and finally he agreed I was right. Still, he insists that whenever he’s not here after dark, I keep all the doors and windows locked and not answer the doorbell if it rings and keep the little .32 purse gun he bo
ught for me close by. Better safe than sorry again.

  Neither of us will be the same until they arrest the man who hurt me and those other poor women, lock him up in prison. Jack still thinks it’s Martin Torrey, and he’s mad at the police for letting him out of jail. I want it to be Torrey, too, but when they had me listen to him say some of the rapist’s ugly words, I just couldn’t be sure it was the same voice. The other women couldn’t be sure, either. It might be that the ski mask distorted his voice during the attacks, but it could also be he’s not the right man …

  All of that was going through my mind when I heard the police car pull up in front, then saw Lieutenant Ortiz get out and come through the gate. Jack says he wishes a white cop was in charge of the investigation instead of a Mexican, but I don’t see what difference that would make. Ortiz wouldn’t be a lieutenant or command the Investigative Unit if he wasn’t good at his job. I liked him, even if Jack didn’t.

  I hoped he hadn’t come to ask again if I’d remembered anything more about the attack, a tiny detail I might have forgotten or blocked out. I’d told him I would let him know right away if I did. But the truth was, I hadn’t tried very hard. Thinking too much about that awful night made me physically ill.

  I set down the trowel and stood up, brushing dirt off my gloved hands. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Spivey,” he said. Polite as always. But he had kind of an intense look today, as if he was upset about something. “Is your husband home? I’d like to speak to him.”

  “No, he’s not. He and Timmy went quail hunting.”

  “What time do you expect them back?”

  “I don’t know, probably not until late afternoon. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “Was he home last night?”

  “Jack? No, he wasn’t. He went bowling. The Soderholm team in the Friday Night Scratch league.”

  “What time did he leave the house?”

  “Around seven.”

  “And what time did he return?”

  “I’m not sure. After eleven sometime … I was in bed asleep by then. Why are you asking about last night? Has something happened?”

  “Yes. Martin Torrey was shot to death last night in Echo Park.”

  It took a few seconds for me to process that. No wonder the lieutenant looked upset. “Martin Torrey … my God. Was it because he … of what happened to me and the other women …?”

  “It may have been.”

  “You don’t know who shot him?”

  “Not yet.”

  I had a sudden sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Oh, Lord, you don’t think it was Jack? Is that why you want to talk to him?”

  “We’re talking to everyone connected with the assaults.”

  “It wasn’t Jack. He wouldn’t kill anyone. He went bowling last night, I told you that.”

  “I still need to speak to him.”

  “Well … we have dinner around seven. You could come back then.”

  “I’ll call first, to make sure he’s home.”

  When the lieutenant drove away I went into the house, into Jack’s den—his man cave, he calls it. The cabinet where he keeps his hunting rifles and his pistols was locked as always. I looked through the glass doors. The pistols were all there, all except the LaserMax he’d put in the bedroom nightstand to replace the revolver the rapist stole. Well, of course they were. Why had I even bothered to look?

  It wasn’t Jack. He wouldn’t kill anyone.

  Well, animals and birds, yes. Deer and squirrels and rabbits and ducks and quail. And now he was turning Timmy into a hunter, even though the boy was only ten. To my mind that was too young for blood sports. He seemed to enjoy it more than he should, too. But Jack would never harm a human being unless he was forced to, in self-defense. Never.

  Only he’d said more than once that if he knew for sure who raped me, he’d kill the bastard. Blow his brains out and to hell with the consequences.

  Oh, but he didn’t mean it. It was just his pent-up anger talking. And anyway, he was bowling when Martin Torrey was killed, wasn’t he?

  I went back outside long enough to pick up my trowel and the few plants I hadn’t yet put into the ground. I didn’t feel like gardening anymore. Clouds had blotted out the sun and a wind had come up and everything had a gray, cold look now. Even the early-blooming pansies and begonias and marigolds I’d planted didn’t seem to have much color anymore.

  HOLLY DEXTER

  Nick started in again as soon as Liane phoned with the horrible news about Martin. I couldn’t believe it—the same old whiny complaints when we’d just been blindsided. “Why did they have to move out here? Why couldn’t they have stayed in Ohio or gone some other damn place?”

  “For God’s sake,” I snapped at him, “don’t you even care that Marty’s dead, that some crazy person murdered him? That my poor sister’s all alone and suffering?”

  “Of course I care. But he wouldn’t be dead if you hadn’t encouraged them to come to Santa Rita. And we wouldn’t be out fifteen hundred dollars that now we’ll never get back.”

  “What’s the matter with you? How can you think of money at a time like this?”

  “I can’t help it. We’re barely making ends meet as it is. Might as well have flushed that fifteen hundred down the sewer.”

  “And it’s all my fault, right?” I was getting my coat out of the hall closet. “The move, the money, everything.”

  “I didn’t say that. But you insisted we loan it to them—”

  “Where else were they going to get it? A thousand was all they had to put up for Marty’s bail.”

  “Allan Zacks offered to loan her the full amount, didn’t he? But, oh no, she wouldn’t take money from a well-off dentist, just from her poor family.”

  “Allan’s not well-off, he only has a small practice. And it wasn’t Liane who said no, it was Marty. He didn’t want her beholden to the man she works for.”

  “Then she should’ve let him stay in jail.”

  “He couldn’t bear being locked up again as it was, you know that.”

  “Yeah, well, if he hadn’t been afraid to register when he first got here, he wouldn’t have been locked up. The cops couldn’t prove he had anything to do with the rapes.”

  “The brewery wouldn’t have hired him if he’d registered, even with you sponsoring him. Nobody else would have, either.”

  “It’s a wonder Craig Soderholm didn’t fire me, too, when he found out. With my luck, he may still give me the boot.”

  “Are you coming with me or not?” I had my coat on and my purse in hand. “Liane needs all the comfort and support she can get right now.”

  “I know it. I’m coming.”

  We went out and got into the Subaru. Nick wouldn’t let me drive, as usual when we went somewhere together. Man’s job. Phooey.

  “Marty didn’t commit those rapes,” I said.

  “You keep saying that. Trying to convince me or yourself?”

  “I’m convinced. Aren’t you?”

  “I don’t think he did it, no.”

  “He simply wasn’t capable of that kind of thing.”

  “None of us thought he was capable of peeping in windows and jerking off in the bushes, either.”

  “God, you can be crude. He was sick, he had urges he couldn’t control, but he never hurt any of those women in Massillon. The doctors said he was cured when they let him out of the hospital.”

  “All right.”

  “And don’t say it’s funny that women started being raped in Santa Rita six months after he came here.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “Coincidence, that’s all. Stupid goddamn coincidence.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m on your side here.”

  “Not mine, Liane’s. When we get there, don’t say anything to upset her any more than she already is.”

  “I won’t. Christ, you really think I’m that insensitive?”

  No, I just think you’re an asshole sometimes.

  When we got t
o Liane’s small rented house on Grove Street, four or five people were hanging around in front gawking. Nick said, “They’re the insensitive ones,” and he was right. Bad news spreads fast in small towns and brings that type out like roaches smelling spoiled food.

  None of them said anything to Nick or me as we went up to the door, and a good thing or I’d have told them what I thought of them. The door was locked, but I didn’t want to ring the bell and I had the spare key Liane gave me. I let us in, calling her name.

  “In the living room.”

  The same flat, empty voice as on the phone. She looked empty, too, slumped in one of the chairs, all pale and shaky. I sat on the chair arm, wrapped her in a tight embrace. She just sat there, limp—it was like hugging a rag doll.

  “I’m so sorry, honey.” It was all I could think of to say, the same thing I’d said on the phone.

  She didn’t answer, just nodded. Looking at her, I felt tears well up. But her eyes were dry. Well, I could understand that. She’d cried so much and so often for Marty that there just weren’t any more tears left in her, not even for this final hurt.

  I drew back and took hold of her hands. They were cold as ice. Nick was just standing there with his fat face hanging out. I told him to bring the afghan from the couch, and I wrapped it around Liane. He mumbled something that was meant to be comforting and patted her shoulder like you’d pat a dog. My big, strong husband. Totally useless in a crisis.

  I started to get up. “I’ll make you something hot to drink. Coffee or tea …”

  “No, don’t bother.”

  “Something stronger,” Nick said. “Brandy, scotch.”

  “I don’t want anything.”

  “I could use a drink myself. Holly?”

  “No.”

  He shuffled off into the kitchen. I rubbed Liane’s hands, trying to warm them. That vacant look in her eyes … God, how awful it must be to lose in such a cruel way the man you loved, even a man with Marty’s problems and all the heartache he caused her. As much as Nick could irritate me, as much as I felt like slapping him silly sometimes, he’d been mine for better or worse for fourteen years. I couldn’t imagine how I’d feel if he suddenly died, violently or any other way. Didn’t want to imagine it.