RCC03 - Beneath a Weeping Sky (12 page)

When he’d finished making his notes, he fired up his computer. He typed in his password – INTEGRITY, something a lot of River City officers could improve upon – and opened a new, official complaint form.

He assigned a case number. When the previous investigators ran IA, they investigated about fifty complaints a year. Most, even Hart had to admit, were frivolous. But he felt that those investigators had been lazy. Either that, or they were overly sympathetic to the officers.

Hart didn’t have that problem. It was only April, and he’d investigated fifty-three already.

Correction,
he thought as he typed in the narrative of Tad Elway’s complaint.

Fifty-four.

His phone rang.

He snatched the receiver off the hook eagerly. “River City Police Internal Affairs. Lieutenant Hart speaking.”

“Is this where I’m supposed to call to complain about an officer’s driving?”

Hart nodded, even though the caller couldn’t see him. “Yes, it is.”

“Good. Because this guy was flying. And he wasn’t even using his siren.”

“Really?” Hart raised his eyebrows. If that were true, that was a clear policy violation. Another slam-dunk complaint.

“Yeah. And if you ask me, that’s bullshit.”

“When was this, sir?”

“Last night,” the caller said. “Look, I’ve been in trouble before and I’ve been hassled by the police. So if I have to obey the law, then so does he.”

“That’s true.” Hart agreed. He often felt that police officers believed themselves to be above the law.

“And if it was such an emergency, why didn’t he turn on his siren. Or at least his lights?”

“I don’t know,” Hart answered. “But I’ll find out.”

“Good.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Marty Heath.”

“And did you get a car number on the patrol vehicle you saw speeding last night, Mr. Heath?”

“Oh, I did more than that,” Heath gloated. “I’ve got
pictures
.”

Hart smiled.

Pictures? Well, that was like Christmas.

0903 hours

“What do you think, Ray?”

Ray Browning leaned back in his chair and stroked his goatee. “Well, I think you’ve definitely got a serial. The M.O., the ‘whammo’ thing...”

Tower nodded. “I agree.”

“I’m worried, too,” Browning said. “For a guy to strike twice in two days? That’s uncommon, especially early on. Usually there’s a longer break, at least until the subject is further along in his series.”

“Sure,” Tower said. “After he’s been doing it for a while, the thrill wears off sooner each time.”

“Right. So either he hasn’t hit for a while...or he didn’t use the catchphrase...” Browning shook his head. “I don’t know. But it worries me.”

“You’re worried he’s going to escalate?”

Browning nodded. “Yeah, I am a little bit. He’s already become more violent in the second rape than the first. But that doesn’t surprise me as much as the quick turnaround.”

“Maybe it’s been building up for a while,” Tower suggested.

Browning shrugged.

“Maybe he just got out of prison?”

“Could be.”

“I’ll have Renee check that.”

“You should check Maureen Hite’s relatives and associates, too,” Browning said. “The subject said that he knew her. That might just be a threat. But then again, he just might.”

“I’ll see if there are any links between Hite and the first rape, Reno.”

“Renee can help you with that, too.”

“Okay.”

“And you’re going to canvass, right?”

“In just a little bit, yeah.”

“Good.” Browning rubbed his eyes. “Beyond that? I guess you could hope something comes up on the lab results.”

“I don’t put a lot of faith in that.”

“Why not?”

“I think the guy used a condom. And the victims didn’t get much of a chance to fight back, so I don’t think the fingernail scrapings are going to be any help, either.”

“That’s troublesome,” Browning said.

“What?”

“The condom.”

Tower nodded. “I know. It means we’ve got a thinking rapist.”

“One who plans ahead,” Browning said.

“Who isn’t leaving behind DNA.”

“And who appears to be getting more violent,” Browning added.

“And,” Tower finished, “to top it off, no one has seen the guy’s face.”

“Something set him off.” Browning said, nodding in agreement. “Don’t forget about that.”

Tower sighed. “It’s a bitch of a case, Ray.”

“Just keep working it. Something will break.”

1104 hours

The camera equipment bathed Shawna Matheson in a bright wash of light. She held her microphone below her chin and stared into the lens. At this close range, she could see her perfectly coiffed hair and heavy television makeup reflecting back at her in the thick glass. Above the lens, the red light was dim.

Her camera man, an idiot named Ike, held up his hand. “Five, four, three,” he said, dropping his fingers as he counted. Shawna was frankly surprised the troglodyte could count.

At ‘two,’ he went silent. The red light came on.

She affected a solemn expression.

On ‘one,’ he pointed at her.

“Good afternoon,” Shawna said in her perfectly drilled television voice. “I’m Shawna Matheson, here at the River City Public Safety Building with breaking news. Earlier this morning, Lieutenant Crawford of the Major Crimes unit confirmed that police are investigating a potential serial rapist.”

She paused a half beat, letting the gravity of her words sink in.

“Police are not releasing many details at this point and the investigation is continuing, but here’s what we know so far. Two women have been assaulted in the past two days. One was assaulted while jogging, the other while out for a walk. Both attacks occurred near city parks.”

Shawna continued, though she knew the techies back at the station were likely throwing up a graphic on the screen instead of showing her. “The first assault occurred near Clemons Park, in the north central section of the city. The second occurred at Friendship Park, which is on the far north part of town. I spoke to Lieutenant Crawford about these assaults, and this is what he had to say.”

Shawna paused. The red light went dim.

“We’re on cutaway,” Ike told her.

No kidding, she thought to herself.

She replayed the interview with the bombastic Crawford in her mind. The man was egotistical and always sparse with information, but she had learned how to flirt with him just subtly enough to get something good out of him. Although his statement contained stock police responses about ongoing investigations and safety tips, she’d managed to get something from him off camera that she thought was singularly wonderful.

When she asked him if the rapist was being called by any nicknames, he’d scoffed at her.

“What, like the Park Rapist or something?”

“Something like that,” Shawna had answered, though she was looking for something not quite so banal. “Does he have any peculiarities?” She’d given Crawford that slight smile she’d perfected over time—the one that said she was flirting but no one else could tell except him.

Crawford had cleared his throat, looking just a little off-balance from her tactics. “Nothing I can share at this time,” he’d answered her.

“Nothing?”

Crawford had shrugged. “What can I tell you? There are some things we have to keep back. I mean, what do you want? That the guy has only raped on rainy days?”

After that, Shawna had only smiled and thanked him.

“Coming back in five, four, three,” Ike said, walking through his countdown with her again.

Shawna opened and closed her mouth, stretching her jaw.

At ‘two,’ the red light kicked on.

Shawna put on her solemn face.

At ‘one,’ Ike fired his pointer finger at her.

“Police are cautioning women to travel in pairs or small groups and to be aware of their surroundings,” she said, leading up to her big finish. “Although they are not certain if and when he’ll strike again, there is one thing that people may be able to watch for. In both instances, the rapist attacked women on rainy days, thus earning him the nickname, ‘the Rainy Day Rapist.’”

She paused a full beat.

“For Channel 5 Action News,” she finished gravely, “I’m Shawna Matheson.”

She held her pose until the red light went dim.

“And we’re out,” Ike told her.

Shawna let herself smile. This was good. In fact, it might just be enough to be her ticket out of River City and to a larger, more important market. Seattle or Denver, perhaps. Or maybe somewhere in California.

After all, it wasn’t every day you got to name a serial rapist.

1248 hours

The rain came back just before noon. It fell in light sheets while Detective Tower and Officers Ridgeway and Giovanni canvassed the neighborhood around the second rape. In the hour they knocked on doors, neither officer found anyone who had seen anything. Wet and discouraged, the officers stood near the light post they had agreed upon as a rally point.

Ridgeway glanced up at the gray sky and felt the drizzle on his face.

“This rain sucks,” Gio said, standing beside him and shaking the water from his jacket.

“I like it,” Ridgeway said.

“That figures,” Gio muttered back.

Ridgeway shrugged. “A brave man likes the feel of rain on his face.”

Gio smirked. “And a wise man has the sense to get out of the rain.”

Ridgeway flashed Gio an uncharacteristic grin. “Saw that movie, huh?”

Gio nodded. “Kurt Russell was great.”

Ridgeway glanced back up into the sky. “Still, I like the rain.”

Gio didn’t answer. While he waited, he found himself wondering if his date last night with Mallory would be his last. She’d started using little code phrases that he’d come to recognize as attachment words. It might be time to jet.

Detective Tower strode toward them, his sport coat drenched. As he drew close, Ridgeway saw that the detective’s hair was matted against his head.

“Any luck?” Tower asked them.

Both officers shook their heads.

Tower muttered a curse. “Well, hopefully someone that wasn’t home right now saw something and will call it in. I left my card in about ten doors.”

“Most witnesses don’t even know when they see something,” Gio said. “I doubt anyone will call.”

Tower shot him a scowl. “Don’t mess with my mojo.”

“It’s true,” Gio said. “And on top of that, most witnesses who think they saw something important didn’t see a thing at all or what they saw really doesn’t matter for much.”

Tower looked at Ridgeway. “What is this, Instruct The Detective Day?”

Ridgeway shrugged. “Not like you dicks don’t need it, right?”

“Ha, ha.” Tower hunched his shoulders and looked up. “I hate the rain.”

“I kinda like it,” Ridgeway said.

Tower looked at him flatly. “That figures.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tower snorted. “Gee, I don’t know. I’m only a detective.” He thumbed toward Gio. “Why don’t you ask Casanova over here?”

“Let’s just hope it stops soon,” Gio said. “Because I’m sick of it already.”

“It messes up your perfect gigolo hair, Giovanni?” Tower asked.

Gio reached up and touched his wet mop. “Nah. Let’s just hope the wet look is in.” He glanced over at Ridgeway. “It doesn’t work for you, though, Mark.”

Ridgeway shrugged. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t make your boy go out and rape again, huh, Tower?”

Tower’s eyes narrowed. “My boy?”

“This rapist.”

“Oh.” Tower eyed him suspiciously. “Why would the rain make him do this again? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ridgeway glanced at Gio, who laughed.

“You don’t listen to the news?” Gio asked Tower.

Tower shook his head. “Not if I can help it. Why?”

“They’re calling this guy the Rainy Day Rapist.”

“Who they?”

“The media. All of them.”

Tower stared at him for a long moment, then dropped his eyes. “Fuck,” he muttered. After another moment, he lifted his jacket upward and gave it a shake. “Let’s get out of here.”

The three men turned and made their way toward the street where Tower’s unmarked detective’s vehicle sat behind the officers’ marked cruiser. On the way, Ridgeway could hear Tower muttering but couldn’t make out the words. Once at his car, the detective got in without so much as a thank you and pulled away.

“What’s up with that?” Ridgeway complained. “We just walked around in the rain for an hour knocking on doors and he can’t even say thanks?”

“He’s probably under the gun over this. I imagine Crawford is all over him.” Gio opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat.

Ridgeway slid into the passenger seat. “I’m sure it helped that you brought up the Rainy Day Rapist thing.”

“I didn’t bring it up.” Gio fired up the engine. “The media brought it up. I just passed it on.”

“Whatever,” Ridgeway said. Although he knew Gio was right. “My guess is that it was that fluff head from Channel Five.”

“Shawna Matheson?” Gio dropped the car into gear. “She’s hot.”

“She’s an idiot,” Ridgeway answered, but he knew it didn’t matter which of the newscasters actually said something first. Once one of them has it, they were all like a bunch of parakeets anyway, with no sign of an original thought.

Gio turned onto Lincoln Road. “Whatever pressure he’s under now, it’s nothing like what he’ll be facing now that the media is hyping this story.”

Ridgeway didn’t answer, but he knew Gio was right.

1301 hours

He cruised through the East Sprague corridor, eyeing the prostitutes that posed in the doorways. None so far had been willing to venture out from protective cover when he slowed down to examine them. The drizzle of cold rain kept them huddled like drowned cats in the doorways, staring bleakly out at him.

He decided it was too much work today. Perhaps he could save it up and spring it on some other bitch later tonight or tomorrow.

He reached for the car radio, turning to the news station for the top of the hour coverage.