Miami, It's Murder (11 page)

“But to the detective who investigated the case, you still are. Why—”

The sluggish elevator I always complain about now seemed to move with lightning speed and the doors opened onto the lobby.

“Sorry,” I said, as he moved to step out. “I forgot to hit the button for the third floor. We have to go back up.”

People who were waiting came aboard and recognized Fielding. “Good to see you,” he murmured, shaking hands with a business writer and a columnist for the Spanish-language edition.

Fielding stared stonily at my profile for the rest of the ride.

“Here we are,” I said brightly. “Third floor.”

The cafeteria was a long trek through winding halls to the left. I stepped to the right, into a small alcove near the personnel office, and he followed.

“What is this?” he said. “Did someone suggest you bring this up?”

“No,” I said. “I just wanted to ask a few questions. Why do you think the police still suspect you?”

His jaw tensed. “I was not aware that they did. I have not spoken to them about it in years. During campaigns like this people like to repeat ugly rumors and innuendo and half-truths. Listen, Ms…”

“Montero,” I said.

He nodded. “I'm on a tight schedule. I'm sorry we don't have more time, but I want you to understand that that terrible day years ago changed my life forever.”

“In what way?”

“I was a young man, a teenager, who discovered the body of a horribly violated little girl. That child is one of the reasons I stand here today, as a law-and-order candidate, one of the reasons I have pursued a life of public service.” The politician picked up momentum and was on a roll.

“Didn't you have a history of window peeping prior to the murder?”

“Who has been feeding you these things? Who have you been talking to?” he demanded, voice tightly controlled. His eyes no longer projected self-assurance and confidence. They were those of a man confronted suddenly by his past. “I was your typically curious teenage boy. Whatever mistakes I may have made then were no more serious than most, and far less serious than those of today's troubled young men.”

“Then you
were
a troubled young man. Have you ever undergone psychiatric care?”

“What are you trying to do?” He stared at me with undisguised contempt.

“I'm just trying to piece together what happened,” I said reasonably. “I'm curious about the financial arrangements between your parents and Mary Beth Rafferty's mother.”

“You have no right, you have no right—” His face had reddened, a pulse throbbing in his temple. “This has gone far enough. I won't dignify your inferences with any answers. I don't know what you think you're doing. But there's a great deal at stake here, and I will not be blackmailed or intimidated!” His voice rose. The anger in his face was frightening.

“I'm only a reporter,” I said. “I'm supposed to ask questions.”

“Watch your step, Ms. Montero,” he said slowly. “You watch your step.”

He wheeled blindly away from me.

“The cafeteria is to your left,” I said weakly. “Straight down the hall. Just follow it around and you can't miss it.”

He spun around for a last malevolent look and stared, as though memorizing my face.

Swell, I thought, watching him stride quickly down the hall. I love Florida, I was born here. Now if this guy gets elected, I'll have to move.

I returned to my desk, trying to act innocent. It wasn't easy. Especially after Ryan came back. “Guess what, Britt? Maybe we're not gonna endorse Fielding after all.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You should have seen him after his interview with the board. They must have hammered him. He was upset, mad as hell.”

“Really?”

“Snapped at the wife and kid. All he wanted was out of here.”

“Not a good sign,” I agreed.

I had trouble getting to sleep that night, and shortly after I succeeded, the telephone woke me. It was Harry Arroyo.

“What happened?” I said, sitting up in bed, suddenly wide awake again. “Did you catch the rapist?”

“No,” he said bleakly. “He just hit again.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “And he got away?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“This was different from the others. He's changing his MO on us.”

“How?”

“This one wasn't in an office building rest room. It was in the parking garage. And he cut her. He's getting more violent.”

“You sure it was him?”

“Without a doubt.”

“How bad is she hurt?”

“She'll be okay,” he said. Easy for you to say, I thought. But I knew what he meant. Her physical injuries were not life threatening.

“I'm glad you called, Harry. Thanks.” He had never done that before, and I was appreciative.

“It wasn't my idea, Britt. The victim wants to talk to you.”

“What?” Fear constricted my heart. “Is she someone I know?”

“No. But she said she has to talk to you. Can you come down?”

“Sure,” I said. “Give me twenty minutes. Where are you?”

“At the station,” he said. “We just brought her in from the rape center.”

The time on my bedside clock was 2:15
A
.
M
. I pulled a comb through my hair and dove into my navy jumpsuit, kept ready and waiting, hanging on the back of my closet door to slip into fast when called out on middle-of-the-night stories. Bitsy trotted right at my heels, expecting to depart with me. She yelped and whimpered as I left without her.

Normally I love late night driving, minus the traffic, heat, and hectic pace of daylight hours. A sudden summer rain had fallen earlier, and the streets were wet and empty. He was out there somewhere. Why couldn't they nail him?

I locked in the city frequency on my scanner and heard the crime scene being worked at the Eastcoast Bank Building. They had waited until the rain stopped to tow the victim's car in for processing under bright lights.

The sleepy officer manning the front desk used his key card to give me access to the lobby elevator. It was quarter to three. The station was deserted. Most members of the midnight shift were out on the street.

Harry met me outside the rape squad office.

“She's a troubleshooter on the bank's computer systems,” he said. “Didn't plan to work late tonight, but they had some trouble on the mainframe. Name is Marianne Rhodes, white female, thirty-one. Engaged to a stockbroker who's on the way. She was aware of the rapes, carried Mace in her purse, and called for a security-guard escort when she had to use the rest room.

“She logged out of the building at 11:21
P
.
M
. Security guard walked her to the third level of the parking garage. He watched her unlock her car and open the door, then turned back inside to go on clocking his rounds.”

“What happened then?”

“She gets into the car, and before she can close the door he's out of the shadows and right on top of her, with the knife.”

I felt a sickening chill.

“This is the most violent he's been with a victim. He smacked her around pretty good, cut her, and left her tied up,” he said. “She probably would have been there all night except that the same guard, on rounds an hour later, noticed her car still there. He walked over to take a look and found her inside, bound and taped across the mouth.”

“He didn't see anybody else?”

“Nope, just cleaning women and employees working late. The guy's like a ghost.”

“Why does she want to talk to me?”

“Because the rapist is mad as hell. At you.” He smiled as he turned and opened the door to his office.

“Me?” I asked, following him numbly.

The woman sat on a wooden chair clutching her elbows as if she was cold, head down, her knees together. She wore what was once a nice suit. The fabric was torn, cut, and bloodied. The right side of her face was bruised and swollen, her eye blackened. On the left side, a bloodied bandage didn't quite cover the sutures.

Her dark glossy hair was matted on the side with the sutures and coated with a powdery substance. There was a cut under her chin, and the front of her white blouse was bloodstained. Her stockings were torn and her skirt stained and dusty.

“Are you all right?” I said, knowing that she was not.

“You're her?” Her eyes were red and watery.

“Britt Montero.”

She winced as I said it. “You're her. But I don't look anything like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“He acted like I was you. He kept calling me by your name.” She shook her head and shivered.

“Are you sure?”

Her fists clenched. “You think I made this up?”

“No, no, of course not. I'm just shocked. What did he say?”

“I don't speak Spanish,” she whispered. “All I recognized was some curse words and your name. I read your stories. He said your name every time he hurt me.”

A chill that left gooseflesh in its wake rippled up and down my arms.

I glanced up at Harry, who remained impassive. She had obviously told him all this.

“Be careful,” she said, teeth chattering. “He really hates you, you know.”

“She's cold,” I said to Harry. “Do you have a jacket or a blanket?”

Another detective muttered something in his ear. “Send him up,” Harry said.

“Your fiancé, Ben, is here,” he told her.

Tears welled in her eyes, and she stared at the floor.

“If there is anything I can do for you, please call me,” I said, putting my card in her hands. The long graceful fingers were cut and bruised, the nails broken.

“Put my name in the paper,” she said, her voice rising. “Tell everybody what he did to me. I was just trying to do my job. They were supposed to protect me. Everybody knew about the rapist. Why didn't they have better security?” Her voice broke into a sob.

“We don't normally identify rape victims,” I said, “unless they agree to be quoted and have their names used.”

“Do it,” she said. “I want you to put my name in the paper. Tell them what he did.”

“Think about it first,” I said softly, as a pale young man came rushing in, his face taut.

“Oh, my God, Marianne,” he said, taking her in his arms. After a moment he noticed me.

“Who are you?”

I told him.

“Good God! You're not going to put this in the newspaper, are you?” He stared at me in disgust. “Please have enough decency to show us some privacy.”

Harry caught up with me in the hallway and walked me down to the lobby. “Watch yourself, Britt,” he said.

It was the second time I'd received that warning in less than twenty-four hours.

Sinister shadows haunted the streets as I walked through the soft, moist air to my parked car, my footsteps echoing in the dark. I locked the doors and drove out of the police station parking lot, headlights piercing the night. I have nothing to fear from the rapist, I assured myself. Criminals are cowards who prey on the helpless. They abhor publicity and avoid people whose bosses buy ink by the barrel.

As I sat waiting at a red light west of the Boulevard, without another vehicle in sight, a figure loomed at the mouth of an alley, emerging from the shadows like a wraith. My spine tingled. My fingers tightened on the wheel. The man lurched my way and I tapped the gas pedal, rolling through the red light, heart pounding. Why don't they set these signals on flasher at night? I thought angrily. The dark form stood alone in the deserted street staring after my taillights.

The rapist did not know me or how to find me among the fifteen hundred or so people who passed through the huge
News
building each day. That is one advantage of print as opposed to TV, where a reporter's face is as well known to viewers as those of their own family.

I circled my block before parking, eyes checking the rearview mirror and scanning the quiet street, the parked cars, the hibiscus hedges, all potential hiding places for an intruder. It is not Miami, or the night, that is frightening, I told myself. It is the man who is loose in it. A man who has not been stopped by publicity or intense police presence.

Stepping quickly from the car, house keys in hand, I strode purposefully to my apartment, glad I had left a light on inside. I closed the door behind me, sighing with relief, secure at home with good locks, a vigilant landlady, and a dog with police experience.

I brushed my teeth, turned out the lights, and retired for the second time that night. Even I was surprised when I got out of bed in the dark to double-check the front door lock, then took the gun from beneath my mattress and slipped it under the pillow next to me.

I awoke early next morning, skipped breakfast, and went straight to the office to write the story of the new attack. Feeling strangely alert despite my lack of sleep or appetite, I looked up the number for Dr. Stone Simmons, the police shrink, whom I had met only in passing before. What the story needed, and I wanted to know, was more about the rapist and his behavior. The doctor answered his own phone but did not seem thrilled to hear from me.

“This is not authorized procedure,” he said. “You know I am unable to discuss a case under investigation without the approval of the detectives or Lieutenant Riley.”

“Doctor, I'm not asking for specifics about evidentiary material that may be withheld by the investigators. I'm just seeking your opinion about state of mind. Why would the man mention my name? What motivates the anger the most recent victim saw in him, his change in MO, the escalation of violence?”

I heard small sounds like lips smacking, Simmons puffing on his ever-present pipe. A lean middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a gray sweater vest no matter how steamy the weather, he had a disconcerting way of scrutinizing those around him as though studying them like insects from some more lofty plane of knowledge and understanding.

“Interesting questions,” he commented.

“What do you think?”

“I would expect that the man you refer to as the Downtown Rapist has a fair amount of intellect, given the fact that he is reading the newspaper—which is obvious,” he added, “since he knows your name. Rapists are not all stupid lowlifes, half-wits, or morons.”

“And he's been smart enough to elude capture so far.”

“Correct,” he said, as though I were a slow learner who had surprisingly come up with a right answer.

“Do you think he changed his MO because too many people are aware of it now?”

“Not exactly. He's angry, and what do rapists do to express themselves when they are angry?”

“They rape.”

“Correct again. Generally speaking, someone with his proclivities would seek to make his presence felt to the person he is most angry with, which in this case is you, judging from what this victim has said.” He went back to sucking on his pipe.

“Why would he be so angry at me? Everybody in town has been reporting this story.”

“Ah, but you were the first, weren't you? And therefore responsible in his eyes for everything, all the coverage that followed. And of course you have written about him in greater detail than anyone else. Maybe it was something you said.”

He seemed to consider that amusing. I wasn't laughing.

“And, of course, you are a woman. It is important for him to have power over women. I noted that in your weekend story you used a quote from the psychological profile prepared for the investigators, stating that he commits these rapes to tell himself he is in fact a man, and sexually adequate, which he of course is not. He may very well take that personally.”

“But what made him change his MO?”

“When was the last story you wrote about him?”

“Sunday. Monday in our Spanish-language edition.”

“And the rape followed by two days.” He paused, ruminating. “Of course, we don't know exactly when he saw the story.”

“You're saying that the rape may have been a result of the story?”

“It might be reasonable to believe that he was attempting to send a message, the message being that this could happen to you. Or that the victim in his eyes was a substitute. He had no access to you, so he raped her.”

“Dr. Simmons.” My voice sounded strained and felt tight. “I resent being made to feel responsible.” I thought of Marianne Rhodes's slashed face and haunted eyes. “This man was out there raping women long before my first story. The police were trying to keep it quiet, and there were several attacks before word one ever appeared in the newspaper. Women had to be warned, the public had to be made aware, they had to become outraged and aroused enough to help apprehend him.”

“But they haven't thus far, have they? Methinks you protest too much, Ms. Montero. I understand your point of view, but it seems clear that this time, in this most recent assault, he took his rage against you out on another woman.”

Unconsciously my hand went to my cheek, fingers trailing the path of the stitches I had seen on Marianne Rhodes's face. I imagined the bruises on her body and closed my eyes for a moment.

“Are you suggesting that he might come after me?”

There was silence as he puffed. “Could be. It's impossible to predict exactly what a person like this will or will not do. But it would not surprise me if he attempted to communicate with you.”

I swallowed.

“Is your phone number and address listed in the telephone directory, Ms. Montero?”

“First initial only,” I said, trying to sound jaunty. “And there are a lot of Monteros in Miami.”

“I don't mean to pry into your personal life, but are you married or do you live with someone?”

“No,” I said crisply. “I like living alone.”

“Do you reside in an isolated area?”

“My apartment is the farthest one from the street, but I have a dog, and my landlady and her husband live nearby.”

“Very reassuring. And you have not been the recipient of any unusual calls or messages?”

“Are you kidding? Every weirdo, obsessed wacko, paranoid schizo, and lonely senior citizen in Miami tries to communicate with me. Dr. Simmons, you would have a field day with my calls and letters. It's routine in this business. I have one pen pal who swears he's radioactive and has traveled to distant planets—without a space ship. Another guy sends me grungy letters with some kind of dusting powder on them. There's a former mental patient who complains that he's constantly followed by a stranger who looks like Sylvester Stallone in
Nighthawks
. Another one accuses his neighbors of causing his headaches by aiming laser beams into his apartment, and a lady insists that if we watch some old
Kojak
or
Perry Mason
show we can solve the case.” I realized I was babbling. Why do psychiatrists always make me nervous?

There was a long pause. “All very interesting. What do you do with all this correspondence?”

“I've been thinking of papering my bathroom with it.”

He chuckled. “Do you plan to continue writing about the Downtown Rapist?”

“Of course. I'm working on a story now. You're not suggesting a press blackout because it might make him mad?”

“Far be it from me to interfere with the fourth estate. I was simply curious if you yourself plan to continue, rather than passing the torch on to a colleague.”

“It's my story,” I said simply. “Anything you want to say about him?”

“Only the obvious: that the violent nature of his attacks is escalating and the danger to future victims could be considerable.”

“Do you think he might commit murder?”

“Anything is possible.”

“What would your advice be to any woman who might find herself in an encounter with him?”

“I would advise any woman in such an unfortunate position to try not to make him any angrier than he already is.”

Not much of a choice, I thought.

After saying goodbye, I sat thinking about the questions he had asked. Simmons probably thought he was being funny. That SOB is trying to scare me, I thought, though the telephone book does list my address. I do live alone. My dog weighs only six pounds. And my vigilant landlords are elderly and unable to hear anything through the thick walls of our old building.

I thought about calling Marianne Rhodes, but before I could, she called me. “You
are
writing the story, aren't you?” she said, her voice unsteady.

“Yes, I'm working on it now.”

“I wondered why you hadn't called me.” She sounded as though she had not slept and repeated her demand that I publish her name, though I could hear her dissenting fiancé in the background.

“Well,” I said cautiously. “With the man still at large, it might not be advisable.”

“It doesn't matter,” she insisted, her voice rising. “He knows who I am. He took my purse, my driver's license, my ID. This should be my choice. It's time rape victims came out of the closet. I want everybody to know what happened. Send someone to come take my picture, so they can see what he did to me!”

By that time her fiancé and she were quarreling, and at one point he tried to hang up the phone. “Stay out of this, Ben!” she shrieked.

I cringed at their pain and assured her I would discuss with my editors whether or not she would be identified in our story.

I brought it up when Fred Douglas asked me to fill him in on my story before the news meeting.

His eyes were troubled. “What do you think, Britt?”

“No way. She's not responsible, not in her right mind at the moment. She'd regret it later.”

“Sounds like the right call to me.”

I also mentioned that Dr. Simmons thought our stories had angered the rapist into action. “That's ridiculous.” He snorted.

I wondered why his denial did not comfort me. “That's what I thought,” I told him, adding that the doctor felt that the rapist might attempt to communicate with us.

Fred chewed his lower lip, scrutinizing me thoughtfully. “Britt, would you feel more comfortable handing the story off to Ryan?”

“Not on your life.” I spoke with more vigor than I felt.

Backing off on an unpleasant story would play right into the hands of those in the newsroom who still believe no woman belongs on the police beat.

“Atta girl,” Fred said. “I guess I should alert Maddie, in case he writes an angry letter to the editor.” Maddie Elliott is the proper sixtyish secretary who handles the Letters column on the editorial page.

“Have her get his return address.”

He grinned and hurried off to his meeting as I went over my story.

Marianne Rhodes had provided no new information about the rapist, and his change in MO was disconcerting, I thought, pushing open the wooden door marked
LADIES
. I walked down the narrow corridor to another door that opens into a lounge and locker room with two showers. In an adjoining room are six stalls and six sinks. Both rooms appeared empty. The only sound was water dripping slowly in one of the shower rooms. He could be anywhere, I thought. Even here.

When I returned from the cafeteria later, with a cup of coffee, one of the messages on my desk instantly caught my eye.

Call Lt. McDonald at his office, ASAP
. That was it. Not exactly ardent and romantic enough to sizzle my socks and curl my toes. Perversely, I shuffled it to the bottom of the stack.

Phone tucked under my chin, I began returning calls and opening mail simultaneously. One message was from Dan, and I returned it immediately.

“Where have you been?” I scolded. “You're never home. I was ready to file a missing-persons report. I tried twice to call you.”

“Didn't know I was supposed to wait for your call. Been busy.” His words were brusque. “Got a TV there?”

“Sure.” Three small sets sit in front of the city-desk clerk who monitors the TV news, listing the stories and their play, to ensure that we haven't missed anything.

“Something you should see on the noon news, Channel Seven. I'll hold.”

Gloria, the city-desk clerk, was on the phone. I stood at her side watching the screen. The face was familiar. Marianne Rhodes. “Oh, no,” I whispered.

When the blond anchorwoman with the big hair and silly smirk asked, “How does it feel to be the seventh victim of the man known as the Downtown Rapist?” I swore softly and went back to my phone.

“Thought you'd be interested,” he said. “I'm surprised they didn't protect her identity and show her only in silhouette. They used her name and everything. The promo said they'll have more at six.”