Pretenses (2 page)

The couple stopped at Marcel's restaurant on Pennsylvania Avenue, about a half-mile away from the Kennedy Center, for French cuisine. Marcel's normally closed at eleven, but all the restaurants were staying open late because of the concert. The Rapist was lucky enough to get a table next to the rude couple, which was only a few feet from the baby grand piano near the bar.

The Rapist sipped his coffee and pretended to read a copy of
The Washington Post
. He listened to the couple as they went on and on about
the concert and how great the conductor was. He assumed they were married, judging by the wedding rings they wore. When they finished their meal, they talked quietly about going home to make love.

The Rapist followed them to their home in Alexandria, pulling into their driveway right behind them—flashing his bright lights into their eyes. Walking up to the driver's side window, he brandished a gun. The fear in their eyes exhilarated him when he realized they had completely forgotten the incident on the Beltway and had no idea who he was.

“I've got $300 in my billfold. Take it. It's yours,” the man offered. “Take your ring off, honey. It's insured.”

“I'm not a thief,” the Rapist said. “Now get outta the fuckin' car.”

At gunpoint, he forced the couple into the house and into the bedroom. He forced the wife to tape her husband's hands and feet with duct tape that he had brought with him. Feeling in complete control, the Rapist reminded them of the Beltway incident. The shock on their faces gave him a potent erection. He began to throb.

“This is gonna be a night to remember. I guarantee you that,” the Rapist said gleefully. He looked at the woman, who was so terrified that she seemed to be frozen solid. “You two need a lesson in highway etiquette,” he told them. “Strip, you high-class bitch.”

She apologized profusely. “I'm sorry. Please…don't.”

“Too late, sweetheart,” the Rapist bluffed. He just wanted to scare them—push the situation to the limit, and leave them humiliated.

But the husband, believing that his wife was about to be raped, yelled, “I'll fucking kill you if you touch her!”

The Rapist laughed as the husband continued screaming, “You son-of-a-bitch! Touch her, and I'll hunt you down if it takes the rest of my life!”

When the wife was completely nude, the Rapist taped her limbs to the bedposts. He pulled out a switchblade and cut the tape away from the husband's hands and feet. Then he closed the knife and put it into his pocket. He tossed the gun to the other side of the room. “Okay, tough guy. Fucking kill me.”

The husband, an upper-class professional who had gone to elite schools all of his life, was no match for the Rapist. After giving him a fierce
pummeling, the Rapist tossed the husband on the bed and stripped his pants off.

“Oh, no! No! No! Please! Don't!” the husband whimpered, but it did no good. “Aaaaah!”

Moments later, the bed springs howled as the violation escalated to a feverish pace. The wife turned her eyes away, but she couldn't shut out the sound of her husband's screams.

After the Rapist had finished with the husband, he cut the tape away from the wife's hands and feet. “I was only gonna scare you, you rude motherfucker. But you had to be tough. You brought this shit on yourself. You fuckin' hear me! This was your fault. Not mine.”

Then he watched the wife console her whimpering husband. Tears also ran down her cheeks. Standing over the weeping couple, the Rapist felt a sense of power that he had never felt before—it pleased him.

He left the couple to lick their wounds in their mutual humility. Later, when he thought about it, he realized that a strange thing had happened to him. The fight with the husband had been an aphrodisiac. Raping the husband had been the most fulfilling sex he had ever had.

During the next two years, the Rapist sexually assaulted sixty-seven men, none of whom ever reported the assaults to the police. They had no idea that a vicious rapist was at large until Father Merle Reynolds—his latest victim—told his story.

The traumatized priest was taken to the hospital where he told two detectives about the violent assault. The Rapist had come to St. Mary's Cathedral under the pretense of seeking absolution.

Before violating the priest, the Rapist, in vivid detail, had confessed all of his crimes, describing each victim by name and occupation. The priest, however, refused to divulge the names of the victims, citing the sanctity of the confessional, but told the detectives that the Rapist had given him permission to inform them of his existence and warn them that he intended to continue ravaging men at every opportunity.

I
FELT THE
presence of the two FBI agents who had just entered my dojo. I recognized the cologne of agent Patrick Flynn. That meant that the other presence I felt was that of his partner, Dick Ford. Something terrible must have happened for them to contact me when I was off duty.

I was going to have to return to my day job as FBI Special Agent in Charge Phoenix Perry. But first, I had something far more important to think about—my mind and body in perfect harmony. I was making a videotape of my training session with four of my best student-teachers. We were sparring at full speed, and each student-teacher was armed with a lethal weapon.

As a Grandmaster of Shaolin Kung Fu, I knew I had to take it easy on them, but not too easy. They had all earned the rank of black sash, but if I didn't use at least fifty percent of my chi, they wouldn't push themselves to master the art. For safety purposes, I had told them that once they were knocked down or were off the mat, they were considered knocked out and could no longer participate.

Armed with two knives, Earl Johns, the most aggressive of the four, lunged forward. I spun toward him faster than he could bat an eye. His knife just missed me, and I back-fisted him in the forehead. As he fell, I could feel a fighting stick coming at the back of my head, and I ducked out of the way.

The three remaining student-teachers were in front of me now. I
advanced toward Valerie Ryan, who had a chain. Sensing when she would swing, I angled in to the left and hit her with a palm strike to the sternum just as she started her swinging motion. She flew backward about five feet with the chain still in her hand. Had I hit her anywhere above the shoulders, she would have been seriously injured.

Greg Fisher swung a staff at my ankles. He had the best technique, but he wasn't the best fighter. I jumped just high enough for the staff to pass under my feet. Then dropping to one knee, I spun around and swept both of Greg's legs out from under him. He fell hard onto the mat, and his staff flew up in the air. I caught it and spun it like a majorette twirling a baton.

Only Karen Monroe, who was close to mastering the art, remained. I initiated the joust by feinting at her feet. She came forward, rapidly swinging a pair of fighting sticks. We attacked back and forth without success for either of us. Then I waited for her to come forward again. When she did, I hit her wrist with Greg's staff, knocking one stick out of her hand. I could tell from her eyes that she was wondering, with her level of training, how such a simple move could have worked.

Seeing another opening, I knocked the other stick out of her hand, partly to show her it wasn't luck, but mainly to satisfy my own vanity. Having disarmed her, I tossed the staff away and advanced, throwing a series of quick strikes and kicks. My attack was fast but nowhere near as fast as it could have been. The idea was to lull the opponent into a rhythm and then break that rhythm by striking at full speed. I closed the distance between us. Then, without thought, I stepped in and delivered a powerful palm strike to Karen's chest, which sent her sailing across the room.

The match was over almost as quickly as it had begun. In less than two minutes and with minimal effort, I had dispensed with four armed Kung Fu artists. The student-teachers and I bowed to one another.

“What are the pillars of our philosophy?” I asked them.

In unison they said, “Emptiness, awareness, fluidity, totality, simplicity.”

“Where do these lead us?”

“To freedom.”

“Where does freedom lead us?”

“To no technique and to all technique.”

I turned to Karen Monroe. “You were thinking about the simplicity of the move I executed in disarming you of the first stick when you lost the second, weren't you?”

Her head dropped. “Yes.”

“What should you have done?” I asked, giving her a chance to learn from the mistake.

“I should have trusted my feelings. Somehow I knew what you were going to do. And when you did it, I was surprised at how simple it was.”

“Good. You are not far from true freedom.”

Addressing all the student-teachers, I said, “How many of you felt the presence of the two FBI agents behind me?”

Startled, they looked over my shoulders and saw the two men dressed in dark suits and ties. Then they looked at each other, wondering if anyone knew other than me.

“When true freedom has been attained, you will know without knowing.” I let what I had just taught them sink in for a moment or two before I dismissed my students. “Okay, I'll see you all next week.”

I faced Flynn and Ford and asked, “What's happened?”

T
HE
FBI had already taken over the investigation at the Taylor house, which enraged the local police. As far as they were concerned, FBI agents were always infringing on their territory, throwing their weight around, and taking all the credit for the success of an investigation. By the time I arrived, there was a mob scene in front of the house. Squad cars were everywhere. Flashing red and blue lights bounced off every vehicle and house in the vicinity. Satellites had been set up—reporters circled like vultures.

It was an unseasonably chilly Thursday night in June, so I grabbed my black FBI windbreaker and put it on as I was still wearing my Kung Fu uniform, and I wanted to look the part of a bona fide FBI agent. I got out of my metallic-green Ford Mustang Cobra and walked up the driveway.

I spotted Assistant Director Lawrence Michelson—a former boyfriend ten years removed—talking to the police. Michelson was a handsome black man, six feet tall, and extremely well-groomed. As a twenty-six-year-old agent, I had fallen under his spell. He was still obsessed with me, probably because I had married Keyth Perry, a former agent he didn't like.

I had broken it off with Lawrence when I learned that he was telling agents in the Washington office that he was going to be my first lover. Lawrence Michelson and I were never intimate, but most of the male agents believed the rumors. I remained a virgin until the night of my honeymoon.

When a female agent's reputation has been compromised, the word spreads like wildfire through the bureau. By breaking up with Lawrence as soon as I heard the rumors, I could at least retain some dignity while I did the job I enjoyed so much. Nevertheless, the rumors persisted, and Keyth, who had by then become my boyfriend, had to endure undeserved ridicule. All the tension eventually led to a fistfight with Lawrence, ending Keyth's career with the bureau.

Lawrence spotted me and came down the driveway.

“Perry,” he called. He always addressed me by my last name in public. He was so good at pretenses. All the agents noticed that he gave me a hard time, and they knew why. Lawrence seemed to forget that trained agents accustomed to watching people noticed the subtlest hint of impropriety. “Why didn't you change before you came here?”

“Flynn and Ford said you wanted me here immediately.”

“Flynn and Ford,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Two numskulls who shouldn't even be agents. I didn't tell them you couldn't take time to change. They knew the fucking media was here.”

“Maybe they were concerned with solving the crime, sir.”

“Don't get flippant with me, Perry,” he growled. “This is a career-making case, if you're up for the challenge.”

“I'd rather catch the bad guys, Lawrence.” He hated it when I called him that in public, but no one was around to hear it. I loved pushing his buttons. “Besides, I thought catching the Rapist was the high-priority case, Lawrence.”

“Agent Perry, you will address me as Assistant Director Michelson. You got that? And you'll work whatever case I assign you to.”

“Yes, sir!” I smiled and saluted. “Just a friendly reminder, Assistant Director Michelson. He isn't raping women. He's raping men. It's your ass on the line, not mine. No pun intended. But whatever you say, sir. What do we know so far?”

“Not much. We know they were killed sometime Wednesday night.” He frowned. “The bodies were found by a neighbor who came by when she noticed the garage door had been open all day. Apparently, they never leave their garage door open.”

“I'm gonna need to talk to her,” I said.

“Perry, solving this case quickly is important to the president, which means it's important to the bureau. Director St. Clair said that President Davidson was furious when he found out about Taylor's murder. Her seat on the bench was very important to him, and apparently, he and Justice Patterson had carefully orchestrated her appointment.”

“Her nomination was important to all of us. It's not like a black woman gets a presidential appointment to the Supreme Court every election.”

“The Rapist case is on the back burner for now,” Michelson said. “Find this bastard, Perry. The sooner the better.”

K
ELLY
M
C
P
HERSON'S
shiny black Stingray was coming down the street—its hot-rod engine growling softly. Even with the windows up, I could hear Tupac Shakur's “Heartz of Men” playing loudly. Kelly had recruited me from Howard University, where I had earned my master's degree in criminology. After I graduated from the FBI academy in Quantico, Kelly trained me in the field. As a personal favor, I trained her in the martial arts. After five years of hard work, she was awarded a black sash in Kung Fu. I was proud to present it to her.