Someone Is Watching (35 page)

“How so?”

“If everything hadn’t happened,” I begin, “if I hadn’t been raped … then you and I might never have connected.”

“That’s true.”

“So maybe I should thank him.”

“How about you just kick him in the balls?”

I actually smile. “Definitely a better idea.”

—

Detective Castillo is waiting for us in the lobby.

The first floor of the station is airy and bright, despite the gloom-filled skies outside the wrap-around windows and the seriousness of what goes on inside the maze of interior offices. I’ve been here many times in the course of various investigations, and I’ve always found the building to be relatively pleasant, despite the mug shots and photos of America’s Ten Most Wanted that line the corridors. This is the first time I’ve ever felt it to be intimidating.

“Bailey.… Claire,” Castillo says by way of greeting. “Thanks for getting here so quickly. Looks like we might be in for quite the storm.”

“Hopefully, we’ll miss the worst of it,” Claire comments.

“You look nervous,” the detective tells me as I smooth my hair away from my face. “How are you feeling?”

“Terrified.” I wonder if he’s been briefed about the events of last night.

“Don’t be. Just remember, you can see them but they can’t see you.”

Knowing this doesn’t help at all.

He leads us down a hallway whose walls are covered with recruitment posters, notices, and announcements for upcoming events as well as framed and formally posed photographs of high-ranking members of the force. “I understand some officers dropped by to see you last night,” he says, his voice casual, as if what he is saying is of little importance. “We’ll talk about it later,” he adds ominously as he opens the door to one of the inner offices.

“Shit,” I mutter underneath my breath.

“You can do this,” Claire says again, misinterpreting the expletive.

We are joined by Officer Dube, who follows us into the room and closes the door behind him. He says hello, asks how I’m doing, tells me there’s no need to be nervous because although I’ll be able to see the suspects, they won’t be able to see me. It still doesn’t help.

The room in which we find ourselves is small and windowless. Recessed lighting, a nondescript tile floor. Except for a couple of orange plastic chairs pushed against the eggshell-colored wall to my left, the room is devoid of furniture. There are no photographs on display, no decorative watercolors, nothing at all to distract from the purpose of the place, which is to view the suspects who will soon be lining up on the other side of the glass partition that takes up most of the far wall. I tuck my navy-striped jersey inside my white cotton pants—the same pants I was wearing yesterday, I realize, noting the streaks of dirt across my hips—and clear my throat. I used to be so fastidious about what I wore.

“Would you like something to drink?” Castillo asks.

“I’d love some water.”

Officer Dube leaves the room.

“Nothing for me,” Claire says, although she hasn’t been asked. “So, you think you have the man who raped my sister?”

“We have a suspect in custody with regard to another rape that occurred last night in the same general vicinity as where Bailey was attacked.”

The same area I returned to yesterday afternoon, I think, suppressing
an involuntary shudder. I find myself wondering if my visit had something to do with this latest assault. Could I be responsible in any way?

“The same M.O.?” I hear Claire ask, the initials sounding so foreign on her tongue that I almost laugh out loud.

“There are some differences.”

“What do you mean, differences?”

“Why don’t we wait until after your sister has had a chance to view the suspects,” Castillo says as the door to the room opens again and Officer Dube reenters with my glass of water. He places a paper cup filled with water into my noticeably trembling hands. I take a sip before the water can spill out onto the floor.

“There’s no reason to be nervous,” Officer Dube tells me again. “You can see them, but they can’t see you.”

The door opens. A young woman enters. She is tall and gangly, with long arms and wide hips. Chin-length jet-black hair frames a somewhat horsey face. Apparently she’s with the Public Defender’s Office.

“Hello,” she says in a Marilyn Monroe–like whisper that is as incongruous as it is disconcerting.

“I’m sure you’re familiar with the procedure,” Castillo states, before going on to describe it. “We’ll bring in five men. They’ll each step forward so that you can get a good look at them, then turn so that you can view them in profile. We’ll also be asking them to speak, to say the words the rapist said to you.…”

Tell me you love me.

My knees buckle. My hands begin to shake uncontrollably. The paper cup filled with water slips through my fingers and falls to the tile floor. I cry out.

“Just leave it,” Castillo directs, although Officer Dube is already bending down to scoop up the now-empty cup and reaching for a paper towel to wipe the water from the floor. “I know how difficult this is for you, Bailey, but it’s also really important. You may not have gotten a good look at him, but you heard his voice. You can do this,” he says, as Claire said earlier.

She reaches over to grip my hand.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask Bailey’s sister to leave the room,” the woman from the Public Defender’s Office states.

“Please,” I beg Detective Castillo. “Can’t she stay?”

“We can’t have anyone potentially influencing the witness,” comes the breathy whisper that is starting to irritate me.

Officer Dube opens the door. “You can have a seat out here,” he tells Claire, directing her to the row of orange plastic chairs that lines the hallway.

Claire hugs me. “Take a deep breath,” she reminds me. “Take a good look. Take your time. Do your best. I’ll be right outside this door.” She gives my hand one last squeeze, then leaves the room.

“Ready?” Castillo asks as soon as she is gone. His finger is already on the intercom, and as soon as I nod, he gives the order to send the men in.

Take a deep breath.

I inhale, releasing it slowly as I watch five men enter the well-lit space on the other side of the glass. Each man carries a small sign numbered one through five and holds it against his chest. On cue, they all turn to face me, five pairs of eyes blank and staring straight ahead. According to the chart behind them, the men hover between five feet nine and five feet eleven inches. Each is of average weight and build, although numbers one and five are noticeably more muscular than the other three. All have brown hair. Numbers two and four appear to be in their twenties, numbers one and five slightly older, number three the oldest by at least a decade. Numbers three and four are likely Spanish, the other three white. All are dressed in dark T-shirts and blue jeans.

All seem vaguely familiar.

Number five in particular. I’ve definitely seen him before.

Take a good look.

“Number one, please step forward.”

Number one steps forward.

I take him in from head to toe.

“Turn to your left. Now your right.”

In profile, the man is slightly better looking than he is head-on, although he stops well short of handsome. The overhead light exaggerates
the cut of his biceps, making the muscles in his arms seem even more pronounced than they were before.

Can this be the man who raped me?

“Say
Tell me you love me,
” Castillo directs, and I shudder at the sound of those words on his lips.

“Tell me you love me,” number one barks without inflection.

I shake my head. I don’t think this is the man who raped me.

“Step back.”

Number one returns to his original position.

“Number two, please step forward.”

Number two takes a lazy step forward, his shoulders slouched, a bored look on his acne-scarred face. He is instructed to turn left and then right, and to say
Tell me you love me.

Even though he sounds nothing like the man who raped me, I have to fight the urge to throw up. There is something so menacing about his tone, something so effortlessly angry in the insolent slouch of his shoulders. I shake my head, stealing a glance toward number five, my panic escalating. Is this the man the police apprehended last night, the man who raped another woman not far from the spot where I was attacked? Could number five be the man who raped me?

“Step back. Number three, step forward please.”

Number three looks to be about forty. In addition to being the oldest, he’s the most jittery. He bounces into position, swaying from one foot to the other and all but vibrating as he turns first to his left, then his right. He spits out
Tell me you love me
as directed, tiny traces of an accent in the words.

He is not the man who raped me.

“Number four.”

Number four is both the youngest and the tallest of the five men. He is also the skinniest. He turns left, then right, and mangles the words he is directed to say, so that he is instructed to say them again, not once but twice. The repetition only serves to make it clear that he is not the man who attacked me.

Number five steps forward as number four is stepping back.

He is the best looking of the five men, and he looks the strongest.
He is also deeply tanned, even a little sunburned. He doesn’t wait for instructions, turning left and then right before being directed to do so.

“Somebody’s hot to trot,” Officer Dube states.

“Say
Tell me you love me,
” Castillo instructs.

“Tell me you love me,” he responds. Loudly. Clearly. Definitively.

I feel my knees buckle. The room tilts on its side. The floor rushes toward my head.

Detective Castillo catches me before I can fall. “Take deep breaths,” he urges as I gulp at the air.

“Is it him?” Officer Dube asks. “Did you recognize his voice?”

I shake my head. Tears I didn’t know had formed drop toward my chin. “It’s not him.”

“You’re sure?”

“He looks so familiar … I thought maybe … but his voice …”

“I think we’re done here,” the public defender says in her breathy, little-girl whisper. “Thank you, gentlemen. Miss Carpenter,” she says instead of goodbye.

She leaves the room, and my sister immediately rushes in.

“What happened?” Claire asks, instantly at my side as, on the other side of the glass partition, the five men are led away. “Are you all right? Were you able to identify him?” She leads me to the orange chairs against the wall, sitting down beside me.

“Your sister was unable to positively identify any of the men,” Castillo says, careful to keep his obvious disappointment out of his voice.

“Are you sure?” Claire asks me.

I shake my head. “Number five looked so familiar,” I marvel out loud.

“That might be because he’s working construction on the building going up behind you. You’ve probably seen him in the area.”

“Or through your binoculars,” Officer Dube adds, his words a clear, if unnecessary, reprimand.

“He’s on probation for assault,” Castillo adds. “Which is why we were able to bring him in.”

“Sexual?”

“No. Bar fight. Five years ago. Still, it was worth a shot.”

“Is he your suspect in the other rape?” I ask.

“No. That was number two.”

I picture the young man’s slouched shoulders and acne-scarred face.
Tell me you love me,
I hear him snarl. Just not the snarl of the man who raped me.

“What about number one? It might have been him.…”

“That would be Officer Walter Johnston. One of Miami’s finest.”

My head drops toward my chest. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He’s not the nicest guy in the world. But he does have an airtight alibi for the night you were attacked. He was on the job, surrounded by dozens of fellow officers.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again, because I can’t think of anything else to say.

“Hey, we tried, you tried. If our guy wasn’t up there, we’ll just have to keep searching.”

“You did your best,” Claire tells me.

“We need to talk,” Castillo says, “about last night.”

“Oh, God. I really don’t think I’m up for a lecture right now.”

“You know what you did is stupid, right?” Officer Dube asks, not bothering to elaborate. There are so many stupid things I’ve done lately, I would be hard pressed to choose just one.

“I guess it can wait,” Castillo says. “Just do me a favor, will you, and don’t make any more anonymous calls to the station. It doesn’t help your credibility.” He pulls a card out of his back pocket and hands it to me. “Call me directly,” he says. “My home number’s on the back.”

“Thank you.” I tuck his card inside my pocket. Another card to add to my growing collection.

“Are you all right? Can I get you anything? Some more water …?”

“I just need a few minutes.”

“Take your time.” He leaves the room, followed by Officer Dube.

“Have you any idea how proud of you I am right now?” Claire asks as soon as they are gone.

“You’re proud of me? For what?”

“It took enormous courage to do what you just did.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Don’t minimize what just happened because it didn’t yield the results you hoped for. You faced your worst fears, Bailey. You stared five potential rapists right in the face. You didn’t run. You didn’t hide. You didn’t fall apart. That’s got to count for something. And that something is a whole lot in my book.”

I fall into her arms, my head resting against her chest. “I love you,” I tell her, realizing this is true.

“I love you, too,” she says, choking back tears. She quickly pulls herself together. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

—

There are two messages waiting at home for me when I check my voice mail. The first one is from Sally, apologizing for not calling in a few days, it’s just been so busy at work and her son has this terrible cold, and why haven’t I gotten around to replacing my cell phone so we can at least text? She adds that it’s a madhouse at work now that Sean Holden is back from his cruise.…

“Shit,” I mutter. Sean’s back, and he hasn’t called me. What does it mean? More important, why do I care? Sean might be a brilliant lawyer, but he is also a liar and a cheat. “You’re such a fool,” I tell myself. Upset because a married man, your boss no less, cheated on you … with his wife! “Idiot,” I say, waiting for the second message, hoping it is from Sean, regardless.