Ten Times Guilty (19 page)

“Shame,” Tracy whispered. “It’s like I’m not a person anymore, I’m nothing. Someone used me like a thing! I was forced to...to open the most intimate part of my body, something I’ve kept private all my life. I feel almost as if my nakedness has been exposed to everyone. And I feel even more humiliation because other people know. It’s like, like...” her voice trailed off, and she sat in silent thought. “Did you ever dream you were in a familiar place with people all around, and all of a sudden you discovered you were naked?”

Suzy nodded.

“That’s kind of what it’s like.” She gazed out the window. The dark streaks were moving toward the city. She welcomed the rain; the sound was so soothing. “I remember a phrase I heard when I was a child, ‘a fate worse than death’. It wasn’t just a meaningless phrase, it was an attitude. There was something shameful in allowing yourself to be raped. If you died in the attempt to save your virtue, you were excused. But if you survived, well, people just sort of lifted their eyebrows and whispered with that knowing look. Nice girls didn’t put themselves into that position. So the unspoken question was, ‘what did you do to bring it on?’”

Suzy sighed. “Unfortunately, that hasn’t changed an awful lot.”

“No matter how I know that’s not right, I still have the same doubts. And I go back over and over it to try to figure out what I did to cause it to happen to me!” Tracy burst into tears.

“Oh honey,” Suzy said, holding her, “you’re not to blame. It’s not your fault. So many victims think that way and it’s wrong.” She came around in front of Tracy and bent to look her in the eye. “You listen to me. You didn’t do anything. It was done to you!” She took a tissue to dab at Tracy’s eyes. “Maybe that’s not good English, but it says what I mean.”

“I know, but...”

“I just don’t know what’s wrong with our society,” Suzy muttered. “Women have to fight a guilt trip along with everything else. It shouldn’t be that way. If you were walking home after work and someone came along and hit you over the head and took your purse, would people wonder if you’d dangled your handbag in front of that poor, innocent guy’s nose and teased him into grabbing your purse? Of course not!”

Tracy smiled. Suzy made it sound so logical, so simple, and she had a wonderful ability to look at things in a slightly different way.

“I know Sharon told you about the meeting today.” At the look from Tracy, she quickly added, “Now before you say no, just listen a minute.”

“Look,” Tracy said, “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, both you and Sharon, but I don’t want to go. I’m not ready for that.”

“But honey, that’s the point. You are ready. You need to go, because underneath all the logic, you still think you’re guilty. I’ll be back to get you around one-thirty. Don’t worry. I’ll be right beside you.”

“Suzy, you’re a bully.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

“—been some progress down through the ages.” A  woman in a black-and-grey plaid suit was speaking when Suzy and Tracy quietly maneuvered the wheelchair next to some empty chairs on the last row.

“That’s Elizabeth Randell,” Suzy whispered, “psychologist with the rape center. If anyone could be considered an expert on sex crimes, it’s her.”

“Was she raped too?”

“No, her daughter was, several years ago. Had quite a time of it, from what I understand.”

The speaker, a tall, slim woman with a few grey streaks in her chestnut hair, was clearly comfortable with her audience and conveyed a warm, open attitude. Tracy sat back and listened.

“There was a time in history,” Mrs. Randell said, “when the woman was not considered the victim. A woman was considered a man’s property, either her father’s or her husband’s. If she were unmarried, it was assumed she was a virgin, and as such, worth a bridal price to her father. If she was raped, she was no longer a virgin and no longer worth the bridal price. The father lost the money, so he was considered the victim.                          

“According to law, if she was raped outside city walls where no one could hear her screams, the violator could simply pay the bride-price to the father and the pair was ordered to marry. All was well.

“But,” Mrs. Randall said, “if she had the extreme misfortune to be raped inside city walls, then both she and the violator were put to death. That was justified by saying if she had screamed, someone would have heard her and she would have been saved.

“That, I would imagine, was the start of putting the guilt on the victim instead of the violator.” She took a sip of her water before continuing.

“A married woman didn’t have it any better, as rape was considered adultery. And we all know what happened to adulterers, don’t we? In some cultures, a married woman had a chance:  the husband could, at the last moment, save his wife. But only if he chose to do so.

“So you see, it may have taken several thousand years,” she said with a wry smile, “but we have made strides in changing the way rape is perceived. By the public and with institutions.”

Tracy was surprised by the audience. Men as well as women were in attendance, the same variety of people you could expect to see at any discussion of any subject.

When it was time for questions, an older woman in front raised her hand.

“This is confusing. Why would anyone resort to rape with all the casual sex that seems to be available now?”

“Ah,” Mrs. Randell said, “you have the same idea about rape most people have, which is that the rapist is driven by a sexual lust he just can’t control. That is not true. Often rape has nothing to do with sex. In fact, there are basically two kinds of rape, and rape that is born of anger is far more common than rape for sexual gratification. Usually the rapist gets his satisfaction from dominating and terrorizing his victim.”

A middle-aged man sitting on Tracy’s right raised his hand. “Could that also apply to older women? Say, to a woman beyond what is thought of as, as sexually alluring?”

“Yes,” the speaker acknowledged. “And studies have shown that older victims are sometimes subjected to even more brutality. The victim symbolized an authority figure and the rapist wanted revenge, or to be in control of that person.”

“You mean someone will rape because of a grudge?” someone at the front asked. She sounded incredulous.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that, but I would have to say yes.”

“I can see where that could apply if a rapist wanted to punish someone,” a man said. Tracy thought his voice sounded familiar, but he was on the far right and she couldn’t see him. “But what about where he beats or even kills his victim and doesn’t know her?” he continued. “Or knows her casually. That wouldn’t fit.”

Tracy strained to see where the voice came from.

“Actually, it does,” the speaker told him. “In that case, a victim can symbolize someone in the rapist’s mind. He can be so full of rage against women that his victim can be anyone:  a woman who looks like someone he hates; is the same age; or just someone in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“How would date rape fit in?” a young woman asked.

“That’s a good example of a sexual gratification rape,” she was told. “It’s the primary purpose of the attacker. In some ways, it’s more difficult for the victim, because even though the attacker may threaten or even overpower the victim, in his own mind he doesn’t think he committed a crime. To him, he was just a little more persuasive.

“Usually, he doesn’t harm her. Physically. But she doesn’t know that. And when I say more difficult for the victim, it’s because she’s gone through the trauma of rape, but since she may not have bruises or cut lips to show that she has been forced, she’s not always believed.

“I think it’s only fair to tell you that changes have been made, in society, and in law enforcement. As many of you know firsthand, it’s still not pleasant, but it used to be a nightmare for the victim.”

She glanced over the audience and smiled.

“Along those lines, I’m happy to see we have a representative of the local law enforcement with us today, Sergeant Reese Sanders of the Denver Police Department. Perhaps we could get him to say a few words.”

So that was who the familiar voice belonged to! “Let’s get out of here,” she hissed to Suzy, releasing the brake on the wheelchair. “Quick! I don’t want him to see me.”

***

Straightening his jacket, Reese walked slowly to the front of the room. How the hell had he been roped into this? Jesus, he didn’t have anything to say to these people. He was trying to learn from them.

At the lectern, he gazed out over the audience. Some were looking up at him expectantly, others, with open hostility. Probably past victims or family members of a victim. Sharon sat in the front row, Mrs. Randell next to her.

He had to say something quick; the audience was getting restless. Christ, he was thirsty. He poured water from a pitcher and took a drink, almost draining the glass in one gulp. Now what? Jesus, it was hot in there. He took off his jacket, draping it over the lectern, and loosened the collar on his shirt. With both hands gripping the edges, he finally spoke.

“I, ah, don’t know what the hell I’m doing up here. I don’t have any words of wisdom to offer you people. But Mrs. Randell seems to think I have something to say.” He glanced at her with an bewildered expression. She smiled, but didn’t offer help. “I apologize for not being a more eloquent speaker,” he continued, “but I’ll try to make some sense. Eventually.” A soft murmur of laughter came from the audience.

“A lot of what she says is true, about the police department, I mean. Sometimes, in the enforcement of our duties, it comes down to a split-second decision.” His voice became stronger as he grew more comfortable. “It is, simply put, whether or not to abide by legal, ethical, or moral codes in dealing with a victim.

“All of us, as human beings, want to be able to live by these codes, but sometimes, if we want to be able to get our man, we can’t always take the necessary time to respect these codes.

“Is it better to wait and treat this one with kid gloves? Knowing, that if we do, the perpetrator is out there, perhaps doing it again? Or is it better to bulldoze our way in, get the necessary information while it’s fresh, and have a better chance to stop him and get him off the streets?

“People get hurt. None of us like that, but until we figure out something else, it’s all we have.”

“Well, something’s wrong here,” Sharon spoke up. “Victims shouldn’t have to feel battered by the very people who are supposed to help them.”

That hit home, hit Reese with the power of a kick in the gut. His hands trembled and beads of sweat popped out on his face and neck. He had to get the hell out of there.

“That’s true, Sharon.” He picked up his jacket. “And as I told you, some of us are trying to make some changes. They won’t come overnight, but if we help each other, they’ll come.” He eased away from the lectern. “Thank you for listening,” he said, then  quickly made his way out of the room, the sound of muted applause following him through the cafeteria.

He made his way to Tracy’s room and found her standing at the window gazing out. Her body stiffened when she turned and saw him.

“You were at the meeting,” he said. “Does that mean you’ll help me get this guy? I think you know more than you’ve told. I don’t know why you’re shielding this man, I can only imagine. But whatever the reason, I need your help, please. You’re the only witness we’ve got.”

“I can’t,” she said, her eyes full of anguish.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to know he’s out there, to know it’s him and still can’t go after him with everything we’ve got?” he asked her. “Please, Tracy, won’t you help me?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

***

Reese walked down the dimly lit hallway until he came to his second-floor apartment. Opening the door, he entered a short hall and hung his jacket in the closet on the left. To his right, a doorway opened to a small galley-style kitchen. A small round wood-laminated table divided the kitchen from the minuscule living room. Sliding glass doors led to a small balcony overlooking the parking lot.

Just like a motel room, he thought. Nothing personal around, no pictures, no magazines, nothing to distinguish this apartment from any others. And that’s just the way he wanted it. Except for his recliner. Stained, threadbare, and full of dog hairs that never came out, it was the only thing, other than his clothes and toiletries, he had brought from the old place.

Loosening his tie, he went into the kitchen and got a glass from the counter. Not too dirty. He’d just used it the other day. His hands shook; he sure could use a drink. Opening the cupboard, he took down a pint of Seagram’s Seven, wanting more than anything to uncap it and pour the smooth whiskey down his throat.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t start that nightmare all over again. Boozing to kill the pain, to forget the guilt. The missed time, the blackouts, the fights with Julie until she finally left in disgust. He couldn’t start that all over again, not now, when he was finally starting to feel like a cop again.

His fingers caressed the brown bottle, the big red seven enticing him to take just one swallow.