Frank Zafiro - Beneath a Weeping Sky

Tower forced himself back to Katie’s report. It was well-written, describing her encounter with the victim, Maureen Hite. He wished he could have come out to investigate the rape himself, but he never received the call. The battery in his pager died and he’d stayed the night at Stephanie’s house, so calls to his house had gone unanswered.

According to the report, Maureen Hite had been out walking along a path through Friendship Park. Tower was familiar with the park. Mostly open field, the park was lightly wooded along the west side.

Tower read from Katie’s report, his pen tapping a steady rhythm.

The victim stated that she was northbound along the path when she heard a shuffling noise behind her. Before she could react, she was struck on the head. She thinks that it was with a fist or possibly an open hand but she was not sure. The blow stunned her. The suspect pulled her into the treed area near the sidewalk. He covered her face with some sort of towel or rag. He ordered the victim not to look at him or he would “lay the whammo on” her. He also called her several derogatory names such as “little whore” and “bitch.”

Tower shook his head, reading forward.

The suspect removed the victim’s sweat pants and underwear. He then sexually assaulted her vaginally from behind. During the act, he struck her several times on the back of the head, leaving her further stunned. She was not sure if he ejaculated or not. When he was finished, he told her that he knew who she was and that he would kill her if she reported the rape to police.

When the victim realized that the suspect had left the scene, she stood and began walking again. Due to her dazed state, she didn’t think to knock on one of the doors in the neighborhood. It wasn’t until she reached the parking lot five blocks away that she found a pay phone to call 911.

I transported the victim to the hospital. On the way, we drove to the park where the assault occurred. She was able to point out the approximate area where she was attacked. Officer Chisolm searched the area for any evidence. See his report for further.

The victim was unable to describe the suspect, other than to say he “sounded white.”

Tower sighed. This had to be the same guy. The M.O. was too similar and the phrase about “the whammo” was too unique. So he had been right about the guy. Whoever he was, he wasn’t finished.

Tower cursed. Most of the rapes he investigated involved suspects that were somehow known to the victim. Even if the connection was tenuous, there was usually something that linked the two. Dating, working together, even just a one-time social connection. The point was, a rape was usually not a who dunit. Usually, his biggest obstacles were proving that sexual intercourse occurred and that it involved forcible compulsion. In other words, most of the time it was a DidHe dunit. More directly, it typically ended up being, from an investigative standpoint, a case CanIProveHe dunit.

Stranger rapes were much rarer.

That presented a number of problems for him as the investigator. For one, he didn’t even have a suspect.

Sure you do, John. About forty thousand of them.

Plus, if this guy really was a serial, he might get better and better with his technique as he went along, making each successive case even harder to solve. Tower had to figure out how to catch the guy before he attacked another victim.

But how?

He shook his head. He could definitely use someone to bounce some ideas off of.

Tower looked around the unit. A pair of empty desks sat behind him. He had no idea where the detectives that sat in those desks might be and didn’t much care. Prather and Carlisle were thick as thieves. Neither one of them spoke to him much and that suited him just fine. Both specialized in child molestation cases, anyway.

The third empty desk belonged to Ted Billings. Sex Crimes was a demotion from Major Crimes for him. Crawford had busted him back before Tower even came to the unit. The way Billings worked, Tower could see why. As detectives went, Billings made an excellent paper weight. It was pretty obvious to Tower that Billings was R.O.D. — Retired On Duty.

So who did that leave?

No one in his unit.

Tower reached into his desk drawer and removed the Patricia Reno file. Then he scooped up the newest file on Maureen Hite and took both with him as he made his way to the Major Crimes unit. Once there, he found Detective Ray Browning sitting at his desk, reviewing a file of his own.

“Ray?”

Browning, a black man with compact features, looked up from his file. His warm, brown eyes regarded Tower calmly. “John. What’s up?”

Tower motioned toward the file on Browning’s desk. “You deep into that?”

Browning shook his head. “No, just some housekeeping. It’s already gone to the prosecutor. I’m going on vacation after tomorrow, so I wanted to get all the little odds and ends tidied up. Why?”

Tower held out his two files. “I’m looking for suggestions. I want to catch this prick.”

Ray smiled graciously. “You want to run it for me?”

Tower shook his head. He knew Browning preferred to read the reports himself rather than hear a synopsis. He held out the files and Browning accepted them. Tower settled into the empty desk across from him. Browning opened the files and read carefully, stroking his graying goatee as he scanned the pages.

Tower tapped his pen and waited.

Browning glanced up. “You’re not going to sit there and tap the entire time, are you?”

Tower stopped. “Sorry.”

Browning smiled at him. “Get yourself some coffee, John.”

Tower nodded. “Good idea.” He rose and left the bullpen, making his way past Glenda, the Major Crimes secretary. The smell of good coffee wafted toward him. He grabbed a Styrofoam cup and poured some.

“That’s a quarter,” Glenda told him, her tone mock-scolding.

Tower fished a dollar out of his pocket and stuffed it into the jar near the coffee pot. “It’s worth it. The coffee over in Sex Crimes sucks.”

Glenda shrugged. “What can I say? This is Major Crimes. The varsity team.”

Tower smiled. “Don’t be humble or anything.”

“Humility is an affectation that I don’t have time for,” Glenda said, a smile playing on her lips. “It tends to get in the way of accomplishing anything great.”

“And greatness courses through the veins of every member of the Major Crimes unit,” Tower said.

Glenda narrowed her eyes. “Drink your coffee, serf.”

Tower turned his empty palm up. “You got me. I have no response for that.”

Glenda raised her eyebrows in mock haughtiness. “I thought not.”

Tower chuckled and sipped his coffee.

“Tower!” Lieutenant Crawford bellowed from his office.

Tower suppressed a sigh. “Yeah?”

“Don’t ‘yeah’ me,” Crawford barked. “Stop flirting with my secretary and come in here!”

Tower tipped Glenda a wink and made his way into the Lieutenant’s office. He stood in front of Crawford’s desk, ignoring the open chair.

Crawford eyed him for a moment, then lifted a clipboard. “I’ve got a stranger-to-stranger rape on my report list.”

“I know. I’ve already got the file.”

Crawford glanced down at the clipboard. “Maureen Hite?”

Tower nodded.

“Is it a good rape?”

Tower cringed at the question. He knew that a percentage of rape reports that came through were false. Most of the time, alcohol and the wrong partner were involved. It was a reality he’d come to understand as a sex crimes investigator — sometimes women lied about rape. Of course, at the same time, they often didn’t report it at all. He’d investigated a number of false claims, so he knew they happened. Still, Crawford’s word choice bothered him. He wasn’t a screaming liberal about the issue, but-