Karin Slaughter - Blindsighted

Keith took a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket. "Go buy yourself some candy," he said.

The kid took the money and left without another word.

"Devotion to the job," Keith commented wryly. "You gotta wonder what they're doing on the force."

"Yeah," Jeffrey mumbled, not wanting to have a protracted conversation about the quality of police recruits.

"I'll leave you to it," Keith said. "Ten minutes, okay?"

"Okay," Jeffrey answered, waiting for the door to close.

The file was coded and dated with some obscure notations that only a city employee could figure out. Jeffrey rubbed his hand down the front of the folder, as if he could absorb the information without actually having to see it. When that did not work, he took a deep breath and opened the folder.

Pictures of Sara after the rape greeted him. Close-ups of her hands and feet, the stab wound in her side, and her battered female parts spilled out onto the desk in full color. He actually gasped at the sight of them. His chest felt tight and a stabbing pain ran down his arm. Jeffrey thought for just a second that he was having a heart attack, but a few deep breaths helped clear his mind. He realized that his eyes had been closed, and he opened them, not looking at the pictures of Sara as he turned them facedown.

Jeffrey loosened his tie, trying to push the images from his mind. He thumbed through the other photographs, finding a picture of Saras car. It was a silver BMW 320 with black bumpers and a blue stripe down the sides. Carved into the door, probably with a key, was the word CUNT just as Sara had said in her trial testimony. Pictures showed a before and after of the door, with and without the silver duct tape. Jeffrey got a flash of Sara kneeling in front of the door, taping over the damage, probably thinking in her mind that she would get her uncle Al to repair the damage when she was back in Grant next.

Jeffrey checked his watch, noting five minutes had passed. He found Keith in one of the security cameras, his hands tucked into his pockets as he shot the shit with the guards at the door.

Thumbing through the back of the file, he found the arrest report on Jack Allen Wright. Wright had been arrested twice before on suspicion but never charged. In the first incident, a young woman about the age Sara had been when she was attacked had dropped the charges and moved out of town. In the other case, the young woman had taken her own life. Jeffrey rubbed his eyes, thinking about Julia Matthews.

A knock came at the door, then Keith said, "I gotta call time, Jeffrey."

"Yeah," Jeffrey said, closing the file. He didn't want to hold it in his hands anymore. He held it out to Keith without looking at the other man.

"This help you any?"

Jeffrey gave a nod, straightening his tie. "Some," he said. "Were you able to find out where this guy is?"

"Just down the street," Keith answered. "Working at the Bank Building."

"That's what, ten minutes from the university? Another five from Grady?"

"You got it."

"What's he do?"

"He's a janitor, like he was at Grady," Keith said. He had obviously looked at the file before giving it to Jeffrey. "All those college girls, and he's ten minutes from them."

"Do the campus police know?"

"They do now," Keith provided, giving Jeffrey a knowing look. "Not that he's much of a threat anymore."

"What does that mean?" Jeffrey asked.

"Part of his parole," Keith said, indicating the file. "You didn't get to that? He's taking Depo."

Jeffrey felt an uneasiness spread over him like warm water. Depo-provera was the latest trend in treating sexual offenders. Normally used in women as part of a hormone replacement therapy, a high enough dosage could curb a man's sexual appetite. When the drug was used on sexual predators, it was referred to as chemical castration. Jeffrey knew the drug only worked as long as the perpetrator took it. It was more like a tranquilizer than a cure.

Jeffrey indicated the folder. He could not say Sara's name in this room. "He raped someone else after this?"

"He raped two someone elses after this," Keith answered. "There was this Linton girl. He stabbed her, right? Attempted murder, six years. Got early parole for good behavior, went on the Depo, went off the Depo, went out and raped three more women. They caught him on one, other girl wouldn't testify, put him back in jail for three years, now he's out on parole with the Depo administered under close supervision."

"He's raped six girls and he's only served ten years?"

"They only nailed him on three, and except for her"-he indicated Sara's file-"the other IDs were pretty shaky. He wore a mask. You know how it gets with those girls on the stand. They get all nervous and before you know it opposing counsel has them wondering if they were even raped in the first place, let alone who did it."

Jeffrey held his tongue, but Keith seemed to read his mind.

"Hey," Keith said, "I'd been working those cases, the bastard would've been sent to the chair. Know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Jeffrey said, thinking this boasting wasn't getting them anywhere. "Is he ready for his third strike?" he asked. Georgia, like many states, had enacted a "third strike" law some time ago, meaning that a convict's third felony offense, no matter how innocuous, would send him or her back to jail, conceivably for the rest of his or her life.

"Sounds like it," Keith answered.

"Who's his PO?"

"Already took care of that one," Keith said. "Wright's on a bracelet. PO says he's clean going back the last two years. Also says he'd pretty much cut off his head before going back to jail."

Jeffrey nodded at this. Jack Wright was forced to wear a monitoring bracelet as a condition of his parole. If he left his designated roaming area or missed his curfew, an alarm would go off at the monitoring station. In the City of Atlanta, most parole officers were stationed at police precincts around town so they could snatch up violators on a moment's notice. It was a good system, and despite the fact that Atlanta was such a large city, not many parolees slipped through the cracks.

"Also," Keith said, "I walked on down to the Bank Building." He shrugged apologetically, recognizing he had overstepped the line. This was Jeffreys case, but Keith was probably bored out of his mind from checking purses for handguns all day.

"No," Jeffrey said. "That's fine. What'd you get?"

"Got a peek at his time cards. He was punched in every morning at seven, then out to lunch at noon, back at noon-thirty, then out at five."

"Somebody could've punched it for him."

Keith shrugged. "Supervisor didn't eyeball him, but she says there would've been complaints from the offices if he hadn't been on the job. Evidently, those professional types like to have their cans taken care of bright and early."

Jeffrey pointed to the white mailing envelope Keith held in his hand. "What's that?"

"Registration," Keith said, handing him the envelope. "He drives a blue Chevy Nova."

Jeffrey slit the envelope open with his thumb. Inside was a photocopy of Jack Allen Wrights vehicle registration. An address was under his name. "Current?" Jeffrey asked.

"Yeah," Keith answered. "Only, you understand you didn't get it from me."

Jeffrey knew what he meant. Atlanta's chief of police ran her department by its short hairs. Jeffrey knew her reputation and admired her work, but he also knew that if she thought some hick cop from Grant County was stepping on her toes, the next thing Jeffrey would feel would be a three-inch stiletto parked firmly on the back of his neck.

"You get what you need from Wright," Keith said, "then call in APD." He handed Jeffrey a business card with Atlanta's rising phoenix in the center of it. Jeffrey turned it over, seeing a name and number scribbled on the back.