Tower shook his head. “I don’t know how.”
“You remember Amy Dugger, John?”
Tower’s eyes narrowed. “Of course. Why on earth would you bring up that little girl?”
“They found her dead body in a field,” Renee said.
“I know. I was there.”
“And forensics said she’d been sexually assaulted.”
Tower clenched his jaw. “Your point?”
“My point,” Renee said, “is that what that little girl went through was hellish, but it only lasted a few days. Imagine if it had gone on for years. And then imagine if she survived that beating and got away from her kidnappers. Does your heart go out to that little child, John?”
“Of course it does,” Tower snapped. “It did. It does.”
“I know,” Renee said quietly. “But now imagine what kind of adult that kid would probably grow into. With all that pain to deal with, she’d probably want to inflict a little of it back onto the world. She might have kids of her own someday. And because of what she’s learned as a child, and since they make such convenient targets, she might decide to hurt her own kids. Maybe even kill them. Now when you get called to the scene of that homicide, are you going to feel sorry for that adult? That child-murderer?”
“No,” Tower whispered.
“But you felt sorry for the little girl she used to be.”
Tower stood quietly, saying nothing.
“That’s how I feel about this guy, John,” Renee explained. “My heart bleeds for him as a child. As an adult, though, I hope he comes at you with a knife when you find him. That way you can blast the sick fuck right out of his asshole rapist shoes.”
Tower nodded slowly, slightly surprised at the vehemence in Renee’s words. “He is sick.”
“And he’s gaining momentum. He’s evolving.”
Tower looked down at the list in front of him. “Which brings us to number three.”
“And the most important one right now,” Renee added.
“Why’s that?”
“Because while answers to the first two questions might help you understand the guy or have an advantage when you interview him, neither question gets you any closer to finding him. Neither does this one, but it has a direct impact on your investigation.”
“How so?”
“Because if he is evolving, and I think he is, then it won’t be long before merely controlling and raping his victims won’t be enough.”
“Meaning he’ll start hurting them more?” Tower asked, but he knew that wasn’t what Renee was getting at.
Renee met his gaze directly. “Or maybe he’ll start to kill them.”
1534 hours
At three-thirty every day, Wendy Latah left her North Central High School classroom with her students' homework tucked into her grade-book. In her history class, there was an assignment every single day except on those days right before a vacation break. Every student's grade was recorded daily. A good grade in her class required diligent, consistent study. Those students who couldn't handle that either failed or were transferred into Mr. Julian's considerably less stringent government class.
As she shuffled down the mostly empty hallway of the school, she thought about how much she loved teaching history. Her father, a history professor at Eastern Washington University, had taught her the merits of courage and resolve. He had also taught her to look at history objectively and not to judge according to the standards of this time, but the standards of the time in which those men and women lived. In history, he taught her, there is seldom struggle between wholly good and wholly evil. There is only the struggle of people. Maniacs like Hitler were only the exception that proved the rule.
History was nothing more than a study of people, her father had taught her. History is made every day by great leaders and small nobodies alike. Strength of character, courage, diligence and honesty, were traits all people could portray.
Wendy frankly wished that even a tenth of her father's wisdom had been passed onto the students today. Each day when she emerged from her classroom and walked the halls of North Central High School, she was astounded at how much things had changed since she graduated in 1967. The open disrespect, the profanity, the violence. No one could have conceived of such a thing even when she began teaching in 1972. Now she knew of two different teachers this year that had been assaulted. Another teacher had a student who brandished a knife in the classroom. And worst of all, her best friend, Anna McHugh, had been forced to call the police when she saw a gun in a student's waistband in her classroom. The subsequent arrest led to the discovery of drugs in the student's sock. He had been a sophomore, only fifteen years old.
All of this had prompted Wendy to go to The General Store, which carried firearms and sporting equipment. Her unique knowledge of history gave her the understanding that all things change. Those that become the victims of that change are those who refuse to acknowledge it. So she had reluctantly purchased a small caliber handgun which she kept in her bedroom nightstand drawer. Of course, she couldn’t bring a gun to school, so she’d also bought a small canister of pepper spray which she kept in her purse on her key ring.
But the change pained her. She resented the need for her response. So she tried to keep as much continuity in her life as she could. Thus, every day at three-thirty, she left her classroom. Grade book and homework under her arm, she walked out to the parking lot. Her car was in the same parking space every day, where she had parked it when arriving at six-thirty that morning. She removed her keys and unlocked the car door. The parking lot was strangely empty, but she knew that all sports and activities had tapered off in expectation of the upcoming spring break. In fact, her students had groaned when she had assigned homework, just one school day before the break.
Discipline, she thought. They would thank her at their ten-year reunion. Or perhaps their twenty.
As she swung her car door open, she felt an arm snake around her waist and pull her forcefully backwards. She let out a small cry before a hand clamped firmly over her mouth.
“In the car, bitch,” the assailant grunted at her. Her old Nova had a bench seat. She slipped to all fours, her knees thudding painfully on the bottom of the doorframe. She felt him thrust forward with his hips, forcing her onto the front seat. He climbed in after her.
Wendy fumbled with her key chain. Her breath shot forcefully in and out of her nose.
The man shoved her down onto her stomach. The smell of the cloth seat covers filled her nostrils. His hand slipped underneath her long skirt and grab at her undergarments.
My Lord! She tried to scream in terror, but the noise was muffled by the car seat. What would a high school student want with her? She was fifty-six years old. Her thin body had none of the curves she saw on the female students in the halls. Why was this happening?
His hands found the waistband and ripped her underpants away. She yelped into the seat again. She felt his fingers probe forcefully. Tears of pain sprang into her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
Why?
Why was this happening?
He rammed his fingers into her, causing her to recoil in pain with each thrust. His hand pressed down on her shoulder blades, keeping her pinned to the seat.
Why was for history to discover, she thought weakly.
“Lying old bitch,” he muttered. “Get what you got coming.”
She let out a frightened moan. Her fingers scrambled for the small canister of pepper spray on her key chain.
“You could have done something.” His voice had a faraway quality to it, despite being laced with anger. “You could have told somebody. Made her stop.”