After he’d finished the mission, they returned to that village with regular army units two days later. All of the colonel’s troops were gone. As Chisolm swept through the village, he swung into the hooch to check on the young girl. Like a sick version of deja vu, he found her struggling with an American soldier.
Chisolm took a long, deep drink from the Kokanee bottle. He lowered his eyes, returning his gaze to his shadowy reflection in the dead television screen. He recalled the brief struggle with the American troop, then the face-off that occurred when the soldier’s platoon mates showed up. All three of them left after Chisolm stared down the barrel of his M-16 at them.
What was worse, though, was the young girl’s -
Mai, goddamnit! Her name is Mai!
— accusing eyes when she slapped at his chest and shoulders, chattering in Vietnamese, demanding to know why he hadn’t killed the American just like he’d killed the NVA.
There were nights like these that Chisolm wondered if maybe he should have.
Six months later, he came across her in a Saigon bar, all tarted up and swaying to the music. When she spotted him at a table, waiting for Bobby Ramirez to finish having his fun upstairs, she’d been all over him. Rubbing, cooing, asking him if he wanted a good time. All the while, though, her eyes radiated the same dead, accusing hatred they’d held back in that hooch in her tiny village in the middle of the jungle.
You let me down, those eyes said.
Chisolm left the bar and waited across the street. He sipped whiskey until Ramirez staggered out of the bar, looking for him. Then they walked away and never looked back.
But now I spend all my time looking back, Chisolm thought. Just seeing all of the ghosts of those I’ve failed.
He drained the beer, but made no move to get another. Instead, he stared into his own eyes in the reflection of the black TV screen. He didn’t like what he saw, but he knew what he’d see if he looked away.
NINE
Friday, April 19th
Day Shift
1456 hours
Tower stood near the corner of the small conference room, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. He’d watched people slowly trickle into the meeting, guessing at their identities as soon as they came through the door.
The prosecutor was easy to pick out. Patrick Hinote had the confident stride of a veteran attorney and a firm handshake. Of course, the nice suit and the briefcase provided a couple of slam-dunk clues. Tower didn’t award himself any points for figuring that one out.
Next to arrive were a pair of women. The first was a slender woman with a shock of coppery hair drawn back in a ponytail. She looked about thirty to Tower. Accompanying her was a younger, heavy-set woman wearing a pair of round, thin-framed glasses. Her black hair was cut in a tight bob.
Advocates, Tower guessed.
Patrick Hinote introduced them. “Detective Tower, this is Julie Avery and Kami Preston.”
Tower held out his hand. The dark haired woman reached out first. “Kami Preston,” she said, her tone terse and business-like. Tower shook her hand. Her grip was firm but not overbearing.
Patrick put his briefcase on the conference table. “Kami is assistant counsel on this case.”
“Nice to meet you,” Tower said.
Great. Rookie lawyer.
He moved on to Julie Avery. She gave him a pleasant smile as she took his hand. He expected her grip to be much softer, but she surprised him with an even firmer grip than Kami’s.
“I’m on the Prosecutor’s Crisis Team,” she told him.
“Oh?” Tower nodded. He’d been right about at least one of them, then. She was a rape advocate. “That’s great.”
Julie’s smile broadened. “You don’t sound too convinced, detective.”
She’s direct, Tower thought. He cleared his throat nervously. “No? Sorry, I’m just a little distracted by this case.”
The truth was he’d worked around advocates before on other cases. For the most part, they were helpful, both to the victim and for his investigation. He’d heard horror stories about situations where an advocate interfered with an investigation or tried to play junior attorney, but he’d personally never seen it. Most of the time, they offered an ear and a resource to the victim, which made that victim a better witness in the criminal case.
Still, they weren’t going to have any victims at this meeting, or as part of the task force. So why did the prosecutor bring along an advocate?
Tower sipped his coffee and retreated toward the corner of the room. The foursome stood around awkwardly for several minutes until Lieutenant Crawford and Captain Reott arrived. Renee entered the room only a few moments later. Introductions were made all around and the meeting began.
“Let me get straight to the point,” Captain Reott said. “The police department is forming a small task force to deal with this so-called ‘Rainy Day Rapist.’ We want to get the Prosecutor’s Office on board right early on to make sure that when we get the guy, he’s stays got.”
“I appreciate that, Captain,” Patrick said. “We’ll help in any way we can.”
Reott nodded his understanding. “I’m sure you will. Right now, what we’re thinking is this. If Tower needs any search warrants or arrest warrants, you’ll assist him so that there’s no chance of it getting shot down later on by some judge. Also, if there are any more assaults, I’d like you to respond to the scene to offer any advice or assistance.”
“We can do that,” Patrick said. “I’d like to get copies of all the incident reports to review.”
“I’ll ship them to you,” Tower said.
“Thanks. In the meantime, could you give us a brief synopsis of where things are at?”
Tower glanced at Crawford, took a deep breath and sighed. “The truth is, we’re nowhere.”
“Detective, I realize you may have a difficult case, but-”
“I’m not exaggerating,” Tower interrupted. “We have very little in the way of witness testimony and no physical evidence that points to a particular suspect. Even if the guy came in and confessed, I don’t know if we could convict him off the evidence we’ve been able to collect.”
“Do you have any DNA?”
Tower shook his head.
Kami Preston scrawled furiously on the yellow legal pad in front of her.
“Any injuries the attacker may have sustained in the commission of the offense?” Patrick asked.
“His last victim, a schoolteacher, blasted him with a small canister of pepper spray,” Tower explained. “But within a few hours, all evidence of that was probably gone. One trip through the washing machine cleans the clothes. A few hours and lots of water takes care of the spray effects on the bad guy’s eyes and face. So if he lives alone, and he probably does-”
“Why do you say that?” Julie asked him.
Tower glanced at her. “He’s a rapist.”
“That means he lives alone?”
“I just think it would be hard to-”
“I wonder, detective, if you are falling into the trap of stereotyping your suspect.”
Kami Preston paused in her feverish writing and looked up. Tower felt her eyes and those of everyone else in the room boring into him.
“Excuse me?” He asked, stalling for time. “Stereotyping?”
“Yes,” Julie answered immediately. “It’s a common mistake. There are a lot of myths surrounding rape. It wouldn’t be good to…”
Jesus, she’s a pit bull, Tower thought. And she’s all over my ass.
“…immediately assume that a certain myth or stereotype holds true. In fact, it may even hamper your ability to discover…”
Tower held up his hand, interrupting her. “The thing about stereotypes, Ms. Avery, is that while they might make some people of a particular political persuasion uncomfortable, they became stereotypes for a reason.”