Tower filled her in on his interview with Heather Torin.
“It’s definitely him,” she concluded. “The M.O. and the whammo key word? No question.”
“So tell me if my thinking is good here,” Tower said.
“Probably not, but go ahead.”
Tower ignored her joke. “I asked myself why a guy like this would attack two women at the same park, five weeks apart. And I come up with two answers.”
“Which are?”
“I think he attacked the second victim in the same place because the first victim never called the police. There wasn’t any news coverage at all. Nothing in the paper or on TV. So he figured it was still a safe location.”
“Could be.”
“I figure that he picked that location because it was perfect for his plan. He’d want to use it again if it wasn’t burned.”
“Could be,” Renee repeated. “What’s the second reason?”
“Well, this new victim described him having a premature ejaculation, right? I may be wrong, but I think you could take that as an indication this was his first assault. The excitement was too much for him because he’d never done it before.”
Renee paused on the other end of the line. Tower wished he could see her expression in order to gauge her reaction. Instead, he waited impatiently for her reply.
A few moments later, she said, “It makes sense, I suppose. He was clearly less violent with your victim from today than later victims. If he’s building up to sexual homicide, I would suspect that each time he rapes, it becomes less and less about sexual domination and more and more about violent domination.”
“That fits your theory that he’s evolving,” Tower said.
“Don’t suck up, John.”
Tower laughed. “All right, all right. But you can see where I’m going with this, can’t you?”
“Not beyond the theory that this new report may have been his first, no. So enlighten me, please.”
“What I’m thinking is that if the attack on Heather Torin was his first attack and if Patricia Reno was victim number two, then these attacks came early on in his development as a rapist. And even though he may be turning out to be more violent, he’s also becoming more sophisticated and more daring.”
“Point, please?” Renee urged.
“The point is that wouldn’t a fledgling criminal start his career pretty close to where he felt safe?”
“Safe?” Renee asked.
Tower didn’t answer. He waited.
After about ten seconds, Renee spoke again. “You mean his home, don’t you?”
“Yep.”
“You think he lives somewhere near Clemons Park?”
“I think there’s a good chance of it, yeah.”
Renee remained quiet. Tower listened to the static on the connection until she spoke again.
“You may be onto something, John. It makes sense.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear.”
“Are you going to deploy the Task Force accordingly, then?”
“I think so,” Tower answered. “Not at Clemons Park, though. That’s too obvious. Can you do some research for me?”
“I live for research,” Renee gushed in a half-sarcastic tone, but Tower could hear the tinge of excitement in her voice. He felt the same touch of excitement himself. They might be getting somewhere.
“I need a few options,” he said. “Find me a few areas in the area of Clemons Park that might be good fishing holes.”
“Aye, Aye,” Renee replied. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s it-oh, wait. Janice was asking me a question I didn’t know the answer to.”
“Imagine the odds of that.”
“Har-de-har-har. It was for her crossword puzzle.”
“What was the clue?”
“Ancient Civilization. Ends in E. Seven letters.”
“Hittite,” Renee answered immediately.
“How’d you know that?”
“I know everything,” Renee told him. “It’s my job.”
She hung up.
Tower scratched out H-I-T-I-T-E on his notepad. Then he counted the letters. “There’s only six,” he mumbled, smiling to himself. Well, maybe Renee didn’t know everything.
Sudden pounding at his passenger window startled him. Julie Avery stood at the passenger side of his cruiser, knocking frantically on the window. He pushed the automatic door lock. She pulled open the door hurriedly and hopped inside.
“You made me jump,” he told her.
“Sorry,” she said. “I just wanted out of the rain as quick as I could.”
“How’d things go in there?” Tower asked.
Julie pushed the hood of her jacket back and rubbed her hands together for warmth. “Can you turn on the heater? I’m freezing.”
Tower started the engine and put the heater on.
“Thanks,” Julie said.
“Can you not talk about it?” Tower asked. “Some kind of client privilege or something?”
Julie shook her head. “No, she said I could share anything with law enforcement. But there’s nothing more to tell. We talked about programs available to her and the importance of following through on getting help.”
“You think she will?”
Julie shrugged. “Probably. She called the police after more than a month. That tells you something.”
“I suppose so,” Tower said.
Julie glanced over at him, blowing breath onto her hands. “You know, you did a good job in there.”
“Thanks.”
“I don’t mean on the investigation,” Julie said. “I mean, I’m sure you did fine on that, too. But I meant with Heather. You made her feel good about her decision. That’s important.”
“She did the right thing,” Tower said.
“I know. But telling her that helps.”
“Good to know,” Tower said.
Julie dipped her head toward his clipboard. “What’s that? Your notes?”
Tower looked down at the scrawled notes. “Yeah. Just so I don’t forget anything.”
She cocked her head to read the words he’d written. “I don’t mean to be nosy, but what does ‘Hittite’ have to do with anything?”
“Huh?”
Julie pulled her hand away from her mouth and pointed at the word on his notepad. “There. Hittite. What’s that mean?”
“Oh,” Tower said. “Uh, nothing. It’s unrelated. A history thing someone asked me about.”
Julie nodded slowly. “I see. Well, just in case it’s important, Hittite has three T’s in it, not two.”
Tower frowned.
“It’s H-I-T-T-I-T-E,” Julie spelled.
“I know,” Tower replied, tossing the clipboard into the back seat. “I was…just writing fast.”
Julie smiled and blew on her hands.
Tower dropped the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. Half a block away, he smiled, too.
TWELVE
Sunday, April 21st
Graveyard Shift
2204 hours
“Are we done yet?” yawned Anthony Battaglia, rubbing eyes with the heels of his palms.
“Don’t do that,” Sully said.
“Do what?”
“Yawn. Don’t do it. You’ll get me started.”
Battaglia sighed. “This is never going to work. We’re wasting our time.”
The two officers sat in a gray 1978 Chevrolet Caprice, affectionately dubbed “The Gray Ghost” by the officers in the patrol division. The Ghost was the only civilian vehicle currently available to patrol for use in any undercover operations. Parked along the curb at Corbin Park, they watched Katie MacLeod walk around the park, feigning a workout in the cool, wet air.
At least it stopped raining, Sully thought.
The park ran about six blocks long and two across, making it a natural place for joggers to get in a run. Detective Tower sat alone in a small Toyota truck on the opposite corner of the park. With this configuration, MacLeod never left the sight of at least one cover team.
“Why won’t it work?” Sully asked, suppressing a yawn.
He had to admit he had his own doubts, but he was curious why Batts thought so, too. He watched as MacLeod approached a modest copse of trees near the far end of the park. That was a worry spot, according to Tower, given the rapist’s methods. If he was going to make a move on a woman in this park, the detective had told them that his bet was on that small treed area.