RCC03 - Beneath a Weeping Sky (17 page)

Tower shrugged. “Can’t argue that. But a donut is a donut.”

Renee lowered the box. Her eyebrow arched again. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

She raised the half-eaten donut in the air. “This is barely a donut. Real donuts are things you buy at the bakery.” She raised her cup. “A real donut complements real coffee.” She lowered the cup. “You know, I’m only eating this because you’re trying to make up. Otherwise, I’d put them out for visitors.”

“I know.”

Renee took a bite and held the box out toward him.

Tower waved off her offer. “Can’t feed the stereotype.”

Renee swallowed. “But I can?”

“You’re not the police. You only work for the police.”

“The public doesn’t know the difference,” she said.

“True,” Tower agreed. “But the public is mostly ignorant.”

“I’ve developed a theory about that, by the way,” she said, breaking off another piece of donut and tossing it in her mouth.

“About what? Why the public is ignorant?”

“Uh-uh.” She chewed and swallowed and gave it another coffee chaser. “About cops and donuts. How the stereotype started.”

Tower raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

She gave him a slight smile and took the last bite of her donut, making him wait. When she’d finished chewing and tossing back another shot of coffee, she went on. “It’s simple, really. People forget that we haven’t always been this twenty-four hours, seven days a week society. The pace of life wasn’t always this fast. Take 7-11 stores for instance. Do you know where the name came from?”

Tower did, but he shook his head no. He didn’t want to interrupt her.

“Those were the store’s business hours. Seven in the morning until eleven at night. What was so novel about that, you ask? Well, everyone else except bars and taverns were strictly nine to five. Maybe eight to six. It was a big deal to be able to run to the store for milk at ten-thirty at night when the Safeway was closed.”

She took another pull of coffee and waved her hand. “Of course, now there are tons of businesses open twenty-four hours a day. Not just convenience stores, but gas stations, restaurants and grocery stores. Everybody has twenty-four hour service.”

“Not banks,” Tower said.

“Not so. ATMs.” She shook her head. “No, John, we’ve seen a very radical shift in the last half-century. The era of convenience is firmly entrenched in our social structure.”

“So cops eat donuts because it’s convenient?”

She took another sip and rolled her eyes at him. “Are you purposefully being obtuse?”

“Yes. But it’s not much of a stretch for me.”

“I don’t doubt it. Do you want to hear my theory or not?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She leaned forward. “Back in the times before 7-11, when everyone closed down at a reasonable hour and went home, we still had cops out on the beat, right? Graveyard shift had to be unbearably long. By two or three in the morning, I’ll bet you that the officers out there thought they were the last people alive on earth. They’d welcome human contact. They’d be looking for it. So who was open at that time of night?”

“Bars?”

“Yeah, all right, until two in the morning.
If
it were a weekend. But how long would a bartender want to stay after a long night? Not long. He’d be wanting to tally up the receipts and get home to bed. By two-thirty, even the bars were dark back then. But who comes to work about three, three-thirty in the morning?”

Tower shrugged.

She smiled. “The baker. The baker comes to work early and starts baking. He throws on a pot of coffee for himself and for his friend, the local cop. The cop swings by, has some fresh coffee, some conversation and a donut. The sugar and caffeine give him a boost through to the end of his shift. The baker doesn’t have to worry about getting robbed when he opens his shop. Both parties benefit from the arrangement.”

“No doubt.”

Renee leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “And that, detective, is how I believe the cop and the donut stereotype came to be.”

Tower set down his Styrofoam cup on her desk and clapped. “Brilliant. And all these years, I just thought it was because donuts tasted good.”

“That’s why you’re a detective and not an analyst.”

Tower nodded, letting a more serious look seep into his face. “You’re right, actually. That’s why I’d like to talk to you about those questions you wrote last time I was here.”

She held up a finger. “You’re forgetting something.”

Tower sighed and hung his head. “The donuts aren’t enough?”

“Do you have any experience with women at all, Detective Tower?”

“Apparently not.”

“Apparently
so
,” Renee replied. “Because you know exactly what you need to do.”

Tower looked up and met her eyes. “Yes, I do.” He took a deep breath and said in a sincere tone, “I’m sorry, Renee.”

She paused, as if savoring his discomfort. Tower waited in silence until she finally gave him a quick nod. “Apology accepted.”

“Thank you. Let’s get busy, then.”

Renee poised her fingers over the keyboard. “Just speak the word, master.”

Tower smiled. “Actually, I was thinking more about those questions you wrote down.”

Renee reached into a file on her desk and removed the slip of paper. Without a word, she handed it to Tower. He glanced down at the neat feminine script.

Why does he rape?

Who does he hate?

Is he evolving?

Tower sighed. “I know I was frustrated before, so that was why I snapped at you. But, truly, I have no clue what the answers to any of these questions are.”

“It’s like I said, John. You have to use your imagination. Why would a man rape?”

Tower shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know.”

Renee chuckled and shook her head. “Sure you do. Every man knows.”

Tower cocked his head at her. “Are you saying every man is a rapist?” he asked. He’d heard about some kooky women’s libber saying something like that once upon a time, but he thought it was stupid. He’d seen plenty of rapists since being assigned to the Sexual Assault Unit. Most of them were scumbag pieces of—

“No,” Renee said, “of course not. But every man can imagine why a rape might occur.”

“Sex?”

“Give the man a prize.”

Tower shook his head. “But I thought rape was about power, not sex. That’s what all the advocates say. That’s what most of the training I’ve gone to says, too.” He shrugged. “I even heard one statistic where something like forty percent of rapists can’t even get an erection.”

Renee nodded. “I heard that one, too.”

“So?”

“So what?”

Tower cocked his head the other direction. “Are you trying to frustrate me on purpose?”

“It
is
fun,” Renee said. “And so easy.”

“I’m glad I amuse you.”

Renee smiled. “Back to the question at hand. Power or sex? Sex or violence?”

“Easy,” Tower said. “Power and violence.”

“I think you’re right,” Renee said. “I think all the advocates and the experts and so forth are right, too. It
is
about power and it
is
about violence. But sex is the
vehicle
for all that power mongering and violence.”

“So...?”

“So, in a very real way, it is also about sex. It sure as hell isn’t about badminton.”

Tower paused, thinking about her words. Then he said, “So he rapes for power, but it is still important to him that sex is the way he gets the power?”

“I think so. Not just with this guy, but with most of them.”

Tower shrugged. “Okay, could be. How does that help us?”

Renee returned the shrug. “I don’t know if it does help a whole lot. But it’s a start. Move on to the next question.”

Tower glanced back down at her list. “Who does he hate?” He looked up at Renee. “Do you mean groups of people? Like immigrants or women or something?”

Renee shook her head. “Not really. I mean something more specific. If he hates women in general, for example, it is usually because of a specific hate for a specific woman. Or women.”

“Someone who hurt him?”

“Yes.”

“Like a girlfriend.”

“Or a mother.”

Tower raised his eyebrows. “Oh...I see. Mommy issues.” He twirled his finger at his temple and stuck out his tongue sideways.

Renee wagged her finger at him. “You shouldn’t make fun, John. Our parents have a huge impact on who we become. Messed up parents usually create messed up kids.”

“Maybe he was an orphan. Maybe he hates his mother for giving him up for adoption.”

Renee peered closely at him.

Tower raised his palms up in a placating gesture. “Seriously.”

Renee considered. “I suppose it could be. But I wouldn’t think that a sense of abandonment would result in such a powerful reaction.”

Tower chuckled, shaking his head slowly.

“What?” Renee asked.

“Listen to us,” Tower said, “a couple of junior psychiatrists.”

Renee shrugged. “You don’t need a degree to figure out bad guys. This is a sick guy, John.”

“Duh.”

“I’d be willing to bet this all came from childhood.” Renee looked down at her notepad and traced the letters absently. “I can imagine some young kid with an absent or abusive father, or a domineering mother. Or someone else and something else. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that through alternately neglecting and inflicting pain on this child, who only wanted love and protection, someone who was supposed to care for this little boy created a monster instead.”

Tower looked at her askance. “You’re...
sympathizing
with him?”

Renee nodded. “You bet. As a child, I sympathize with him from here to Cleveland.”

“He’s a violent rapist,” Tower reminded her.

“Yes, he is, John. As an
adult
.” Renee tapped the tip of her pen on the pad in front of her for emphasis. “As a
child
, I cry for this person.”

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.