“Of course, Alexandra, I’ll try to get back immediately. I love you, darling. I’ll call as soon as I know when I can fly out. Unfortunately, everyone on the deal came into Paris for these meetings, so it’s impossible to break away. Be strong, darling we’ll get you through this.”
I’m so sick of being strong, I complained to myself after exchanging sophomoric farewells with Jed and hanging up the phone. Being strong for victims who can’t do it themselves, being strong for weak-spirited strays of all varieties who crossed my threshold, being strong for strangers who truly did depend on the kindness of others.
When I had the opportunity to stop and think about it, I was well aware that it was a complete pain in the ass to be expected to be strong for everyone all of the time especially because no one ever wants to see me through a moment of weakness.
I’m tired of being Scarlett O’Hara. In my next life I’m going to come back as Melanie Wilkes, fragile and helpless.
I blew my nose with a tissue from the supply kept on my desk to service the victim population that passed through every day, and called out to Laura that I wanted her to send Detective Wallace into my office.
Mercer and Mike came in together a few seconds later.
“Before you get started,” Mike said, “Chief Flanders wants to know if you have any idea who Isabella was taking with her to the Vineyard.”
“No one, Mike. That was the point of it. She wanted to get off by herself for a few days and make some decisions about the scripts that had been sent to her for upcoming roles.”
“Well, Coop, I know you hate it when people lie to you, but she wasn’t alone in your cozy hideaway. At least not all the time. Looks like she had a playmate.”
“How do they know she wasn’t alone?” I asked, trying to hold my annoyance in check.
“Maybe she met some friends on the island and invited them in for a drink, or…”
Everything was getting to me today. I don’t know why it should irk me that Isabella didn’t spend her last few days on earth alone, but I assumed that I was overreacting to news of her tryst because I was so lonely at the very same moment.
“The obvious signs. Not only was Lascar sleeping in your bed, Goldilocks, but the other side of it was rumpled up pretty well, too. Coffee mugs in the sink, food in the frig.
Flanders says get this – his wife read in People magazine that Lascar was a vegetarian, but there was a big steak bone in the garbage and some hot dogs ready for a barbecue.
Right next to the yogurt.“
“Well, tell them to talk to her friends, not to me. She clearly didn’t want me to know. Now let me talk to Mercer about his case while you show the Chilmark Police how to play Dick Tracy, okay, Mike? If you need to use People to solve the case, I’ll get you a subscription.”
Mercer Wallace was one of the best detectives in the bureau. When the time finally came to beef up the Special Victims Squad he was handpicked by the commissioner to lead one of the teams. He was big, black, and very smart, with a gentle manner that endeared him to women who had been victimized, and with an equally tough attitude that signaled to defendants that this was not a man who would brook any nonsense. He was so good at working on these matters that most of the big ones were assigned to him, no matter how heavy his caseload.
“Hey, Alex, Chapman told me about the murder and whatever. Are you-‘ ”Mercer, do me a favor, let’s not even talk about it. The best thing for me is to get to work for a while, otherwise I’m out of control.“ I knew he’d understand, and so we began to talk about the pattern that had been developing on the Upper West Side. ”This here’s our man, Cooper. Fourth hit. Victim’s twenty four years old, freelance illustrator, which could be a big break for us. After you get what you need from her, I’ve got an appointment at headquarters with the artists. She’s pretty sure she can help us with a sketch. She’s really good on detail, and that’s what the guys need for a good composite.“
I told Mercer I would interview her briefly. It had not even been a full day since she had been attacked, but the same rapist was responsible for at least three other assaults in the last month based on his distinctive M.O. Mercer and I were certain of two things: he would continue to rape women, and possibly become more violent, unless we found and stopped him; and he was likely to be someone Mercer and I had met before, a recidivist, a sexual predator who repeated his acts with the same language and sexual interests he had used in the past.
He was much too accomplished and much too professional to be a first-timer, so Mercer and I were looking for the key, the little slip he might eventually make that would lead us back to him. In reality, as we looked, we were praying for a lucky break, which was the far more likely way the case would be solved.
Laura Wilkie knew that I would not take any calls while I was interviewing a rape victim, but I reminded her that she had to hold everything, as Mercer came back around the corner with Katherine Fryer and ushered her into my office.
I came out from behind my desk as Mercer made the introductions, and we sat on three chairs drawn into a small circle. It was a way to avoid the appearance of formality imposed by a desk between subject and interviewer, and it encouraged the intimacy occasioned by the topic of the conversation. I didn’t do it in every instance, but this was a case which needed that rapport established immediately.
There was no time to develop a relationship politely.
Katherine Fryer’s night had been even worse than my own, so I was struck by her composure and apparent calm.
“Do you understand why you’re here today?” I asked her.
“I’m sure Detective Wallace explained it to me, but I’m not sure I absorbed everything. Everybody’s been wonderful, but I was at the hospital for hours and I’m a bit dazed at this point.”
“I know that. I just want to explain what’s going on. My name is Alexandra Cooper, and I am the assistant district attorney who’s going to handle your case. I’ll be with you from today through the day Mercer catches your attacker and we convict him. I know he’s already asked you a lot of questions, and I’ll have to ask most of them again. But from now on we’ll be working on this together, and my job is to get you through this as comfortably as I can. Do you want to ask me anything before I begin?”
Katherine Fryer wanted the normal assurances that her name wouldn’t be in any newspapers and that her parents in Pennsylvania wouldn’t have to be told about the rape.
“And if there is a trial, will they be able to question me about my personal life, about my sexual activity?”
“No, Katherine, there have been a lot of improvements, a lot of changes in the law. In a case like this, when you’ve been attacked by a man you never saw before, nothing about your sexual history is relevant to the trial. I promise you: this stuff isn’t like all those awful made-for-TV movies.
Detective Wallace does the heavy lifting in this case the worst is behind you. Once he finds the man and you identify him, we won’t have you on the witness stand for more than an hour.
“Let me just go through the story with you one time, then you can help with the sketch and go home and get some rest.”
“I can’t go home, Miss Cooper. I’ll never feel safe there again. I’m going to my sister’s house in New Jersey. Mercer is going to go with me to the apartment to pack some clothes, but I’ll give you my sister’s number until I find a new place to live.”
This stuff really sucks. A woman alone in her home, minding her own business, is victimized there then has to move out because it’s so saturated with the memory of that devastating violation.
I asked Katherine what had happened yesterday afternoon, shortly before one o’clock, as she sat alone in her kitchen.
“Well, I was eating my lunch when the doorbell rang and I said, ”Who is it?“ and a voice outside the door said, ”It’s Con Edison.“ I said I wasn’t expecting anyone from Con Edison, that I didn’t have any problems. He told me, as I looked through the peephole, that the super had called him in because there was trouble on the gas lines in all the rear apartments. So I could see that he was, you know, dressed like a Con Ed workman and I opened the door.”
I already knew the answers to the questions I was about to ask, and I already knew how many times Katherine Fryer had blamed herself for the same things, but I had to ask them anyway.
“When you say he was dressed like a Con Ed repairman, can you tell me more about his clothing?”
“Well, it was just a flannel shirt and jeans, with a work jacket over them, and a hard hat.”
