“And the men?”
“I’d say late twenties, early thirties.”
“I don’t suppose you happened to notice the license plate on that van, did you?” Kling asked.
Carmody looked offended.
“I’m a watchman,” he said. “That’s my job. To watch.”
And reeled off what he’d seen on that plate, letter for letter, numeral for numeral.
A PATROLMANwith his back to them was sleeping on a cot in the swing room when Carella and Hawes came in to play the Channel Four tape. The television set down here in the basement of the old building was a relic of the eighties, with a screen much smaller than either of the men had at home, but it had a VCR attachment, and it would serve the purpose. They kept the volume low, so as not to awaken the sleeping patrolman.
Watching the tape was an odd experience.
They had heard this crime reported a hundred different ways by a hundred and twelve different people, so in a sense it was familiar to them. In a sense, they were seeing it all over again. But they were also seeing it for the very first time, objectively, no one telling them whether the men were short or tall or wearing black or blue or green, no one describing the action in often erroneous detail. There it was for them to see and to hear. It was rather like witnessing an actual address to the nation, rather than watching a bunch of talking heads commenting on it minutes later.
Hawes and Carella immediately agreed that the girl was a star.
Hawes voiced it first.
“She’s good,” he said.
But they weren’t talent scouts.
Nonetheless, she
“
They were watching the part of the tape where Tamar Valparaiso was standing in uffish thought under the Tumtum tree, all unaware that she was about to be attacked. There he came now, big and muscular, the Bandersnatch, or the Jabberwock, or whoever her father had just warned her about a couple of seconds ago, suddenly leaping from behind a screen on the left side of the dance floor, looking menacing as hell in a scary clay-colored mask, the kind of guy neither of the detectives would choose to run into in a dark alley.
The ensuing rape, the attempted rape, was all too realistic.
Neither Carella nor Hawes had ever witnessed a rape in progress, but they had heard the testimony of far too many vics, and they knew damn well what the crime was all about. The dancer playing the rapist—there was no way this video could be considered anything but a choreographed visualization of a rape—seemed to understand completely that rape had nothing to do with sex (however sexy Tamar looked as her clothes kept shredding away) but instead had only to do with power. This creature, this thing, this animal seemed resolute in his rage to overwhelm this young girl half his size and weight, determined to prove by sheer force of strength that he was the superior being here, he was in control, he was the master, he would dominate, he would conquer, he would enter and invade and eventually humiliate and disgrace and demean and dishonor and utterly destroy. That was the whole thing about rape. It wasn’t about getting laid. It was about showing just who owned who, babe.
They almost felt like intervening.
Jumping up and yelling, “Police! Stop!”
Probably wake up the sleeping uniform.
But the tape was that real and that frightening.
Then, of course, it all came out all right. Unlike rapes in real life, this one had a happy ending. The girl reached up for some imaginary kind of weapon and slashed out at her assailant…
“One, two! One, two! And through and through
“The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
“He left it dead, and with its head
“He went galumphing back.”
Helpless female becomes powerful male in order to defeat another powerful male. Where was the message there?
The rap ended.
The beast in its enraged crimson mask lay dead on the floor at Tamar’s feet.
Now there was only the B-flat note again, that single repeated bass note, and Tamar fluidly moving the tune into the bluesy figure of its opening melody.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
“Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
“O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
“He chortled in his joy.”
Tamar’s eyes shone, her voice rang out. She was home, baby, she was home.
“She’s terrific,” Hawes said.
“A star,” Carella agreed.
“ ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
“Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
“All mimsy were the…”
“Don’t nobody fucking
“Here they come,” Hawes said, and leaned forward.
And here they came.
The detectives watched the screen intently.
This was a professional tape, recorded by skilled technicians. This wasn’t something some passing motorist had shot from his car window because he’d happened to notice it occurring as he drove by. Nor was this something recorded on a bank or a supermarket camera, all fuzzy and grainy and virtually worthless for identification purposes. This was clear and sharp and focused and detailed and in full living color. This was the chronicle of a crime in progress and it would stand up in any court in the land.
You could not see the men’s faces because of the masks, Saddam Hussein and Yasir Arafat, two gents intent on a little mischief. They were wearing black long-sleeved sweatshirts and black leather gloves. Black denim trousers. Black socks. Black running shoes.
“Reeboks,” Hawes said.
He had just made out the label.
Carella nodded.
Weapons were AK-47s, no question about it.
The shorter of the two was left-handed. Saddam Hussein. At least, he was carrying the rifle in his left hand. Pointing it up at the ceiling, like the real Hussein about to fire at the sky. Right hand on the mahogany banister.
“Ouch!” Hawes said when Hussein slammed the black dancer with the stock of the rifle.
They kept watching.
“Son of a bitch,” Hawes said, when Hussein slapped Tamar.
The other one, the taller one, Yasir Arafat, clapped a wet rag over her face.
“You move, she dies!” Hussein yelled.
“He sound black to you?” Carella asked.
“I don’t know. Kind of muffled under that mask.”
“Witnesses all seemed to think they were black. I’m not getting that, are you?”
“Let’s take another look,” Hawes said, and got up to rewind the tape.
“What’s going on?” the sleeping patrolman asked, raising his head.
“Nothing, man, cool it,” Hawes said.
“I was up all fuckin night,” the patrolman said, and rolled over on the cot again.
They played the tape two more times.
