“Do you know where he took you?”
“No. Some house. It was a mess.”
“Can you describe the outside?”
“Not really. It was dark and he blindfolded me after we left the Presa street area.”
“What about the house inside? Anything specific about it?”
“Yeah. The room.”
“What room?”
“It was a bedroom. White walls with a blacked out and barred window. A mattress in the middle and a closet at the far end….”
She paused and it appeared to Jason that she was steeling herself for what she had to say next.
“….He made me take off my clothes and hang them in the closet. There were other girls clothes hanging in there.”
“Can you describe the clothes?”
“I guess. Normal stuff, except for the uniform. 7-11, I think.”
Jason recalled that’s what Marcie Walker was wearing when she disappeared.
“Anything else about the room?”
“The writing.”
“Writing?”
“All over the walls. Different colors. The same thing over and over.”
“What did it say?”
“I will never call you bloodstain again….he made me write it on the walls, too.”
“I’m sorry. Can you tell me that again?”
“I will never call you bloodstain again.”
Jason looked up at her. Tears rolled down her face. He didn’t know what the words meant but he couldn’t conceive the horror each of the girls must have felt. Naked and forced to write it over and over while that animal watched. His heart broke for her. Jason knew she needed a break. He closed his pad and got her a tissue.
“That’s enough for now. The sketch artist should be here soon. You rest.”
“Okay. Thanks. Will you stay?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
She half-smiled and closed her eyes.
Jason looked at his watch.
8:30
Where was the artist?
Chapter 15
The light that had been coming in around the edges of the window was gone now. Vanessa guessed it to be nine or ten in the evening. The man had not returned but she knew it was only a matter of time. She thought of Rob, what he must be going through and how much she missed him. And Jason, who she knew would be doing everything in his power to find her.
There was a click, the doorknob turned and the door opened. He stepped into the room, looked at Vanessa, and slammed the door. Walking directly towards her, he drew the gun from behind him and pointed it directly at her stomach, the end of the barrel touching where her child was.
“Take off your clothes and hang them in the closet or your child dies.”
“Please no.”
“They all say that. Do it!”
He raised the gun and fired into the far wall. Vanessa ducked but he hadn’t intended to hit her. Her ears rang as he returned the gun to her belly.
“Take off your clothes or the next one goes through the baby.”
She did as he ordered.
She kept her eyes on the gun as her clothes came off and when she was naked, she turned her back to him.
‘Hang them up!”
She did, slowly.
When she was done, she turned around, her arms wrapped across her breasts. He threw her a marker. She didn’t try to catch it and it hit the wall next to her, dropping by her feet.
“You see what’s written on the walls?”
Vanessa nodded.
“I want you to write the same thing over and over until I tell you to stop.”
She didn’t move.
“NOW!”
She jumped at his shouting before retrieving the marker. She turned to the wall behind her because it allowed her to keep her back to him. It occurred to her she hadn’t asked his name. She started to write.
“You haven’t told me your name.”
“Norman.”
Vanessa continued to write but she had remembered something. She had read some articles on kidnapping and they all said to try and start conversation. The goal was to make yourself be seen as a human being, not an object.
“That’s a nice name.”
She tried for as sincere a tone as she could muster but his reaction told her she had failed.
“You’re a liar. Just like always. You made me believe you cared but you didn’t. You’re like all the others.”
Something hit the wall next to her and made her jump. She looked down to see a 9 millimeter bullet.
“The next one that comes at you will be coming from my gun.”
Vanessa continued to write while she tried to think of some code or a way to leave a message. Nothing came to her. He stayed by the door and watched her as she continued to print out the words.
I will never call you bloodstain again.
****
Jason looked at his watch for the twentieth time.
10:15
He’d been waiting almost two hours for the sketch artist. He knew every minute mattered and he had just lost 120 of them. Finally, he saw the man coming down the hall. He didn’t bother with greetings.
“In here.”
They found Stephanie watching TV.
“Stephanie, the artist is here.”
“Okay.” She flipped the TV off and tried to pull herself up farther in the bed. She squinted from the pain. “How do we do this?”
“The artist will start with some basic questions and then move to more specific features. You just answer the questions the best you can and when he shows you the picture you can make suggestions.”
“Okay.”
The artist had finished opening his sketch book and was ready.
“Miss. Morris, is it?”
She nodded.
‘My name is George Stewart. Do you have any questions about what Detective Strong said?”
“No. I think I understand.”
“Okay. Let’s begin with the basic shape of the face. Would you say it was round or long?”
“Long.”
“And would you say it was thin or wide?”
“Thin.”
The artist did some drawing.
“And the eyes, were they close together or wide set?”
“Close.”
“And his forehead, long or short?”
“What do you mean?”
“Would you say he had a big forehead or small?”
“Big.”
Jason had moved over to the corner behind the artist so he could watch the picture take shape.
“And his nose, narrow or wide?”
And so it went for over a half an hour. Slowly the picture in Stephanie Morris’ mind came to be on the paper in front of Jason. He didn’t recognize him but he knew this was the face of the one holding his partner.
Jason planned to show the picture to Marcie Walker’s parents and friends. He still believed that she was the key. It had to be someone in her life. The artist continued with questions.
“His skin. What tone was it, light or dark?”
“Well, one half was light but the one side of his face was covered with a birthmark.”
“Okay. The birthmark, which side of his face?”
“It was on my right, when I looked at him.”
“Okay, that’s his left. Was it brown, red or some other color?”
“It was red, almost purplish.”
“Like a Port Wine Stain?”
“I don’t know what that is.”
Jason stood straight up. He looked at the artist.
“What did you call it?”
“A Port Wine Stain. Why?”
Jason’s mind was going a mile a minute. The wine glasses. The bloodstain on each. It had to be the connection.
“Our suspect would leave a wine glass at each scene.”
Stephanie’s eyes got big.
“I remember that! He took a wine glass out of his bag.”