“It sounds like he talks about the rape a lot.”
Helen made a dismissive gesture with her hand before grinding out the second cigarette. “Lou should be handling this guy-he’s a sexual offender. It’s only the burglary technicality that makes him mine. But let’s face it, burglary means he entered by force-not that he was out to steal anything-so we don’t spend much time talking about how to jimmy windows or fence TVs. Besides, Bob Vogel reminds me a lot of some of the guys I grew up with, including a couple of my brothers. I don’t like him, and I don’t see him living to a ripe old age-at least not on the outside. But I do know what makes him tick.” She grinned suddenly-so immersed in this world she no longer saw the incongruity. “I guess you could say we get along.”
“Lucky you,” I muttered, to which she only laughed and reached for another smoke.
I had copies made of all the information I needed concerning Bob Vogel, including his home address and place of employment, and went straight to my office, despite the fact that I still hadn’t shaved or showered.
Ron Klesczewski’s expression told me I should have tended to those small details first. “Are you okay?” he blurted as he looked up to find me looming over him at his temporary, paper-strewn desk.
I gave him the file I’d secured from Helen Boisvert. “Get the records on this guy-his Massachusetts rap sheet is inside. And see if you can locate a police officer who knows about him, either from North Adams or Greenfield. I’d like to talk to him.”
He flipped open the file and stared at the name at the top of the first page. “Robert Vogel?”
“He did a one-day handyman stint for one of Gail’s neighbors. I found him in your files.” I saw J.P. Tyler waving to me from the hallway door. “Okay?” I asked Ron.
He still looked a little startled, but nodded firmly, regaining his composure.
“What’s up?” I asked Tyler in the hall, as he led me down to the detective bureau, where he’d converted a cramped janitor’s closet into a makeshift laboratory.
“Two things: One, I tried to match the pubic hair I found in Gail’s bed to either you or her and came up empty, which means it came from the attacker.”
It was nice of him to be so diplomatic. In fact, I knew damn well such an argument wouldn’t hold up in court. A third person’s pubic hair found in a de facto conjugal bed did not necessarily involve a rapist. For our purposes, however, it was good enough.
“All I can get from it, though,” he continued, “is that the guy was Caucasian and dark-haired.”
We entered the detective squad office and went not to the tiny lab, but to Tyler’s desk. “The second thing I have higher hopes for.”
He held up a small baggie with a tiny fragment of organic material in it. “Remember this? The vegetable matter I found on the couch near the window? It’s Russian olive-a cross between a screen bush and a small tree. It can grow to twenty-five feet, has small silvery leaves and berries.”
I knew better than to ask him the relevance of this. J.P. had his own style, and it often involved some minor theatrics.
“It’s not a rare plant-you see it planted by the side of the interstate sometimes. Developers like it because it’s cheap, hardy, and easy to handle, and it makes them look like nature lovers when they surround their junky architecture with it.”
He looked at me with a pleased expression. “The point is, there ain’t a single Russian olive on Gail’s property.”
“How ’bout Mrs. Wheeler’s, two houses down?”
I should have known better. “She doesn’t have any either-no one on the block does-which means the assailant left it behind inadvertently, just like the fiber sample from his red wool shirt.”
“Gail told me last night she still has her Swiss Army knife,” I volunteered, my memory jostled by what he’d just said.
Tyler nodded. “Well, we expected that. That’s good, though, ’cause when we find this guy, we can check all his knives for traces of blood. Even if he wiped the blade off on his pants, we might still find something. And the window lock I removed might come in there, too. I know for sure a knife was used to jimmy it open. I might be able to match the marks to the blade.”
I reflected on that for a moment, impressed at how impersonal it could all be made to sound. “That it?”
“For the moment. The DNA analysis won’t be here for weeks, and we’re not expecting anything there anyhow. I’ve pretty much done all I can do with fingerprints. You’re going to get dozens of other people’s prints in most houses anyhow-guests, workers, people like that-and Gail’s was no different. I haven’t had a hit with any of them, except yours and hers, of course.”
“What about Harry Murchison, the window installer?”
Tyler smiled apologetically at the vagaries of his beloved science. “No. We know he was there, but it was over a year ago-it’s hard to expect a print to survive that long.”
I finally asked a question that had been chewing at me since Gail had first brought it up. “Do you know what they heard back on Gail’s blood tests?”
He looked at me quizzically. “I don’t think they found anything. What were you after?”
“No sign of HIV or AIDS?”
His mouth fell open slightly. “Jesus, I’m sorry. I should’ve thought of that.” He looked suddenly embarrassed, and his words came out slowly and carefully. “No-the test was clean… for the moment. That’s fine, of course-a good sign-but you shouldn’t take it as gospel, not yet. She ought to have another test in a month or so-and periodically for every six months after that-just to be sure.”
I thanked him and went into my small corner office. I sat down at my desk and dialed Women for Women.
Susan Raffner was on the line in a few minutes. “Hi. What’s up?”
“Nothing specific. We may have a lead, but we need to check it out thoroughly. I was just wondering how Gail fared last night. I didn’t want to call her at your place in case she was sleeping.”
Susan’s voice saddened. “She’s not doing much of that. She woke up right after you left. I ended up putting her in bed with me-it seemed to calm her down a little.”
“What about something to help her sleep?”
“I’m not crazy about that stuff-her system’s messed up enough as it is-but I did ask her. I think she’s planning to sleep days and stay awake nights, if she can.”
“Is that a good idea?” I asked.
“No, but it’s her own decision, and that is good. The more she takes charge of things, the better. She just feels too vulnerable to sleep at night. It’ll pass with time.” There was a pause on the line before Susan added, “Did you see the paper this morning?”
“Saw it-I didn’t read it.”
“Katz played it pretty straight-the editorial’s a little heavy-handed, but sympathetic. He did say a few things you probably won’t be too happy with, like how the paper’s going to make it a mission not to let this just slip by. The quote was something like ‘keeping a spotlight on the wheels of justice.’”
“Great,” I muttered.
“I know how you feel, Joe, but we agree with him, and we’re planning to help him out. We’re going to keep this in the news.”
“I realize that,” I said without enthusiasm.
“And Gail’s going to be a part of it.”
Despite my unhappiness, I appreciated the sensitivity in her voice.
Even believing as she did that I was wholly supportive of Gail’s identifying herself as the victim, Susan still understood the pressures such a decision placed upon a couple. After years of locking horns with her on purely technical grounds, finally I found it oddly comforting that she was there as head of Women for Women, even as she prepared to make my professional life miserable. It was the sign of someone, as irony might have it, that I could trust.
“I know that, too,” I answered. “And I know that’s what she thinks she needs. I just don’t want everyone else’s enthusiasm running her over.”