"Whose side are you on, Kipman?" Rachman shouted. "So what if she had sex with a boyfriend and didn't want to have some cynical police detective thinking she was a slut. Maybe she forgot to wash those panties."
"The stain was recent, even post this alleged incident with Michalik," Kipman said.
"Doesn't matter," Rachman argued, her voice rising. "The only question-and I don't know why I keep having to explain this in the office of the New York District Attorney-is whether she consented to have sex with Alexis Michalik. Women are being raped by men they know at epidemic rates, and this office would have us go back to the Dark Ages when it was the victim on trial. I'm sick and tired of it." As she finished, Rachman stood up and slammed her file down on the table.
She looked as if she was going to go on but Karp silenced her. "Sit down, Ms. Rachman. You will conduct yourself as a professional. Mr. Kipman has raised legitimate concerns that need to be addressed, not ignored… Now, I want you to go home, relax, and then the next time I hear about this case from you, I want to hear your evidence-all the evidence-and then we will decide how to proceed. And if we go forward with the charges, Ms. Rachman, it will be with that moral certainty or it will not happen. Do I make myself clear?"
Whatever Rachman was going to say stuck in her throat and all that came out was a strangled, "Yes, sir."
"You've done a lot of good work for this office and on behalf of the people who count on you to protect them," Karp said. "But I am concerned that you are allowing your zeal for your work to interfere with your judgment. So just do as I ask."
Rachman dropped her eyes to the file in front of her. She quickly pushed the papers back into the folder and, averting her eyes from Kipman, walked stiffly and silently out of the room.
When she was gone, Karp turned to Kipman. "What do you make of the semen in the panties?"
Kipman shrugged. "It could be like Rachel says; the girl has a boyfriend but for one reason or another didn't want to tell the detective. Maybe she didn't want to look promiscuous, or was worried that it might impact her credibility. But the fact is she lied, and we better be ready to have a good explanation to give a judge, and if he doesn't buy it, a jury."
Both men jumped a little when the telephone in the conference room rang. Karp answered it.
"Hey, Butch," Clay Fulton said. "Marlene said you decided to get a jump start on the week."
"Yeah, Clay, what's up?" The detective had been around too long to get too worked up over news that could wait for the usual work hours.
"Well, maybe nothing," Clay said. "But one of the detectives on that case with the Russian professor was over yesterday visiting with his wife and we got talking. He has some concerns about the way the information they've come across is being handled by our Sex Crimes Bureau."
Karp felt a headache coming on, the little brother of the beast he'd had Christmas Day. He pressed the conference call button so that Kipman could hear. "Yeah? Such as?"
"Well, he said there's a second eyewitness who was at the building that night. He interviewed a janitor who says he was outside having a smoke when he saw the complainant leave. This witness doesn't exactly describe a distraught young woman who'd just been sexually assaulted. In fact, and I quote, 'She laughed and did a little dance spin at the bottom of the stairs.'"
"Did the complainant see the janitor?" Kipman asked.
"Oh, hi, Harry, didn't know you were there. He didn't think so…he was sitting on a bench off to the side in the dark. He just figured she was a happy college coed and didn't think any more about it until he saw the newspapers."
"Sure he saw the right woman?" Karp said.
"Apparently he was positive when my friend showed him a photograph."
"Maybe at that distance he was confused about whether she was laughing or crying," Karp suggested. "Maybe the 'dance' was because she tripped."
"Yeah, maybe," Fulton said. "But after my friend read the report from the other investigators, he called the janitor back and asked why he didn't mention the first witness bumping into the complainant at the top of the stairs. The janitor's reply, and again I quote, was, 'What man? There wasn't nobody else around.' The janitor even went back and checked the after-hours sign-in book."
"There's a sign-in book?" Karp said. An angry midget was banging on the inside of his head with a ball-peen hammer.
"Yep," Fulton said. "I guess you've got the picture-no one else signed in after the complainant. But here's what was bothering my friend. His report about the second witness never made it into the case file. He checked. And he knows he gave it to Rachman."
"Aw, Christ," Karp swore.
"You okay, boss?"
"Uh, yeah, sorry, Clay. Just getting a headache."
"Guess this didn't help."
"Forget about it. Thanks for calling."
Fulton hung up, and Karp turned to Kipman. "I don't want a word of this to get out," he said. "If Rachel's going to hang herself, she's now got plenty of rope."
25
Tuesday, December 28
Marlene trudged up the creaking stairs of the nineteenth-century apartment building on Minetta Street in the Village. Reaching the fourth floor, she walked down the hall until she found what she was looking for, apartment 4C. Vivaldi's Four Seasons and the cloying odor of marijuana drifted out from under the door. She knocked. Footsteps approached and the peephole darkened as the occupant looked out.
"Who is it?" a man's voice asked.
"Marlene Ciampi. I called."
A dead bolt was pushed to the side and the door opened to reveal Ted Vanders in faded blue sweatpants and a NO MORE YEARS anti-Bush T-shirt that looked as if it had doubled as a napkin. His red-rimmed eyes flicked to her face and down to the ground as he stepped back. "Come on in."
"Thank you," Marlene said. Inside, she looked around the tiny living room. A stained and faded couch whose springs had long ago given up offering support sat against one wall, while a La-Z-Boy recliner of equal vintage and a littered coffee table between them completed the furniture. An ashtray on the table overflowed with butts; a freshly lit cigarette was smoldering on top of them, an apparent and not very successful attempt to hide the heavier pot smell. A cheap stereo sat on the ground beneath the window leading to the fire escape.
"I already told the cops everything I know," Vanders said, sinking into the chair.
"Yes, I'm sure they were very thorough," Marlene said. "But sometimes they miss something, and I just want to review a few questions I have. After all, a man's freedom and career are at stake here, and I'm sure you want him to have a fair trial."
Vanders seemed to have a hard time following the question and it took him a moment to realize he was expected to reply. "Uh, yeah, sure," he said. "I just have a lot to do to get ready for the next semester, and I've been up since five working on my master's thesis. But if I can answer a couple of questions, I'm happy to help."
Marlene smiled. "Thank you, Ted. I know you're busy so I'll keep this short. Maybe you could just sort of walk me through that evening."
Vanders picked up the burning cigarette and took a drag. "Sure. Uh, let's see, I was heading into the building to use my adviser's computer. Dr. Hurley lets me have a key so I can use her office when she's not there."
"Does that key get you into the building, too?" Marlene asked.
Vanders hesitated and took another puff. She could almost see the wheels spinning in his head as he analyzed the question.