He raped her again on the sixteenth day of September, a Friday like the first time. He’d marked that on his calendar as well. He raped her not six blocks from where he’d assaulted her the first time. She’d gone to a movie with a girlfriend, the early show. The movie had let out at nine-thirty, a quarter to ten. She had walked her girlfriend home, and was starting up the street toward the bright lights on the Stem, when he grabbed her. Again, she had not made a sound. But this time, she was terrified. This time, she was shaking all over when he slashed her panties with the knife and did it to her.
September sixteenth was three weeks ago.
He’d watched her whenever he could during the past three weeks. Noticed she never went anyplace alone during the daytime unless there were huge crowds around. Never went out at all during the night unless she was with a man, sometimes two men. He could tell, just from observing her, that she was still jumpy, even with escorts to protect her, looked around all the time, crossed the street if a man approached them from another direction, very cautious, very careful, determined that this wouldn’t happen to her again.
Last Saturday, he’d followed her downtown to Police Headquarters. He suspected she went there to give further details on what had happened to her twice already. He followed her when she left there, and was surprised when she walked into a gun shop, and showed the man inside a piece of paper, and then began looking over pistols he began producing from under the counter. She had gone to Police Headquarters for a gun permit! She was buying a gun! He smiled when she concluded the purchase. He knew she’d soon be on the street again, at night again, alone again, a gun in her handbag this time, thinking she was safe from him.
But he was wrong.
This past week, she hadn’t budged from the apartment. The nighttime city had truly subjugated her, she would not dare to go out into it alone, even with an escort, even with a gun in her handbag. She was taking no chances. The calendar was ticking. The week was flying by and October seventh was coming up very fast. He knew that to get her again he would have to go into her apartment, the way he had done with the only one he’d caught four times.
Today was the seventh of October, the seventh had finally arrived; a good time, even if it was barely the seventh, only a quarter to five in the morning. Today would be her third outing. Once or twice more after that, and he’d have her, unless she decided to move to Outer Mongolia.
Today, he would get her in her own bed.
2
A policewoman accompanied Mary Hollings to Mercy General, where not three hours earlier the body of the unidentified hanging victim had been delivered to the morgue for autopsy. The policewoman’s name was Hester Fein. She was a stocky woman with the height and girth of a short wrestler, twenty-eight years old and still plagued by acne, a plain squat fire hydrant of a woman who — like many of her male colleagues — believed nobody got raped unless she was asking for it, especially not three times in five months; she had learned back at the station house that this was the third time Mary Hollings had been raped. Hester Fein’s one great ambition in life was to carry a .357 Magnum, which the Police Department in this city would not allow. She sometimes thought of transferring to Houston, Texas. Out there, they knew what kind of gun a police officer needed to protect herself.
The plastic box was three and a half inches wide, six and a half inches long, and an inch deep, with a lid that was opened by twisting two small plastic knobs in opposite directions. Fastened over the top and side of the box, in one of the corners, was a narrow tape printed with the words “Integrity SEAL Slit To Open.” Glued to the top of the box was a label that identified the box and its contents as the JOHNSON RAPE EVIDENCE KIT. The nurse asked Hester what the case number was. Hester told her, and she filled in the appropriate space on the label. She asked Mary Hollings what her name was, and then wrote it down in the “Name of Subject” space. She asked Hester what the offense was. Flatly, Hester said, “Rape,” though she didn’t believe it for a minute. The nurse filled in the “Date of Incident” and “Time” spaces on the label. She signed her name as Search Officer and wrote in the location as Mercy General Hospital. She slit the seal on the kit with a scalpel.
The kit contained a wooden cervix scraper, a slide holder with two slides, a plastic comb, a pubic hair collection lifter, a white gummed envelope marked “A” Combings, a white gummed envelope marked “B” Standard, a Seminal Fluid Reagent Packet that was a plastic bag containing a white cotton pad and a blue reagent tab, an instruction booklet, and two red labels lettered in white with the words:
The nurse administering the tests was familiar with the instruction booklet. So was Mary Hollings.
Mary was trembling as she climbed up on the examination table and removed her torn panties. The nurse assured her that this wouldn’t hurt her, and Mary said something incoherent in reply, and then put her feet in the stirrups and sighed deeply and forlornly. Using the wooden cervix scraper, the nurse took two vaginal smears and prepared the slides, allowing them to air-dry as warned on the slide holder, and then slipping them back into the small plastic container. She wrote Mary’s name again in the “Subject” space on the slide holder, filled in the date, and then her own name in the “By” space, and placed the holder in the open plastic kit box. She stepped on the pedal of a trash can and dropped the used wooden scraper into it.
“We’ll want those panties,” Hester said.
“What?” the nurse said.
“For evidence,” Hester said.
“Well, that’s your department,” the nurse said.
“Damn straight,” Hester said, and picked up the panties and put them in an evidence envelope. The panties were black and edged with black lace, confirming Hester’s surmise that nobody got raped unless she was asking for it.
The printed lettering on the “Pubic Hair Collection” envelope was purple. It called for the same information as the label on the kit itself. The nurse filled it in, copying from the label on the kit, and then opened the envelope and held it under Mary’s vagina. She passed the plastic comb through Mary’s pubic hair several times, allowing any loose hairs to fall into the open envelope. She put the comb into the same envelope with the hair, and then sealed the envelope, and put it into the plastic kit box, alongside the slide holder.
Since there still may have been some loose pubic hairs remaining in Mary’s pubic area, the nurse now took the Pubic Hair Collection lifter, peeled the clear plastic protection shield from the narrow piece of adhesive, and patted the adhesive surface over the entire pubic area. She closed the white plastic cover over the adhesive surface, filled in the same information yet another time, and returned the lifter to the kit. She threw the clear plastic shield into the trash can with the used wooden scraper. Mary was still trembling. She seemed unable to stop trembling.
“We’ll need a sample of your pubic hair,” the nurse said. “Did you want to take it yourself, or shall I?”
Mary nodded.
“Which, dear?” the nurse said.