“Yes.”
“So what are you going to tell Kunkle? And don’t give me what you gave DeFlorio yesterday. He pestered the hell out of me trying to find out why I supposedly told you to interview Wodinsky.”
“Wodiska.”
“Whatever. Give me a break this time, will you?”
“Jesus, Frank, even a paranoid like Kunkle ought-”
He held up both hands to stop me. “You know that. I know that. I’m the den mother here, all right? I’m trying to keep everybody happy. Just tiptoe a little. Kunkle’s screwier than ever right now-home problems-and I don’t want to hear him complaining that you’ve got doubts about his handling of the Harris case.”
I gave up. “Okay. Mum’s the word.”
“Thank you. Now I’ve arranged for you to have first crack at her this morning, but Kunkle won’t be far behind.”
“I thought he had his little chat last night.”
“She had to be sedated. He didn’t get much out of her-nothing really, so get in and get out, and keep me up to date. She’s at Memorial Hospital, room three-twelve.”
Memorial was a typical small-city hospital. A little threadbare, a few patches, not staffed by the best or the brightest, but it made up in heart what it lacked in glitzy technology. Ellen had died there, admittedly a long time ago, but if caring alone could have cured cancer, she would have pulled through.
I found Wendy Stiller sitting in a green plastic chair by the window in a four-bed room. She was the only occupant. She was dressed in a long pink terry robe and had her feet tucked under her. Her blond hair hung in a tangled mess about her shoulders. Her face was pale and hollow-looking. It occurred to me that this was the third victimized woman I’d approached in just twenty-four hours. I wondered if that meant anything.
“Hi.”
She smiled wanly. “Hello.”
“Do you feel well enough to talk a little?” I avoided introductions. The less she knew of me, the less she’d tell Kunkle when he Joe Fridayed her later.
She nodded. “I guess so.” Her voice was light and dreamy.
I sat down on the bed near her chair. She was quite pretty, in her late twenties, not slim in a high fashion sense but not fat either-the kind of woman they choose to advertise laundry soap. “Can you tell me what happened?”
She turned away to look out the window at the snow-covered trees. She didn’t answer for a few seconds. When she did, the softness of her voice was almost lost to the building’s own gentle murmurs.
“There was a man inside my apartment when I got home last night.”
“What time was that?”
The answers came slowly, as if each one had to be gingerly coaxed to shore. “About midnight. I’d been out on a date. The door was locked. I don’t know how he got in.”
“Did your date come in with you?”
“No.”
“What did you do after saying good night?”
“I went straight to the bedroom.
“And he grabbed you?”
She nodded, just perceptibly.
“He was hiding?”
“Behind the door.”
She hunched her sho Snchignulders a bit and paused. I didn’t interrupt.
This wasn’t the first conversation I’d had like this, and I knew it might take time, Kunkle or no Kunkle. She took a deep breath. “He told me to get down on my knees and then he covered my mouth with some tape. I could see him in the mirror on the bathroom door. He was all in black-pants, shirt, ski mask, everything.”
Again she stopped, sighed, and shifted in her chair. The last long sentence seemed to have tired her. “What happened then?” I tried to make my whisper match hers.
“He told me to get in the shower… Tied my hands to the shower head…”
A half minute passed.
“Did he turn on the water?”
“He asked me if the temperature was all right.”
“Did he touch you other than to tie you up?”
“No… He turned the water off and looked at me… Then he took my clothes off.” Again she stopped. I could hear the traffic outside. In the window’s reflection, I saw the glistening of tears on her translucent cheek.
“Would you like to take a break?”
She shook her head, but she didn’t speak again for a full minute. When she did, she faltered but kept on, a runner committed to finishing. “He took my clothes off and rubbed soap all over me. He left it on.”
Another pause, another deep breath. “Then he played with my nipple. With his finger. That’s how I knew who he was.”
That took me by surprise. “You knew him?”
“Yes. His name is Manny Rodriguez.”
“How do you know?”
“We served on a jury together once. He had a tattoo on the back of his hand. An American eagle.”
“What did he do then?”
For the first time, she turned and looked at me, her face grief-stricken and baffled, the tears now dripping off her chin. “Nothing. He left. Why did he do that?”
I patted her shoulder. “I don’t know. I’ll try to find out. Did you get along with him when you were on the jury together?”
“I talked to Mr. Phillips most-he was nice.”
“And you never saw Rodriguez after the trial?”
“Once. He works at a glass shop on Canal. I saw him there.”
“Had he offered you a deal or something?”
“I didn’t even know he worked there. We just talked.”
“How long ago was this?”
“I don’t know; a year maybe.”
“And the conversation was okay?”
“We didn’t have much to say.” She wiped at her eyes with her sleeve, and I got up and handed her a box of Kleenex from the bedside table.
“Are you going to be all right, Miss Stiller?” She blew her nose and nodded. “There’ll be a policeman who will come to visit you soon, and he’ll probably ask you many of the same questions I just have. His name is Willy Kunkle.”
“I met him last night, but they gave me something that made me too sleepy.” Her voice was stronger.
“Well, he’ll be back. Is that all right?”
“Yes. I feel better now. Thank you.”
I rose and headed for the door. “There is one last thing.”
“Yes?”
“We are going to pick up Manny Rodriguez, but until we get his side of the story, none of us is absolutely positive he was the man who assaulted you.”
“It was his tattoo.”
She said this in the same flat voice. I returned to her and crouched by her chair. “I realize that, but it may not have been his hand. I know that sounds crazy, but just lately we’ve had a couple of things like this, where someone pretends to be someone else. All I’m saying is that Rodriguez may be innocent.”
She looked confused. “All right.”
“The reason I bring it up is that the newspaper is always hot to follow up a story like this one. They’ll try to find out and interview you. So if you mention Rodriguez’s name and he turns out to be innocent, he’ll have a tough time with it. You will, too, of course. We’ll do our damnedest to keep what happened to you private, but secrets are hard to keep unless everyone cooperates.”
She nodded. “I understand.”
I squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”
I sent a nurse in to check on her and called Murphy from a pay phone. I told him Wendy Stiller’s story. “I know Willy’s got his problems, but there’s no way I’m going to sit around waiting for him to waltz in and do what I’ve just done before rounding up Rodriguez. The guy might have one foot on the bus right now, if he’s still in town.”
Murphy spared me the problem. “I called Kunkle and told him that she’d asked to make a statement and you were hanging around with nothing to do. He didn’t like it, but he swallowed it. I’ll send him to pick up Rodriguez and you file a report to back me up. Once we’ve got the guy downstairs, I’ll make sure you get a crack at him.”
“Tell Kunkle to be quiet about it, okay? I think I got Stiller to clam up with the news boys. The less they get, the better.”
“Amen.”
I hung up. A friend of mine-a former cop-once told me I’d get a lot more money and a lot less grief if I went into the security business as he had done. I’d answered I could live without the corporate politics. He’d laughed.