“Oh, it does. Stan would be here, Lieutenant, but his niece’s wedding’s in Philadelphia—or was yesterday. A kind of family deal going on today.”
“It’s no problem. I skimmed your files, Detective, but why don’t you walk us through?”
“Sure. July last year, Rosa and Neville Patrick returned home from an evening out—dinner and theater with friends. Newlyweds—had a big society wedding the previous June, and had lived in the residence on Riverside Drive since April. Three-story townhouse, solid security. They noticed the alarm was off, but Rosa admitted—as she had met Neville at the restaurant and left the house last—she couldn’t remember if she’d activated it. In any case, they didn’t think anything of it. EDD later confirmed the alarm had been compromised, the security cameras jammed.”
She paused, sipped. “Rosa went straight up. Neville got them both a nightcap, and went up two or three minutes after her. Rosa stated a man in vampire garb—white face, black eyes, pointed incisors, black cape—grabbed her from behind, held a knife to her throat. He told her to be absolutely still, absolutely silent or he’d slash her. He snapped restraints on her wrists—behind her back—then punched her in the face. Rang her bell, LT. She was half out of it when Neville came in. He states he saw his wife, her nose bleeding, her eyes glazed. The assailant had the knife to her throat, ordered him to sit down. When Neville hesitated, the assailant gave Rosa a little taste of the knife. Neville sat, and the assailant held the knife to Rosa’s throat, forced her to put zip-tie restraints on Neville.
“Neither vic resisted, both told the assailant to take whatever he wanted. He forced Rosa to tie Neville to the chair with a rope, then put the restraints back on her, ordered her to lie facedown on the floor while he added more rope, secured the rope with tape. Once Neville was fully secured, he beat him—black leather gloved fists, a black weighted sap. Then he dragged Rosa to the bed, tore her clothes off, and raped her.”
“Tore her clothes?”
“All but shredded them. He then restrained Rosa to the headboard, punched her a few times, and demanded the combinations for the safes—he knew there were three. One in each of their closets for their personal valuables, and one in Neville’s home office. They didn’t hesitate, gave him what he wanted, but still he beat them both unconscious. When Neville came to, both he and Rosa were untied—she was still out. He called nine-one-one. The call came in just over two hours after they got home. All three of the safes were emptied and a few items—including one of Rosa’s cocktail dresses, a pair of her evening shoes, and an evening bag—were missing. There’s a list of the other missing items in the file. We haven’t come across any of them being pawned or sold.”
Olsen stopped, drank more coffee. “Questions?”
“Plenty, but finish it out.”
“To wrap this one, for now, no DNA, no fibers other than from the rope and tape, no prints, no nothing. He’s not stupid. Eventually Rosa remembered he’d whispered in her ear while he raped her. ‘The best you ever had,’ over and over, and he choked her, told her to tell him he was the best she ever had or he’d kill her, then Neville. Neville stated while the fucker was raping Rosa, he looked at Neville, grinned, and laughed.”
“Did they get anything from his voice?”
“Smooth, sophisticated, public school Brit accent. But he dropped the accent a couple of times when he raped Rosa, and Neville—who is public school Brit—said it was fake. They think he was a white guy, but neither are sure. His face was covered in makeup and a kind of mask—very theatrical, both claim, very authentic.”
“More than his face was exposed during the rape,” Eve pointed out.
“Exactly. He wore a black condom, covered the shaft, and his balls were white—painted white—stark white. He never took off his clothes or cape. Long black hair—they couldn’t tell if it was a wig or real. Black eyes. Rosa thinks they were contacts, but that’s not a hundred percent. We believe he had experience with theater or costuming, and has above average e-skills. And we’ve gotten nowhere.”
Olsen paused, drank some coffee. “Okay. The second incident, last November. In this case, the couple—Ira and Lori Brinkman—return home after a long holiday—Thanksgiving—annual weekend in the Hamptons. The house droid takes their bags upstairs, doesn’t come back. Ira goes upstairs, finds the droid disabled, and is assaulted from behind. He wakes up restrained to a chair, and his wife has a black eye and our assailant has a knife to her throat. He’s outfitted as a kind of ghoul this time—gray face, cadaverous cheekbones, gray eyes, wearing an old-fashioned black suit. He tells Lori to strip or he’ll gut Ira. When she does, he drags her to the bed, smacks her around, rapes her, chokes her.
“The assailant leaves her on the bed,” Olsen continued, “takes some time to beat the crap out of Ira, then he goes back, rapes Lori again, tells her to scream ‘You’re the best I’ve ever had,’ and when she doesn’t, he cuts her until she does.”
After a short breath, Olsen drank more coffee. “They have two safes, one in their dressing room, one in their library. The assailant demands the combinations, knocks them both around some more, leaves them alone. Ira is barely conscious, going in and out. Lori is in shock. The assailant comes back, gives her round three, this time telling her, repeatedly, it’s the best she’s ever had or he knows she wants it. He also watches Ira as he rapes Lori. When he’s done, he strikes Ira on the back of the head with the sap. Lori doesn’t remember if he hit her again, she’s hazy, doesn’t remember when he cut her loose. She called nine-one-one, couldn’t give them any real information. Just ‘Help us.’ She thought Ira was dead. The responding officers found her curled up in Ira’s lap, him still unconscious. The assault took two hours and about twenty minutes.”