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Malcolm Bates is handsome. His gray-streaked hair is distinguished, accentuating his dark, clean-shaven features rather than aging him. He doesn’t look like a rapist—but as I know from experience, rapists don’t have a stereotypical profile.
I suppress a shudder as Chase reaches down to shake his hand. “Let’s find a private place to talk,” he says.
Malcolm nods, rising and leading us toward an office. A detective in a clichéd trench coat and scruffy beard eyes me before he motions a cop to stand guard at the door.
With shaky hands, I press Record on the device, then set it on the desk to prepare to take notes. So far, there doesn’t appear to be anything that stands out. This isn’t the crime scene, so why are they searching here?
“Keep your voice low,” Chase says to his client. “Tell me everything you know.”
Malcolm runs a hand through his disheveled hair, as if he’s been doing so all morning. “I don’t know anything,” he says, his voice rough, ragged. “I’ve been here all weekend. Haven’t had any company.”
Chase narrows his gaze. “No one has been here?”
The man throws up his hands. “I moved to fucking Falls Church to get away from the press hounding me, Larkin. For fuck’s sake, I just got done with a trial. Do you think I’m in the mood to date?”
The way he says it, with such disdain, triggers a detail I read in one of his first statements. I hate the dating scene. That’s why I meet women online.
Three victims were attacked right after he—allegedly—dropped them off at their homes after a date that was arranged through emails. The second two didn’t come forward until after the first was reported.
“Malcolm, the detectives are going to say you moved here to cull new victims away from the city,” Chase says evenly. He’s all hard logic. Not a hint of emotion in his tone. “I need the truth. We’ll figure out what they need to hear, but you know the deal. I get everything. Every. Single. Fucking. Detail up front.”
As Malcolm contemplates this, I jot down a note: Culling victims through dating website. Does the new victim use the same site as the others?
“All right,” Malcolm says, exasperated. “I knew this girl. But only online,” he stresses. “I had plans to meet her. We hooked up through the fetish site, but it fell through. I backed out last night.” He shakes his head. “I wanted to celebrate, sure. But I decided against it at the last minute. I never hooked up with her. Next thing I know, the fucking cops are breaking down my door.”
I write quickly, getting down anything relevant, as Chase remains quiet. When I glance up, his stern features and hard glare on his client make me question if he believes Malcolm. Chase looks over at me, searching my face, as if I hold the answer.
“Didn’t I tell you to stay off that site?” Chase reprimands his client. “It’s not as anonymous as you think, Malcolm. You can’t chance it with the press.”
Malcolm’s features fall in defeat, but he says nothing.
The detective in the trench coat enters the office, breaking the silence. “Doctor Malcolm Bates, I have a warrant for your arrest.”
“Say nothing,” Chase reminds Malcolm. “I’ll meet you at the station.”
Malcolm assumes the position, placing his hands behind his back as the detective recites the Miranda rights and handcuffs him. I feel as if I’m in the middle of a bad cop show, but even in those, there’s at least some important information gleaned.
We’ve learned nothing here.
Once the detective places Malcolm in the custody of two officers who escort him outside the house, he turns toward Chase. “Processing here takes a few hours. We’ll call you when your client’s ready for questioning.”
With a smirk, Chase lowers his head to look down at the detective, his height towering over. “That’s fine. Take all the time you want. But in the meantime, I want access to all evidentiary discovery. Including the police report and witness statement.”
The detective cocks his head. “Sounds like a request for the ACA. Good luck.” He stalks off without another word.
I touch Chase’s arm, bringing his attention to me. “They don’t have a strong case yet,” I say, and he nods, catching on to the same thing as me.
“If they did, it wouldn’t be handed down to an Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney.” His slight smile reaches his eyes. “And at least we’re in another district and don’t have to battle Detective Quinn. We wouldn’t get anywhere if so. Come on,” he says, starting toward the foyer. “Let’s go hound the shit out of this green ACA.”
I’ve seen violence before. Depicted in images as I researched cases. The woman who filed spousal abuse on her husband. Her bruised face. Despondent, shadowed eyes that held so much pain. The man who was assaulted by a coworker. The chair that broke his arm. The claim that followed which showed the X-rays and hardship of his suffering.
I always viewed this violent world safely removed, however. Just a shade away from the victims. The pictures spread out before me now seem too close, too real. As if I can reach down and touch Samantha Dean.
The ligature marks wrapping her wrists make mine itch, and I rub my fingers over my skin, feeling the raised welts, the remnants of the chain that bound me the night before.
Although mine was accepted willingly, I can’t help feeling a connection to this victim on a deeper level that has nothing to do with last night. The fabric of time is slipping, and I’m struggling to stay in the moment.
Unlike the victim here, I don’t have visible proof of my scars. So they’re easily dismissed. Ignored. Forgotten. Proof, as I’ve come to learn, is all that matters. If you can’t prove it, then it never happened. I could’ve imagined the whole thing for all the world cares.
