The first 12 victims were too embarrassed or two ashamed to file a police report. He wasn't as lucky with number 13. She was a little older than the others, although she looked 25. She was a waitress by choice and had made herself a vow on her 18 birthday - as her Dad was packing the car and getting ready to get rid of her - to never take crap from anyone again.
So when the pervert with the twisted, painted face was done with her and had dropped her in an alley near Tremont Street, she ripped the cloth bag off her head, picked up her crying three year old, and began walking, unsteadily, toward the 7th precinct. She was taken downstairs to the assault center. A robotic woman about her age asked a battery of questions while the night janitor made a little bed in the corner and coaxed her daughter to sleep.
After it was determined that no rape had occurred, the woman led her into a large bathroom and told her strip. She calmly made notes and drew sketches on the Victim Template Sheet detailing the condition of the victim's body and noted the small bruises on her shoulders and back.
She showered alone and the anger grew. After she had cleaned up (on the outside) she spent most of the rest of the evening at the station, answering questions and sipping steaming coffee from sturdy paper cups with angel wing tabs.
Detective Rizzo, the night manager in the assault center, got the case. He was the last one she talked to that evening. He sent a squad car to the alley on Tremont to pick up the child's car seat and put a bulletin out on her car. Some cops quickly found it - keys in the ignition - on Luray Street.
At 5 a.m. she was released to the grey stillness that hangs like a cloud in the air before dawn. Detective Rizzo helped anchor the car seat in her car.
"How could I have not seen that creep when I put her in the car seat? He was lying right on the floor."
"Don't beat yourself up. You're both okay, and that's a good thing," Rizzo said.
"Am I the first or is this some kind of serial thing?"
"This is the first time we've heard this kind of story," Rizzo said. "But I'll check around town and see if anyone else has anything. Are you all right?"
"Fine," she replied through gritted teeth.
"Go home and take it easy," he advised. "Maybe take a couple days off. And don't worry Miss, we're gonna nail this bastard."
She climbed in the front seat and cranked up the car. He watched her pull into the traffic lane and disappear down the street, knowing there was little chance they were ever going to nail the bastard.
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The deed had become a ritual. He would spend three or four days cruising a random neighborhood in Boston, looking for a pretty young thing with a child in tow. When a suitable candidate was found, he would follow her home and check for evidence of a husband or strong man in the picture. If none was found, he would take a picture of her with his cell phone. In his studio in the basement, behind the false book case, he would print the picture and hang it on the velvet wall, dead center, in the position of honor.
Then he would sit in a cheap aluminum lawn chair and stare at the picture until he knew he had to have her. Then he would begin to follow her and wait for a safe opportunity. And then he would take her.
All of the women were the same -- 20 to 30 years old, single, with young children under the age of three or four. He preferred the children to be boys, but he was flexible on that point. The woman were all blond, with straight stringy hair that hung to the shoulders or just beyond. All thin, with long faces and pretty eyes. He felt the sparkle in the eyes was what really made a woman beautiful.
He varied his method of abduction as much as possible. He preferred an open car door and lying on the floor of the back seat, but not many cars were unlocked these days, what with the crime and all.
It was 7 p.m. on a warm May night in Chelsea when he went for victim number 19. She seemed a little younger than the others, around 20, but was dragging a three or four year old boy around by the arm so she must have started early in life. He disapproved of her sexual mores.
He watched her buckle the kid into a large car seat in the back of her white Ford Focus, then brush a wandering strand of hair behind her ear.
"Slut," he whispered as he approached the car.
He knocked on her window as she started the car.
She looked up inquisitively and rolled down the window.
"What is it, officer," she asked as she stared at his blue jacket and gold badge.
"You've got a problem with your rear tire, M'am. Step out of the car please so I can show you."
She unbuckled her seat belt and hopped out of the car. He stuck his gun into her ribs.
"Into the passenger seat," he ordered and swung her around the car.
"Oh God," she said and took a deep breath.
He paused with her outside the passenger door.
"I'm not going to rape you and I'm not going to kill you or the kid. Just play it smart and you'll be all right. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir," she whispered.
He buckled her into the passenger seat and fled around the car. He popped into the driver's seat, still pointing the gun at her slender waist. He pulled a blindfold from his pocket.
"Put this on," he instructed and she complied.
He started the car and turned back to smile at the boy in the back seat. "Hi," he said with a big smile. "Just gonna take care of some business son, then home you go."
