The Weatherman (34 page)

“Well, he started kissing me and stuff, and he put his hands on me and he told me how beautiful I was, and …”

“Was he hurting you?” “No.”

“Was he seducing you?”

“Yes, kind of. He was very gentle, and he was saying sweet things to me that no man ever said before, and he said it in a really sweet way.” “What happened then?” She didn’t answer.

“Tell us what happened next.”

“He, um, he pulled off my nightgown and my panties.”

“Did you let him?”

“Kind of.”

“And?”

“And then he got undressed and we had sex-he had sex.”

“Did he force you to have sex with him that night?”

“Kind of, because I thought he might kill me if I didn’t.”

“And what did he physically feel like?”

“He was a big man. Tall and kind of husky. Not fat, more like a football player. He had this thick curly hair and a round face. And he always smelled nice, kind of minty, like cologne.”

“Would you know that smell again?”

Stacy Dvorchak interrupted. “Your Honor, if she comes over here and begins sniffing my client you’re going to get laughed off the bench.”

“Thank you, Counselor.” The judge glared at the prosecutor. “Don’t even ask.”

Prosecutor Fury went back to his questioning. “And after the sex, what happened?”

“He was really sweet. He held me tight and whispered more nice things to me.”

“Did you have sexual intercourse with him a second time that night?”

“Yes.”

“And when did he leave your apartment?”

“It’s a town house. After the second time.”

“What did he say before he left?”

“That we could do it again. That we could be secret lovers.”

“And were you?”

She didn’t answer for the longest time. Finally she muttered, “Yes.”

“How did this work?”

“Before he left the first night I gave him my telephone number. He would call me up after I was in bed. It was usually late. Then I would go unlock the patio window and screen and I would get into bed and wait for him to come, just like the first night.”

“And would he show up?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“Sometimes once every two or three weeks. Sometimes months would go by.”

“How long did this dangerous affair go on?”

“Almost two years.”

“Why? Why did you let it go on? Why didn’t you call the police?”

She choked on her shame and stared up at the ceiling lights, fighting back the tears. “I mean, everything I wanted, he did for me. And I would do everything for him. Some of us don’t get asked out, you know. In the light of day I’m not a pretty woman. I’ve never had anybody love me like that before. He would always ask what I wanted, what made me feel good, and he always did it. It was exciting. It made me feel good.”

“When did it end?”

She nodded at Dixon Bell. “After he was arrested.”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“Overruled, Counselor. There’s no jury here.”

Prosecutor Fury continued. “When did you realize your lover was the weatherman on Channel 7?”

“After about a year. I was watching the news on 7 and they were joking around before he walked over to do the weather, and he leaned over the desk and whispered something to the lady anchor. They all laughed, but I froze. I found out he lived in Edina. I thought then that it was him.”

“Did you ever confront him with this knowledge?”

“No. I kept planning to, but I always chickened out.”

“Is the man who prowled your neighborhood looking for unlocked windows, the man who would become your secret lover, is he in this courtroom today?”

She looked surprised at the stupid question. “Yes, he is.”

“Will you point him out, please.” “That’s him over there. Dixon Bell. The Weatherman.” The prosecutor walked up to the witness stand and patted her hand. “It took a lot of courage for you to come here today. Thank you.”

The prosecutor returned to his table. Davi Iverson got up to leave. “Sit down!” It was Stacy Dvorchak. “I want to remind

you, young lady, that you’re under oath, that there’s a man on trial for his life here, and that if you don’t answer my questions truthfully, you’ll roast in hell!”

Even Dixon Bell was intimidated. Anger was a side of his attorney he had not seen. Davi Iverson took her seat again, looking like a frozen field mouse watching the descent of a hawk.

Stacy wheeled her electric chair over to the witness stand faster than anybody had ever seen it move before. She lined herself up face-to-face with her client’s accuser, one woman to another. “Did you ever perform oral sex on this man who came in the night?”

“Yes,” she muttered.

“Did you allow him to have anal intercourse with you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you allow him to tie you up?”

“Yes.”

“In the two years you prostituted yourself, did you ever-”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“Counselor,” said Judge Lutoslawski, “behave yourself.”

“In the two years you let this rapist into your bedroom and spread your legs for him-”

“Counselor!” admonished the judge.

Stacy rephrased the question. “In those two years, were the lights ever on?”

“No.”

“In those two years, were the shades ever up, allowing moonlight in?”

“No.”

“In those two years did he ever talk above a whisper?”

“No.”

“In those two years did he ever hint at who he was?”

“No.”

“Did he ever whisper a forecast into your ears?” The courtroom burst into nervous laughter. “And this perverted affair happened in the two years before my client was arrested?”

Tears were falling from Davi Iverson’s eyes now. Even Dixon Bell was feeling somewhat sorry for her. “Yes,” she answered.

“In other words,” Stacy explained, “you repeatedly allowed this strange man into your apartment in the middle of the night knowing full well a serial killer was stalking the Cities, and at the same time Edina police were warning the public about a rapist stalking that community, the very community you live in?”

“Yes.”

“For the record, Your Honor, Edina police investigated my client after his arrest and concluded in their written reports, quote, ‘Dixon Bell is no longer a suspect in the Edina rape cases.’ Unquote. Your Honor, I move this witness be dismissed and not allowed to testify before the jury.”

The judge leaned over the witness. “Miss Iverson, the deputy will show you to the witness room. You’re to wait there.”

The deputy took her arm and escorted the surprise witness from the courtroom. She appeared ready to faint.

Prosecutor Fury addressed the bench. “Your Honor, there are a thousand unsolved rapes out there every year, and probably three times that many that go unre-ported. Dixon Bell didn’t just wake up one day and begin killing women. I’m establishing a pattern here. He probably began window peeping, moved on to rape, and then graduated to murder.”

Stacy cut in. “Your Honor, I remind you that none of the victims my client is charged with killing was sexually assaulted. He has never been charged with any crime, much less a sex crime, and none of this woman’s incredible story is the least bit mentioned in his diary, which contains his innermost thoughts.”

The prosecutor was having none of that. “As we’ve established, Your Honor, this is not a normal diary. It’s the sentimental ramblings of a psychopath. It’s not unusual that he would omit his crimes.”

Stacy shot back, “Your Honor, in this state alone I can cite three news stories from the past two years where a woman claimed to have been kidnapped, only to find out it was a hoax. Nobody knows why some women make these things up, but they do. Trials like this bring out the wackos.”

Judge Lutoslawski pressed his fingers to his temples, then ordered a recess while he considered his ruling.

During this welcome break in the trial Dixon Bell was paging through the newspaper when he stumbled across two articles of interest on the penultimate page.

NORTH
SIDE
RAPIST
STRIKES
AGAIN
For the fourth time in as many months a man broke into a woman’s home in North Minneapolis and raped the woman living there at gunpoint, Minneapolis police reported today. The suspect in all four rapes has been described as a dark-skinned black man, medium build, wearing new athletic shoes. The latest assault occurred …

When it was rapes in white-ass Edina it was front-page news and TV coverage galore. When it was black women in the projects of North Minneapolis, it was two paragraphs in the back of the paper. The second article appeared in the gossip column.

BARINGTON
GETS
NEW
CONTRACT
Sky High News Channel 7 anchorwoman Charleen Barington will be making her home in the Twin Cities for at least three more years. The fortysomething redhead was given a new three-year contact to continue her anchor duties on the six and ten o’clock news shows, news director Jack Napoleon said in a statement. Rumors of Barington’s demise in the wake of falling ratings, plus her age …

Dixon Bell folded the paper. Andrea Labore had to be depressed beyond words. Rick Beanblossom said she’d been offered an anchor job at the Clancy station in Indianapolis. That had to have the masked asshole sweating bullets, if he could sweat. He couldn’t live without her enchanting looks any more than he could live outside of Minnesota. To what ends would Beanblossom go to hang on to that bewitching face?

When court resumed, Judge Lutoslawski handed down his decision. In light of the fact that no crime was ever reported, Davi Iverson’s story lacked credibility and would shed unfair light on the defendant. Her testimony would not be allowed.

Dixon Bell sighed in relief.

It was snowing that night as they drove I-94 back to St. Paul. A nuisance storm. One to two inches. Spring would be late. The heater went out in the van. Still, the Weatherman was feeling warmer about the day’s events. Soon he could tell the jury his side of the story, how he was threatened, followed, robbed, framed.

But before that happened, cunning Jim Fury had one more witness up his sleeve.

Jesus Christ ascending into heaven through fluffy cumulus clouds can be seen on the office wall behind her. A physics degree from the University of Chicago hangs behind the desk. It is dark outside, probably after the ten o’clock news. Charleen Barington takes a seat on the couch in front of the console television set. The set is on but can’t be seen. Only the flickering white light spills over her. The sound is down. News director Jack Napoleon comes into view. He pulls up a chair and sits in front of her, pats her knee in a fatherly way.

When it came to gathering the news, Charleen Barington was invisible. She was an anchor. She returned to work after six weeks of maternity leave with the birth of her second child, the tot shamelessly promoted for the evening news. Her beauty-queen looks and hourglass figure returned to work with her, but her red hair seemed a shade duller, her makeup a bit heavier. For weeks upon her return she would come into the newsroom at 9:35 P.M., go straight into makeup, be on the set at 9:55, read the ten o’clock news, and be out the door by 10:35. One hour of work on a six-figure contract. But that contract was up. Where Ron Shea was just coming into his silver-haired fifties, ideal for television news, and paid twice what his female co-anchor was being paid for doing the same job, Charleen Barington was now forty years old-the twilight of her career. She desperately wanted one more contract.

Jack Naooleon begins, his hands folded prayerwise in

his lap. “We’ve really never had a chance to get to know each other. Clancy signed you before I got here. This time it’s strictly my decision. I think we should start, Charleen, by laying our cards on the table.” He taps her knee with his finger. “Tell me what you want.”

Charleen nervously slips her hands under her long, gorgeous legs. Sits on them. She is hesitant. “I want another three-year contract. A signing bonus. And I think I’m entitled to more pay to bring me closer in line with Ron. That’s what I want.”

They weren’t news people anymore, if ever they were. Ron Shea and Charleen Barington had been elevated to anchors but reduced to a pair of PR flacks. Their job was to sell Sky High News.

Napoleon rubs his hands together in deep thought. “Charleen, you’re forty years old now. You have a small child and a baby at home. Have you given some thought to part-time reporting with us, and maybe more time at home with your family?”

Charleen clears her throat, obviously disappointed. “I don’t think I’m ready to step down from the anchor desk. Besides, who would replace me? Andrea?”

Napoleon sighs. Troubled. “Andrea wants it, perhaps deserves it. But I don’t think she’s ready yet. Andrea doesn’t put viewers to sleep, but they do slip into a dreamlike trance. And it wouldn’t be a wise move in the middle of the trial.”

Charleen perks up. “Then I’m needed at the anchor desk.”

Napoleon sighs, deeply troubled. “The thing of it is, Charleen, I don’t see a three-year contract. This is a young people’s business. I’d be sticking my neck out with Clancy.” He has his finger on her knee, drawing cute little circles.

Charleen Barington has a pretty face. She won a Texas beauty pageant and she went into television. She was no different than a thousand other pretty people who every year choose a career in broadcasting. She runs a finger over the back of his hairy hand and slips into her most seductive Texas accent. Charleen didn’t get where she is without charm. “I think I’ve earned a new three-year contract and I came to your office tonight to get it. Let me know what I have to do. There, my cards are on the table.”

The news director now has both his hands on her knees. He is leaning into her. “Your work habits are becoming the butt of newsroom jokes-jokes that are spilling into the gossip columns. It would be hard to justify a three-year contract. I’m reluctant to give it to you. My cards are on the table.”

The aging beauty queen watches as his hands caress her legs. She is firm and direct, but still polite. “My work habits in the newsroom are hampered by the schedule you expect me to keep outside the newsroom. I have spoken before every insipid civic group I can imagine, and I have joined enough moronic family groups to raise an army of toddlers. All of this for Clancy Communications and Sky High News. Am I expected to break news stories, too?”