This Is How I See In the Dark (Part 1)

THIS IS HOW I SEE IN THE DARK
--by Debra J. Gordon


I'm tossing and turning, too many covers on the bed and this pullout has certainly seen its day. I’d forgotten how humid it can get in this coastal Florida town. Three twenty-one a.m. and I'm still counting the cottage cheese on the ceiling of her bedroom. I kick off the silk duvet and lean over to crack the bedroom window. The moon bathes the room in a luminescent nightlight for the soul and a gentle breeze from the Atlantic Ocean soon gives some relief to the humidity.

Ahhhhhh, that's better.

Silence.

Moonlight darkness has a feel and its silence can speak.

Shuuuush. Listen. Do you hear that?

The distant sound of a vehicle in dire need of a muffler job approaches from the left side of the house. The motor sounds like a four cylinder mini truck, not one of a full-bodied Dooley diesel. Peering out the bedroom window through a cracked Venetian blind, I take note there aren't any headlights shining down the street but the idling sound seems to be right out front. Has the driver turned them off for some reason?

I learned to trust my gut instincts long ago. So, my-can't-sleep-inquisitive-self decides to investigate as I sit up in bed. I close my eyes and tilt my ear to the window to hear better. Feels like the phantom vehicle has turned into a nearby driveway and I sense it's making a U-turn. No, backing up onto gravel and pine straw. I wondered, Is this our day for trash pick-up?”

The truck’s growling muffler sound fights with the beep, beep, beeping of a government vehicle going in reverse. And still no visible headlights. For goodness sake, it's three o’clock in the morning

A few seconds pass-- there’s a dead stillness in the air. I’m not use to quiet being so loud in my intuitive head.

My index finger gingerly slits the crack in the blind open just a wee bit more-- but I still can see nothing. Letting my breath out slowly I make an effort to keep my fingers from shaking the blind. Like the way you breathe out when you squeeze a trigger so the gun doesn’t jerk and lose it’s aim.

The unknown driver must have heard my thoughts.


The moonlight catches a dark burly figure sprint by the pool's cabana and down the side of the condo. Almost simultaneously, the driver pressed the accelerator like egg shells, so as NOT to rev up the engine's sound and cranky muffler. But then, as the phantom truck increased its distance from the condo, the driver punched the accelerator-- hard without regard for the sleeping waterfront neighborhood. In a sudden get-away, the muffler's backfire pierced the night as the driver catches third gear down by the Steak ‘N Ale.

My shoulders relax, my breathing quiets and I try to explain away the incident to the darkness. Maybe it was the garbage men. Mattie and I had been up for two days straight working on a Picasso replication for the children's auction and sleep beckoned. She was already sleeping like the dead, in her master bedroom on the other side of the condo. Thank goodness for the silence again,

. . . which was short lived.

About two or three minutes later, I heard a slow, stepping, sound above, near Mattie's third bedroom. Heavy boots? Hunter’s boots? The steps were methodical and solid. My heart rate quickened and instinct reared its head up again, ordering me to make a mental note of where the bedroom door is located. The glow of the quarter moon helped to light a path through the family room, for my possible mad woman escape.

The boots are closer now. This time, I jerked myself upright and wished I'd slept in the room with the phone. Bolting out of bed, I plugged in my iron always set on linen and kept hidden beside the night table.

Whoever . . . whatever was about to be branded and gouged by Mr. Sunbeam.

An unexplainable chilly presence began to fill the room bringing with it the smell of mechanic's motor oil blended with cigar smoke. That all-too-familiar stench from before. Years before. Déjà vu smoke, that SOMEONE would blow inside the front door of my New York apartment, only moments before returning back home. Or smoke that would find its way inside of my Toyota anytime it was parked for more than ten minutes. Memories of the 1994 Larkins bribery case, ignited the hair on the back of my neck as the smoke gripped and singed my nostrils.

Were they back?

The unexplainable presence grew more cold and looming while a grey dullness began to replace the room's luminescence. Total disgust consumed me as I remembered how the lives of innocent families were turned upside down by their overt harassment and unscrupulous behavior. In a split second, months of Larkins' testimony replayed in my head like a bad movie.

To my left, his ugly bug-eyed face reflected itself in 3-D on the dresser mirror. The lips on the face that took me a year to forget were now, permanently disfigured by his smuggled Cuban cigars marinated in stink. The corner of his harelip seemed to scream vile obscenities exploding through rings of cigar smoke, whilst molded saliva

. . . d r i p p e d

. . . like rattlesnake venom, from the harelip down the mirror and oozed onto the shiny black lacquered frame. My Bible wrestled with the wormy saliva hanging in mid-air from the mirror's frame and defied it to drip any further.

Call it what you will-- sixth sense maybe, but a wierd energy pulled my head upward, through the dull looming presence and in the direction of the air vent near the ceiling. Staring back at me beyond the grate were . . . eyes, a pair of eyes. Intense eyes that locked onto mine and tried to extract my memory through my forehead pulling my breath with it. My body wanted to move but my feet were cemented in place. Fear was consumed by hot rage from a legal travesty long ago and volcanic flashes of the not guilty Larkins’ verdict melted the momentary fright trapped beneath my feet.

As I yielded to caution and retreated to the heating iron,

. . . its eyes blinked – something red.

I had enough presence of mind to realize no human could get through a vent that small. But taking no chances, I choked the life out of Mr. Sunbeam while I loosened the legs of cotton pj's from around my knees ready to pounce. Robo’s, Dolby-sounding self defense instructions from years before, vibrated in my head and translated into a low mimick, spilling from my mouth--

“Take him by surprise and go for the jug-ga-lah . . . use two hands, like this and return a solid jab under the groin pulling up into the spine. Remember to breathe deep from yo’ gut, right here, and s-w-i-n-g from yo’ back, not just with yo’ arms. Keep yo’ wrists strong and give one more downward jab into the skull-- solid and hard like you’re chopping wood. You’ve only got one chance at this close range Julie and if you blow it, you’re dead.”

I am not ready to die. I am NOT going to die. I still have too much work to do in this lifetime. So we were going to do right here and now, whatever we were going to do. “Sometimes being a bitch is the only thing a woman has to hold onto.”

Once more, the eyes blinked fire and I became the only thing. This was not going to be pretty. I poly-griped the linen-heated iron and practiced an imaginary swing, like a javelin coming all the way from Key West without letting go. The sight of Larkins' smirky face, uncuffed and going free, packed on another layer of defiance. Wondering if I had enough time to get the police mace from my purse, I declined the thought and remained at ready - set - go.

From the corner of my right eye I could glimpse giant red numbers on the alarm clock, ticking off two minutes . . . 3:38am . . . 3:39am. Seemed like a half hour.
Why was he here, above my head? Maybe to retrieve or replace tapes for surveillance? Was it actually large enough for someone to maneuver up in Mattie's crawlspace? I waited, steadied my breathing and swallowed hard. The looming presence engulfed the room and hid his movement but I could see and feel hateful eyes glaring

. . . through the vents;

. . . eyes of death.

Just below those eyes, I envisioned smoke raging from the flared nostrils of an angry bull. They blinked again-- once, twice, three quick times like morse code and then I was staring at his remaining breath surrounded by dark. Eyes, left a calling card of omnious cigar stench in the density of midnight and I thought of one of the opening lines in the film Kiss the Girls, “ . . . I watch them as they sleep so innocently.” But this was real and I'm in Florida on vacation between a new murder case recess. This is what happens when you work for a tainted criminal prosecutor.

His hunting boots remained Ninja quiet but for a moment. The solid footed stomp returned near my head, then over by Mattie's extra bedroom. The last sound of the hunter’s boots collided with shattering glass tumbling and falling which startled a neighbor’s cat. The cat’s early dawn shrill echoed around metal dropping from above then a heavy thud sound could be heard outside-- onto the dirt. An anxious angry-bull runner's exit bounced off the brick wall at the side of the condo, disappearing beyond the cabana. Somehow stillness quiet and relief found its way into the bedroom.

A few slow-motion-seconds passed. The kind of slow-motion that makes your ears ring and fogs your vision. No longer sensing a huge threat I was thankful that I didn’t have to employ any of Robo’s handiwork. I gladly released my sweaty choke hold on Mr. Sunbeam as I e-x-h-a-l-e-d, along with the sound of the ocean wind cutting through the room. In the night's distance, I could hear the same mini-truck returning. Its motor sound seemed to come to an idle at the thick bushes just beyond the cabana. From my crouched position, I could see through the crack in the Venetian blind, the phantom driver was still using no headlights. All-of-a-sudden the truck's inside cabin illuminated, at the same time the truck's squeaky door hinge needing a good dose of 3-in-one oil, screamed out in the night like fingernails on a chalkboard. A final gust of steam shot from the top of Mr. Sunbeam in a last attempt to breathe.

Curious to know if it was the same truck, I focused the lens and honed in on the liscense plate area confirming the Michigan tag. And the spare tire below the broken left rear light had not been changed yet. Gotcha! The truck's cabin light, filtered around two broad shouldered figures looking at a mini-TV monitor overhead. Mattie's night vision glasses enabled me to see a lime green keypad next to the driver's mouth, suggesting a cell phone in use and highlighted his blue-faced accomplice. Rosary beads hung from the rear view mirror and the figures both appeared to be looking at a map with little red dots on the monitor. As they drove away, I wondered which of the two no-gooders was wearing the diamond studded Mason's ring that glistened earlier in the Florida sunshine at the Office Max

Now I knew for certain. They were here. Larkins' overly cocky people were known to wear black body armour shirts and paint their faces blue for their midnight escapades. A rival trait and custom brought from the Panama Canal Zone the blue paint identified an under aged informant.


ONE HOUR LATER--

So, I tell the police officer, “This pattern of behavior has repeated itself about every third night for two or three weeks.” I didn't want to call the cops before because Florida didn't know my history yet. And I knew they'd think I was just another crazed woman hearing things, in spite of my credentials.

Continuing conversation with the officer, “Sir, the behavior appears like someone sees or knows when I log off the computer and go to bed.” I looked for a confirmation of understanding from the officer. Hesitating-- but really testing him, I said, “So maybe this will explain my missing lingerie-- the bottoms only, toothpaste smeared on the toilet, nail polish brushed on the bathroom mirror, kitchen sponges sliced in half.

I waited for his reaction and was met with an intent stare from fierce blue eyes. I wondered if he was listening and continued– “Large indoor plants moving by themselves, seasoning salts sprinkled over my stove, numerous broken picture frames. Things like that. There was also an occasion when--”

Making note of the time on his watch, the officer interrupted and asked, “How long have you been in Florida Ma'am?”

Although somewhat abrupt, his voice was polite with his interruption and this struck me odd. I took his lead and tried not to compare him to law enforcement back home. “About two months sir. I’m taking a break from stuff back in New York.” The cool ocean air circulated throughout the veranda and I was glad I'd put on my windbreaker. Beyond the officer’s shoulders, I could see crime scene personnel busying themselves with their respective duties photographing, measuring and sifting through the assemblage of broken glass and metal.

“Ma’am your call to 9-1-1 said you thought someone had followed you from home. Would that be New York?”

“Yes sir, Syracuse. It’s a university town about 150 miles North of--

"Snow birds, we get snow birds down here from Upstate New York. I'm familiar with your hometown Ma'am and the officer continued. You say that person harassed you years ago and the harassment is starting again. Would that statement be accurate Ma’am?”

“Yes sir. But it wasn’t just one person.” Getting a bit anxious, I babbled, “I can smell pungent cigarette smoke mixed with old motor oil coming from the air vents in the middle of the night. My pace quickened as I tried to say between two quick breaths . . . Sometimes it’s cigar smoke marinated in pure stink. It’s starting all over--

The officer stuck his hand up in the air like he was a traffic cop stopping an oncoming car at an intersection. “Ma'am, I'll need you to slow down so that I can hear everything you have to say. He made a few notes in his black book and while writing he asked, “Have you recently ceased a relationship with someone? Is there an ex-spouse or ex-boyfriend in the picture?”

This agitated me. I knew the cops would think like that. "No sir, that's not what this is about. I was almost screaming because I was a bit incensed by the stereotypical question. It was their signature, the smoke The stench followed me everywhere. In the market, at the dry cleaners, the nail salon, even at church.”

The previous failure of law enforcement to follow through with my complaints silenced me momentarily and I wondered if this officer was a good cop or a bad cop. I decide not to tell the officer about the missing pages from my journals and floppy disks, my doorknobs taken off the front door and left to hang and the explef graffiti drawn on my bedroom wall. Would he understand that or of the broken windshield glass strewn around my car tires and the dead baby snake left on my bedroom floor?

“Ma’am, my name is Ruddy Windsor. I’m a veteran stalking detective and I apologize for interrupting you. May I ask what line of work are you in?”

Still slightly agitated, I tried not to answer with somewhat of a huff but I did. "I work for a criminal prosecutor back in Syracuse and the name's Julie– Julie Wellington.”

“How long have you worked for this prosecutor Ms Wellington?”

Well, that was a change, I thought as I immediately softened my demeanor and reciprocated his cordials. "A little over three years Detective. Before that, I researched and traced titles for a real estate attorney in nearby Salina Town.” He looked in deep thought and made a few more deliberate notes in his black book. I decided to be patient and zipped my windbreaker to insulate from the cooler ocean air.

"Since you say this is not about a clingy ex-spouse or ex-boyfriend, have you worked on any cases within the last year which may have resulted in someone holding a grudge against the prosecution, or even you?

Now the Detective was heading in the right direction. "Too many to name Detective Windsor-- maybe ten or so. We had an infamous bribery case cover by CNN and the big three."

As the detective hung his head with a look of disgust, he made a few more deliberate notes in his black book. His veteran’s instinct was satisfied he’d asked enough preliminary questions at this point and he returned his ball point and black book to his inside coat pocket. With a matter-of-fact expression on his face, he looked me dead in the eye, crossed his arms over his chest, and announced, “Ms Wellington, at the risk of being out of line--

Detective Windsor stopped in mid-sentence and cleared his throat. My questioning wide eyed glance must have given him the okay to proceed.

"My wife was stalked in college. She moved three times trying to shake the guy. Three times in two years, he said again for emphasis while holding up two fingers on his left hand. They finally caught him when she was in her junior year. Of course, that was before I became a cop. The perp was camping out in the crawl space above her coat closet. He’d cut a door in a back wall, under the kitchen sink to let himself in-- whenever he felt like it.”

With his arms crossed back over his chest, Detective Windsor shifted his feet to an 'at-ease' stance and continued, “Nancy and I won't ever forget Mr. Arnold. He managed to rent the apartment next door to my wife and still had a key to his old place. Clearing his throat again, he said, The new tenants had absolutely no clue apartment management failed to change the locks between occupants, or that Mr. Arnold was coming into their apartment. Management tried to explain it away and claimed what they called a leasehold. His gray eyes turned the color of hot steel as if visualizing the pain of it all and said, "Perry Arnold changed our lives forever.”

My good-cop-bad-cop question was just answered. Then I knew it was okay to tell Detective Windsor about the missing pages from my journals and floppy disks - the doorknobs - the explef graffiti - the broken windshield glass - the snake . . . and a number of other oddities, only a seasoned cop would believe. And I did

Intrusive surveillance like this wasn't an oddity to me. The D.A.’s office litigated cases like these many times before but this was different. This had the specific underpinnings of Larkins' blue-faced goonies, including the illegal wiretapping, computer hacking and incessant mockery. The kind of mockery that was purposely overt and became personal because their scenarios were captured through hidden cameras installed in the homes, cars and sometime work places of the target AND his/her associates . . . then re-enacted before the target, in very specific circumstances. All illegal of course, twenty-four hours a day. And now the harassment was happening to me, again.


Oblivious to Detective Windsor’s continued conversation I began to reflect on a personal instance of Larkins’ era insidious cable surveillance at its best. My living room TV had been “infected” with CATV and to let me know that, “they” broadcasted me on my TV in between commercials, sitting on my living room sofa wearing pajamas.

Detective Windsor saw my attempt to negate slight anxiety and stopped reminiscing of his personal experience of the past. “I'm sorry Ma'am. It’s just that a cop sees unbelievable behavior in the streets but a detective sees into to the mind of the criminal. We also see how stalking affects the victim and there's a certain look they have. I see a little of it in your eyes, so I know you're telling the truth. Further sizing up my character, Detective Windsor announced, “But you're not a typical victim Ms Wellington; in fact you're NO victim. And just so you know, we’re seeing eye-to-eye.

Again, at the risk of being out of line, I have to ask. Do you know how to use a firearm?”

Relief. Damn relief. I’m sure ‘the look’ Detective Windsor spoke of was like liquid on my face and dripped through my angst. I was still processing . . . stalker had a key . . . under the kitchen sink . . . whenever.

Detective Windsor pulled out his precinct card and wrote two phone numbers on the reverse of the card and a case number. As he handed me the card, he said, “This case happened to have come when I’m scheduled to leave town this Friday Ms Wellington. Taking my son for a motorcycle ride down the Tamiami Trail. We’ve been planning this trip for months and I’d hate to cancel on him now. Detective Adrianna Hatchett will be looking in on you for me and the precinct.

A disappointed look must have planted on my face and Windsor said, “Detective Hatchett takes her cases veryseriously and leaves no stone unturned. I’ll only be gone a week but here’s my cell phone number. It’s okay to call me if you need to. The number works 24-hours a day.”

Compared to the cops back home, God has sent me an angel.

"And while I'm gone, I want you to pick up a paperback called The Gift of Fear by Gavin deBecker. Read it He's been on Oprah. If you don't read anything else, make sure you read the chapter on intuition. Chapter number three."

I think my head nodded okay as my automatic-pilot-hand reached for the card. But my swirling brain was still processing . . . a camera in the shower . . . camping out in her crawlspace . . . WHENEVER.

Detective Windsor asked, “Ma'am are you all right?”

"Yes, I'm okay. I'll be fine." The first peak of the Florida sunrise removed some of the doom and gloom from this scenario. Momentarily, my mind went back to the New York courtroom and the bailiff removing the cuffs from the charismatic Larkins. As he and his entourage were leaving the courtroom, I knew that would not be the last time I would see the media magnate. Chills and a shiver came over me. My New Yorker bones had quickly welcomed the Florida change of weather over the past two months. But the February chill of the dawn's ocean air, reminded me of our early New York fall weather, as it whipped under my London Fog. The cotton pj's and Indonesian slippers did little to warm my legs and toes. I thought to myself, a cup of hot green tea would be mighty good now, as I adjusted the collar over my ears.

Unrelenting with his efficiency, Windsor continued, "Ms Wellington, the number on the back of my card ending in --4747-- belongs to a weapon’s trainer buddy of mine.” His laser stare insisted that I call this weapon’s trainer well before I saw his lips move.

“Call this weapons’ trainer and tell him Ruddy says, do the training for free.“

From the living room, his colleague summoned, “Detective, you’d better take a look at this.”He acknowledged him with a nod then Detective Windsor looked back at me and announced, “This is your kingdom Ms Wellington. Don’t let a reprobate like this take it away from you.”

I never did get a chance to answer his firearms’ question. A new level of confidence consumed me and I knew, this investigation wouldn't be stalled like the previous one back home. Following the detective back into the condo, my photographic mind began fast forwarding through my mental data base of well-placed confidant's phone numbers collected over the years. It was time to call in a few favors, BIG favors. I had work to do

Relief. Damn relief is all I had as I choked back the same three years of a living hell.

-----------

No longer sleeping like the dead, Mattie was up now. Answering not too many questions for Lieutenant Hubbard because she slept through the entire intruder's visit. Mattie was my Litigation study partner for three semesters at NYU. That was many years ago. Racking up an eight-year stellar Naval tour of duty in the Philippines, she was able to pick any port in the U.S. for shore duty. Those eight years wore heavy on Mattie along with the turmoil of Westpoint. She was only too happy to settle down by the sea in Jacksonville Beach. All Mattie did now was paint, eat, paint, eat-- and sleep . . . years of the military off.

Resigned to the fact that Mattie was unable to contribute any meaningful information to the investigation, Lieutenant Hubbard began to close his notebook and notices my car trunk ajar through the kitchen window. In quick cop language, he made his observation known to our trio and sleeping-beauty. My first thought was of the confidential papers and law books I trusted to be safe in the trunk.

Hubbard, Windsor and I exited the condo with a quickness while Mattie stayed behind. A look inside confirmed my business papers were indeed of interest to someone. And wires under the trunk's spare tire area had been pulled up and connected to a mangled mess of red, blue and white tiny rubber cords along the side body of the car running to the brake lights.

Lieutenant Hubbard announced, "Looks like someone tried a botched-up install of a G.P.S. recently." Hubbard held up in the air several short lengths of bright copper wiring pulled from the colored, spaghetti-looking cords while Windsor's flashlight tagged the first physical evidence.

I saw Hubbard and Windsor exchange glances. I'd seen that look before too. These professionals instinctively knew what type of investigation this had become. A few feet away, Lieutenant Hubbard's attention was elicited by a crime scene investigator at the side wall of the condo.

Mattie had joined us by this time and Detective Windsor addressed us both as Hubbard walk away. “Our threat assessment team will arrive later this morning to confirm the G.P.S. tracking and also run a forensics on your laptops. Ladies, I'm stepping out of the box and following my cop's gut on this investigation. It’s quite possible you’ve been unknowingly communicating with the harassers through phantom email programs that look just like AOL, and Hotmail. If we’re dealing with the type of people I think we’re dealing with, they’re very skilled at learning the language style and voice of your friends and then emailing you as if they are your friends. In fact, every form of your usual communication may be compromised in this manner.

I knew then, Detective Windsor was more than familiar with cyber crime. He literally repeated word-for-word information covered in Cindy Southworth's, The Use of Technology in Intimate Partner Stalking seminar held last May. And it would be an insult to his intelligence if I reminded him we had cable TV.

Really awake now and totally understanding the big picture, Mattie finally found her voice and screamed, "For crying out loud Julie. I thought all of this madness was behind you. I can't deal with this outrage right now, not now. I'm stressed to the limit with the children's bazaar next month and the West Point paperwork due in two weeks!"

Trying to calm Mattie down with his traffic-stop hand signal, Detective Windsor didn't miss a beat. Cautiously he interrupted and slowly put his hand down to his side. "Ladies look. While it’s just their way of breaking boredom and having some fun, lets not under estimate their reach. It’s who they’re connected to that we'll need to pinpoint. And we will. This kind of crime has many layers and it always comes down to one person . . . their bosses, bosses, boss calling the shots from the high-rise office tower he owns or while in his limo.

“Limo! ” My mind flashed back to the sleek black limo with the personalized 'BRUTUS' licence plate while visiting Atlanta’s district attorney. The following day while accompanying a business associate to the Tucker area, another black limo was parked just a few hundred feet beyond the GA 400/Buckhead exit Eastbound on I-285. An older model dull gray Nissan with a black female driver was parked behind the limo. Was there a connection [i]here[/i]? My tag tracer kept hitting a brick wall for her “BRUTUS’ underground search.

A third Officer was showing Lieutenant Hubbard what he believed to be the entry point used by the night-morning intruder; an alarm-forsaken window at the side of the condo. Hubbard called Windsor over and says, This one was very cunning and resourceful. He substituted a floor-to-ceiling wall of sturdy bookshelves as his ladder and then hoisted himself up into the crawlspace, over the never-used garage.

In a low voice, Detective Windsor commented to Lieutenant Hubbard, Our caller says she works for a criminal prosecutor on-the-take back home in New York. And, I lip-read Hubbard's reply, Well if that's the case all this makes sense. We may have a psych ops situation on our hands Windsor.

Something told me this new murder case was going to be long and dirty.

Larkin's people have followed me to Florida.

© August 2006, Debra J. Gordon