“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.”
“What did he take?”
“Safe contents, some expensive bric-a-brac, a small painting, a bottle of high-end brandy and one of Lori’s cocktail dresses, with shoes and bag.”
“Voice?”
“Gravelly, hollow, deep-throated. He messed the second couple up more than the first, multiple rapes on the female on the second assault, used the knife—what they both believe was a medical scalpel—on both of them. Just shallow cuts and slices, but it’s an escalation. We found no crossover between the victims.”
Olsen rubbed her eyes. “Sorry, forgot. He had sound effects going. Howling wolves for Dracula, rattling chains for the ghoul. Lori and Ira say he did something to the lights. They’re hazy about it, understandably, but they both said the lights were gray and dim, and there was a strobe light.”