The first week that I started returning to the stroll was mixed with a combination of determination, repulsion, and an odd sense of melancholy for the loss of such a huge part of my life. For the first time, I was able to observe the stroll from a different perspective — literally and figuratively. Each evening became the same as the last; I would fill my thermos with coffee, pack up food and snacks, don one of my wigs and a hat, and head out. My route was predictable. I would drive down to the stroll, pull into one of many discreet spots where I wasn’t necessarily visible but still had a fairly clear view of the stroll — vehicles, tricks, trolls, and working girls. I would turn off the headlights and engine, and settle in to wait and watch. I played, over and over in my mind, the choices I would make when an opportunity presented itself.
It didn’t take long before I was approached by some of the girls, animated and chanting as I had done for so long, “Hey, baby. Looking for a date?” I kept my head down and put a hand up to warn them off before they could get too close. In the dark and covered by different hair and a cap, and sitting in a shiny vehicle, I wasn’t closely examined and it wasn’t likely that anyone would figure out it was me. I figured I would either be made as an undercover, a voyeur, a journalist, or just a freak. Those were the assumptions that I would have drawn when I was out there. Although I missed some of the girls terribly, I just felt too removed from everyone I had known. And anyway, I wasn’t sure if I could stay balanced if I took any more of a step back into the world I had lived. For the time being, I would have to remain anonymous.
I stayed remarkably focused on spotting my prey. It was the only thing that kept me going some days. I knew in my gut that I would see him again; I never doubted it. I wanted to find him and extract every last drop of street justice possible. And so went my each and every night, like clockwork, until my large thermos was emptied and the sun threatened to come up, exposing me. Then and only then would I make my way home, disappointed and relieved — confused always by the twin emotions.
I fought the compulsion to go to the diner and risk being recognized, but only for a while. Halfway through my second week of hunting, I could no longer resist the temptation. One evening at closing, I found my blonde-wigged self pulling open the door and stepping back into that quirky, warm, safe place. It was a slow night and there were only two customers remaining and one part-time working girl, Beth. But none of the usual girls lined either the counter or the back booths. I kept my head down anyway. I wasn’t ready or prepared to step back into the world and realities of any of the women I had been forced to leave behind. But I was ready for a friend, and Betty, who ran the place, offered me that without complication or questions. Her relief was genuinely profound when she saw me. She reached for my face and gently touched her hand to the scars they bore and pulled me in close, kissed the top of my head, and in hushed tones thanked God that I was alive — that the rumours that I had overdosed or worse, had been murdered, were not true.
Our nightly conversations quickly became something I looked forward to. After the first night, Betty let me come in from the back door into the kitchen, away from prying eyes — the interior, counters, and back booths. We would sit at the little table that the cooks used for their breaks and chat over tea.
Betty quickly got me up to date on all the news and events that had happened in the year and a half I had been absent. The woman who had been found murdered weeks before — who ultimately had been the catalyst to propel me from my catatonic state into a state of action — was a woman named Linda. There was a small droplet of relief to find out it was someone I hadn’t known; she was new to the stroll. She had been a single mom, according to Ryan — a cop who always stopped into the diner for coffee and a chat with Betty; he always had a joke and a kind thing to say to the working girls who frequented the diner. He had been around for a quite a few years and was well liked by the tight-knit community because he didn’t remain in his car with a vague scent of fear, nor did he cower from us; instead, he took the time to get out and get to know us, and he never seemed to judge. If he did, you would have never known it.
I also learned that two other regulars had died. Sammy, only twenty-three, had overdosed; and Jessie, thirty-two, had committed suicide by hanging herself on the inside handle of the bathroom door in the motel two blocks down after one too many beatings from her pimp. Word had it that she had left her pimp a message written across the mirror in lipstick: “Fuck you cocksucker … I win.”
A few of the others were inside doing time, no doubt for the crime of a life that refused to let them crawl out from the crushing walls of their poverty. But mostly the rest of them were still out there working the stroll and fighting to survive by their wits, with determination fueled by unimaginable strength and discreetly veiled desperation. I missed the strange, fragile loyalty of the community to which I had belonged for so very long. It was at times a remarkable community; a family of the forgotten, the invisible, the neglected, and the discarded. I missed the extraordinary bonds, however temporary they sometimes were. I missed the quietly acknowledged understanding, and the acceptance of and by the life-hardened wounded. I thought of the ones no longer here.
My confessions to Betty about what had happened to me came eventually. She never asked, but instead respectfully waited for the time when I would offer up the words to her. In the tiny hours between late night and dawn, she brought me up to sit with her in her apartment above the diner, and I finally let the words spill. It had been the first time I had really and honestly spoken about it, and I was overwrought with emotion to finally tell her about it — most of it, anyway — out loud. I even asked her if she believed in reincarnation. She did. Talking about it was a relief of enormous proportions.
I did not and would not further confess to her exactly what had brought me back all this time later to the stroll where I had first been abducted. Instead, I remained fixated on other similar attacks and pulled from her every detail I could. She grew weary after a while, but I persisted. She called me tenacious, and I suppose I was — if tenacious meant obsessed.
I was shocked, further enraged, to discover that there had been many similar attacks and murders of working girls over the years — decades to be exact, according to Betty. Those who vanished were rarely reported on, but seemed to quietly and conveniently slip society’s attention — except of course the attention of the street. And even then, because it was a transient lifestyle, sometimes people moved on to other cities and were … just gone. It could be difficult to know if someone had decided on a whim to move on or had met with harm. Most of us knew on some level that it was almost like playing Russian roulette each time we stepped out to work.
I thought about the murders and couldn’t help but wonder just how many men were responsible; how many of them were out there trolling right this very minute for their next victim; how many of them would appear perfectly normal to their families, friends, colleagues, neighbours, and of course and maybe especially, to their wives or girlfriends. What kind of a fucking person would hold such remarkable, inexhaustible hatred for women of diminished means or luck? I began to feel something I had never before allowed myself during my tenure: the feeling of a deep and incessant foreboding that there were far more violent men presently hunting than anyone was willing to acknowledge. And most likely, when they were finished for a time, they would uneventfully walk right back into their seemingly normal lives.
After about a month, Betty generously offered me the room upstairs anytime I needed it, and gave me keys for the nights when I was too tired to drive home. As it turned out, it was fate and was to be a gift greater than I could have ever imagined. I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter anymore why he was doing what he was doing. All I needed to do was focus on spotting him out trolling. I knew that trolls like him couldn’t stay away, and it was only a matter of time before I’d see him slowly driving, searching for his next victim.
I finally put up the long overdue description (at least what I could recall) and warning about him one night in the ladies’ room of the diner, and left a note asking for any information to be jotted down. I then left a description of him on the police information line, also long overdue. Whether or not it did any good I didn’t know; maybe too much time had passed, and maybe no one monitored the line. I considered the possibility with frustration, but I also felt a strange sense of relief to have appeased some of my guilt. I bore the shame of my decision to withhold details, and I had to live with that. I wondered if the cop Mark, who had come to see me in the hospital, was still around. I made a note to myself to ask Betty if she could ask Ryan.
It was around four in the morning one night, toward the end of October, when thunder crashed in the night sky and shot fear through me. I had been staying in the room above the diner for only a few weeks, and I had not been feeling well that night so I packed it in early. It wasn’t until the small lamp by the door of my room turned on and I heard Betty’s concerned voice that I realized I had screamed. I sat up, frantically searching my surroundings, and feeling my wrists and face. I struggled to get out of bed but got caught up in the bedding, and with horror I felt the similarity to being caught up in the black cloth. Betty came to me and helped me escape the linens. She tried to soothe me by touching her hand to my forehead, like she must have done a hundred times before for other women she watched over. As the thunder again crashed, my whole body began to shake.
“I’m going to get you some aspirin. You’re burning up, Becca. I’ll be right back, dear.” The lightning lit up the room and angry thunder followed a few seconds later.
“No, please don’t leave me alone, Betty. Please.” I must have sounded like a baby; I hadn’t felt so helpless since … Would it ever get easier?
Betty in her wisdom didn’t ask any questions, but simply said, “Okay, Becca. I won’t leave you. Come on; let’s go across the hall to my apartment. I have some aspirin in the cabinet.”
I grabbed the blankets and pulled on my socks and followed her to her space across the hall. Betty steered me to her couch and told to me lie down while she got something for the fever; within a moment she was back at my side with a glass of water and two pills, which I took from her, a little shaky and very grateful.
“I’m so sorry I woke you up, Betty. I really am. I’m so embarrassed; I must have had a bad dream, I guess.”
“Yes, bad dreams can sometimes haunt us. We all have ones that rear their ugly heads every now and then, don’t we?”
Don’t we? There was so much I didn’t know about her and I couldn’t help but suddenly look at her with new eyes. “What are your bad dreams, Betty?”
“Oh, Becca, I have my share. Mostly ones that remind me of the things I should have done differently or at least much better than I did.” She suddenly looked sad, older, and tired; a side I had never seen before. She got up slowly and went to the other room and came back with a large, dull-white, leather-bound book, and set it on the coffee table in front of me.
“You know, dear, I think we’re going to need a big pot of tea for this. You’re not the only one who is consumed by attacks. Take a look.” Betty got up and went to her little kitchen off of the living room. The taps went on and I heard little clinking sounds as she put the water on and set up the tray she always used for tea. Something about the book frightened me as much as I was curious. I hesitated before touching it, and then pulled my hand back quickly.
“What is it, Betty? A scrapbook or something?”
I pulled my legs up under me and sat forward; I adjusted the soft blanket, making sure it covered my shoulders, and held it tightly around me. Betty came back to the couch carrying the tray with teacups, a little sugar dish, and the matching, chipped milk container, and set it down beside the book. The room lit up again with lightning, and the sky rumbled more softly than before.
“You could call it a scrapbook, or a history book, I suppose.”
“It looks old. How long have you had it?”
Betty was already back in the kitchen and I heard the delicate clink of the top of the tea pot as she put it in place. “It came with the diner and the job; it belonged to Gladys, the woman who took me in, who gave me a job and a new life. It was a long time ago now; a lifetime ago, really.”
Betty sat down and her eyes fell on the book; she seemed to shudder a little, but covered it by saying, “It’s a little cool in here, isn’t it, dear? I always turn the heat down low at night — no sense wasting it when we’re bundled under blankets, is there? Let me just turn it up some.” She got up again and moved to the far wall and to the small, old dial encased in round glass and brass; she let her fingers move slightly to the right. She turned back toward me and I couldn’t help but feel she was reluctant; I reached for the book and pulled it toward me.
“Now, Becca, that book will tell you a story — several, in fact.” As she sat back down and poured our tea, she released a sigh. A sigh of surrender?
I picked up the heavy book and moved it between us on the table. I had a sense that she would open it when she was ready. I couldn’t help but feel something significant was about to be revealed, and I held my breath waiting for her hand to hover over and then open the cover of the large book. There were no markings on it; nothing to indicate what secrets it contained. Betty took a generous sip of her tea, as did I, and then she reached her hands and gently caressed the cover before lifting the weight of it and turning the first page over. I leaned in close and tried to read the newsprint. At the top of the page there was a name: Mary Glennis Mason.
“What’s … what is it?”
She turned the page to reveal more. “Vivian” was the name written at the top of the page, then “Birdie,” and then the fourth, and then the others. Betty didn’t utter a word. As she turned the following page there was a handwritten note, and then other pieces of paper with notes and dates written in beautiful longhand. On the next page was a picture of a smiling woman and beside it a memorial card from a funeral, and folded-up pages of notes and letters.
“What is this, Betty?” The last of the rumbles weakened and the sky hardly lit up. I barely noticed it and hardly flinched.
“These are what remain. A collection of memories and history — or what was known about them at least — of women who have passed away, been murdered, or gone missing over the years.”
“What? But … how?” I moved in closer, my jaw dropped, and I felt every hair on my arms and neck stand up and my breath taken. “Betty, are you serious? Were … were they working girls?” Betty picked up her teacup and kept her eyes on the pages as I reached for them and turned them one by one, increasingly faster. Finally my fingers grabbed the rest of the thick pages and turned to the last two. Betty looked at the page and ran her hand over it. The name at the top said “Brenda Seville.” Betty slowly peeled open the plastic and removed one of the pictures, bringing it close to her eyes, and then shook her head before placing it back in its spot and covering it with the worn plastic.
“Most of them, but not all of them. Some of them were just women who struggled valiantly with life, and each and every one of them was remarkable in their own way.”
“Jesus fucking Christ. Oh, geez, sorry Betty. I mean shit, all of these women are … are … gone?” I felt a bizarre mixture of shock and something else; I couldn’t quite pinpoint it. Betty nodded with a look of deep sorrow.
I sat quietly as Betty stared at the final page. “Brenda Seville — Rest in Peace, Dear Friend” was written across the top of the page. There were pictures, a mass pamphlet, and a little gold ring taped to the page. Beside these were folded-over pages of stationery.
“Brenda was my friend; we worked together for a while. She knew there was someone out there, picking us off. But even though we may have had suspicions, there was rarely a time when anyone ever said it out loud. Brenda told me one night, over a … a few drinks, that she thought she knew who it was. I never got the chance to ask her.”
“Oh, Betty. I am so sorry. That must have been awful and sad.”
“Things were never the same for me after we lost her; she was my only real friend, really.” Betty closed the book and got up again to adjust the heat.
“But … but what about the others? You know, the rest of the girls who have been found murdered or attacked since I have been out here, in the last eighteen years. There have been so many, and I didn’t know them all, but I remember.”
“Oh, well, dear, that’s a whole other book. Maybe we should wait a while to look at that one. If you’re okay, I have to get ready and go on downstairs to open up the diner before anyone thinks I’ve gone fishing.” She tried to smile, and made a little laugh, but I was still stunned. She reached over and felt my head again, and gently pushed back my hair. “I think your fever has come down a good deal already. Why don’t you try and get a bit of sleep before you leave, Rebecca.”
“Oh, I can’t; I have to get back and let my dogs out. But thank you again — for everything.”
“You’re welcome, dear.”
“Hey, Betty. I’m real sorry about your friend Brenda.”
“Thank you. Me too, me too.”
“Hey, Betty, do you think … I mean, would you mind if I … if I …” I lifted the heavy book and held it to myself.
Betty looked at me and looked at the book, and before I could ask she said, “No, I don’t mind at all. I’d like to entrust it to you for as long as you need it; it just might help you find some of the missing pieces of the puzzle you’ve been working on.” She smiled a wise smile at me. “Just be careful with it; it holds many memories.”
“I will, Betty. I promise,” and as I threw off the soft blanket, I couldn’t help myself from throwing my arms around her in thanks and gratitude.
I made the drive home in record time with the book wrapped in plastic on the seat beside me. I couldn’t wait to really dig into it. It was a sacred treasure chest of names, dates, and events. I rushed inside and put the kettle on, let the dogs out, and pulled up to the counter where I had the best light from the morning skies. My mind was racing with ideas and possibilities. As I opened the book, I got a chill but pushed it away and carefully opened the pages. I slowly lifted corners of the plastic cover to gently remove the newspaper. There wasn’t much of a story written, but there was an obituary included from the Friday Journal Post, early edition, January 18, 1955.
Mary Glennis Mason, aged 26, born April 17, 1929, to parents John Dobbs and Carrie Dobbs. Miss Manon died in hospital on January 15, 1955, from injuries sustained from an accident. She will be sadly missed by her family and friends. Funeral services and mass will be held at Saint Paul’s Church, January 21, 1955, at 1:00 p.m.
There was little information, other than the handwritten note beside it:
Mary Glennis Mason, “Gilinda”
Worked as waitress & part-time singer at lounge
Dreamed of becoming full-time singer
Very lovely, befriended “girls”
Came in for soda and cigarettes
Found behind Borden’s Dairy
1929-1955
Rest in peace
I carefully returned the fragile papers back in place. I turned the page and opened the next thin plastic sheet to reveal:
Vivian
Worked nights, down in the Market
Loved to dance and laugh
No children, no family
Found behind Borden’s Dairy
1917-1955
Thirty-eight years old
Rest in peace
I turned the pages one by one. Each had a name, a story, a beginning, and an end — a violent end.
Birdie
Worked at the Grand Theatre
Came in after closing five nights a week
Always helpful and kind
No known children
Family was local
Found without clothing by workers at the docks
Thirty-seven years old
1919-1956
Rest in peace
They all shared a tragic ending, and I had a pretty good idea of the paralyzing terror they each must have felt: violently attacked and terrified, all alone with the face of their sadistic murder, the last image they ever saw. And as I read each and every note — the ages and locations — it became clear that there was a pattern. And then it hit me that whoever had put this book together had known this, just as I had known there was a pattern to the dates and attacks that I had been going over again and again in my mind. I thought of Betty’s smile as she agreed to let me take the book home; it was the smile of wisdom and weariness. I turned to the next page and gently took out the beautiful sheet of stationery.
Nancy
Worked the district
Came in a few times a week; always had toast and soup
Gregarious, with a beautiful smile and a slight limp
No known children or family
Found behind Dairy
1918-1957
Thirty-eight years old
Rest in peace
One after the other — I couldn’t stop. I got a notepad to start writing down a timeline, but I couldn’t stop reading page after page. I jumped when I heard my dogs barking, and pushed the book back to get up and let them in to feed. I put the kettle on again to refill my small pot of tea before settling back down with the book.
Dorothy
Singer at the Blue Note Jazz Club
Evenings after show very pleasant
Grilled cheese, chocolate pie, milk
Monkey on her back
One child
Found behind club
1919-1958
Thirty-nine years old
Rest in peace
And then another page of handwritten notes:
September 30, 1959
I found Cathy in back parking lot when closing up on September 7. She had been beaten very badly. I thought at first glance that she was dead. She refused to go to the hospital. She came to stay and recover for three weeks until she decided to go back home. I took her to the train and saw her off on September 28. She said she thought she recognized the man but wasn’t certain from where. She said he was tall and strong, and that he had surprised her in the dark from behind.
Attached to the entry was a small, beautiful card dated October 20, 1959, that simply said,
Dearest Dottie,
Please accept my most sincere and heartfelt thanks.
With love always, Catherine
My tears fell as I thought of the unpretentious kindness and love in a place where it was subtle and quiet, but freely given for so much longer than I had ever imagined.
Shirley
Worked the district
Stopped in early evening
Coffee and brandy
Big belly laughs
No known children or family
Body found at docks
Forty years old
1920-1960
Rest in peace
Martha, “Marty”
Worked the district
Had been attacked twice before
Stopped in a few times a week early evenings
Fought the bottle
Four children lost, family in Syracuse, NY
1923-1960
Rest in peace
There was a four-year gap in death notices, but it began again in 1964. The article was small.
Saturday Evening Journal Post, May 8, 1964
A woman’s body was discovered almost one week ago today in the early morning hours behind the Borden’s Dairy. It has been confirmed that the woman was strangled. Police are trying to locate the family before releasing the victim’s name or issuing statements, though police say that the victim appeared to be in her late thirties. As of press time there was no other information available to reporters. A statement issued from the offices of Borden Dairy offered condolences to the family of the murdered woman, and stated that they would offer any information they could to assist with the investigation. The Dairy would not comment further on another woman found there in a similar manner several years earlier.
The handwritten note that was attached by a paper clip was incomplete:
Barbara???
Barbara has been missing for several weeks and although several of the girls have been looking, no one has had word from her. She has not been in to diner to pick up her mail as is her routine each Monday. Could this possibly be her fate?
The following page had an obituary, a funeral notice, and a small leaflet with a picture of a slight woman with long, brown hair on the cover, and a prayer and date of mass on the inside. It was followed by an entry:
Claire Demers, Candy “Boom Boom” Delight
Burlesque Entertainer, Grand Theatre
Always charming and somewhat shy
Came in between her performances
Coffee and brandy
Found in theatre parking lot, behind her car
1936-1964
Twenty-eight years old
Rest in peace
And then there were several sheets of paper with notes folded together. Inside the fold there were two Polaroid photographs: one of three women smiling, heads together, seated at the counter of the diner. And the other was a picture of a plump woman, with high cheekbones and long, blonde hair, holding her hand up in what appeared to be fun protest, sitting alone in the back booth.
Summer of 1967
This has been a particularly difficult year. There are so very many new and young women working. I suspect that the increase of drugs has brought them to this place — a place they do not belong. So many of them now, from many other cities, have begun to gravitate to this place. I worry so much for them; they are innocent, really. I try and remember their names, but it is becoming more and more difficult for me.
Several of the working girls have been talking about teaming up to ensure their safety. There is much fear among the ladies and everyone seems to be very nervous. This is causing much grief and the tension here is felt nightly. There is something of a chill that seems to have settled and does not appear to be leaving. There is fear; there is anger.
It has been difficult to know for certain if women, who no longer come in or have not been seen by the others, have gone back home, are leaving the work, or have met with harm. There is much rumour of drug overdoses. In the past year, three regulars have stopped coming in and have not been seen: Heather, Lilybelle, and Linda. I find no news or mention of them in the papers. My prayers are that they are safe, but my instincts tingle.
The next entry was dated 1970 and had a small Polaroid next to it; I could feel the blood drain from my face. I recognized the woman in the photo. It felt like ages, but it had been less than two years since I was held captive and experienced a remarkable vision of the me before now; I swore the laughing woman in the photo was the image I had seen myself to be in another life. I couldn’t take my eyes from it. And I couldn’t bring myself to read the notes — and then I couldn’t help but read them, looking, searching for clues, confirmation, anything. But there was very little, just like many of the others.
Jennifer Mews, “Darlin”
Worked the district
Loads of fun, often tipsy, battled drugs
Daily customer at the diner
Left groceries weekly for local widowed mother
Found in the back alley of the Grand
Violently beaten, strangled, raped
1939-1970
Rest in peace
And then I found something different, out of order, tucked in between the pages. There was a clipping dated February 14, 1959, a brief article about a woman who had been found suffocated and badly beaten. She was survived by her husband, a part-time mechanic and truck driver, and a young son. Clipped to it was another handwritten note.
Elizabeth
Elizabeth came in every now and then on a Wednesday with her young son for a soda. She was easily startled and very nervous, never spoke much, but often had bruises covered poorly by makeup. The last thing she said was that she was afraid something terrible was going to happen.
Rest in peace
I turned to the last page, the page Betty had lingered on, and the photograph that she had held close to her aging eyes. There was something different about those few pages, but I couldn’t identify what it was. It was obviously someone Betty had loved and lost, and I felt more reverence for the page and what it might contain. The name was written across the top, “Brenda Seville, 1931–1970.” I closed the book without removing the pages tucked inside. I didn’t know why, but I had an uncanny sense that I needed to leave it alone — at least for now, anyway. I opened it and looked once more before closing and gently putting it aside.
I was exhausted and had difficulty processing the enormity of all I had seen and read, and the implications of it. I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. I reached for my purse and took two more aspirin that Betty had given me to take home, swallowing them with the last of my tea. I went to bed, not bothering to even remove my clothing. I crawled in and curled up in a tight ball filled with so very much emotion, and now, more questions than ever.
I woke to my dog Clara nudging me; the sun had disappeared. I was momentarily disoriented but the memories and names of the women in the book pushed right back into my mind as I got up and let the dogs out and put the kettle on. I thought of my attack, and the women who had been murdered, and the ones who had disappeared. I knew I had to make a new plan, entirely different from before, because my original plan was deeply flawed. I needed to go to the police, and more specifically to the detective I had met in the hospital almost two years earlier. I only hoped he was still there.
* * *
Mark felt a firm hand on his shoulder and turned around. “Hey, how many fucking times do I have to tell ya not to do that, man?”
“Damn, you’re wound too tight, buddy. Relax; breathe.”
“I’ve been up for thirty-eight hours straight; I’ll relax when we catch a break in this case we’ve been workin’.”
“Oh, yeah? What case is that?”
“Ah, never mind. Sorry I snapped at you. What are you doing here, anyway? Who called you in?”
“No one; just needed to check on some of the details in my report from that murdered hooker. You know, the one whose face was obliterated. Jesus, you guys aren’t working too hard on those murders. This guy seemed to be daring you before, but you want my opinion? He’s screaming at you now. Guess he’s just better at his job than you, ol’ buddy.”
“Hey, fuck you. We’ll get him; we always do. Eventually they all fuck up.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, well, obviously not all of them. Anyway, good luck with that. Gotta run; see ya around.” Mark nodded, and then walked over to his desk. There was something about the guy that had always disturbed him. He just couldn’t quite put his finger on it; nothing ever flustered him — ever. It was as if … as if … Mark turned around slowly and watched the man stride away as he considered the exchange.
* * *
Before the kettle whistled, I dialed the police and without thinking it through, gave my name, date of birth, and the date I was attacked. I asked if the case was still open and if I could speak to the detective I knew only by first name. The woman who spoke to me assured me she would find out and asked if I’d mind holding. The line went silent except for the short double beeps every five seconds. It wasn’t too late: I could change my mind; I mean, what the hell would I say to him after all this time? How would I explain it? I should have thought this through. Maybe written notes, a script, something, anything. And just as I was ready to hang up the phone, the woman came back on the line.
“Detective Shaw is busy for a few minutes, but has asked if he can call you back as soon as he is off the line. What number can he reach you at?” Before I knew it, my phone number tumbled quickly out — so quickly that she asked me to repeat it. I took a deep breath and tried to believe in trust, faith, right … and the wrong, of course. I repeated my number more slowly the second time.
The kettle was screaming, but even so it took me a moment to even register the sound — I was so wrapped in my thoughts. I opened the spout, turned off the stove, and as if on autopilot, made the tea. I paced back and forth, back and forth. What the fuck was I doing? This would make my plan a very different one from what I had been obsessing about for so long now. But before I could pour the first cup of tea and take a sip, the phone interrupted the whirlwind in my mind.
“Oh, shit, shit, shit!”
My dogs barked in response and I reached for the phone as if propelled from outside my body. My head wanted to ignore it, but my hand reached and lifted the receiver before I could stop it. “Hello?” My voice was awkward and I felt nervous.
“Hello. Can I speak to Rebecca Simpson?”
“Who’s calling, please?” I didn’t know why I said it. I knew who was calling, but I was stalling and knew he probably knew I was, too.
“Is this Rebecca?” came the steady, deep voice.
“Yes, speaking.”
“Rebecca, this is Detective Mark Shaw. How are you doing these days?”
“Oh, you know. I guess I’m okay. How are you?”
“I’m well, thanks for asking. I’m glad you called; have you remembered something that you want to tell me?”
“Yeah, yeah, I think I have. Maybe … but … but … well, I’m just not sure.” Guts, don’t fail me now.
“You know, your name came up a few months back. Do you know a woman was found murdered in your old stomping grounds? Rebecca, she had very similar wounds to you, but she wasn’t as lucky.”
“Yeah, I know and … well, here’s the thing, Mark,” I let the huge ball of trapped air escape, “when I heard the broadcast and that she was identified by tattoos, I figured that her face had to be real bad, and I have been freaking out a bit ever since.”
“You made that connection, did you?”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t much of a stretch. I … I was wondering if we could talk, like, in person. And, oh yeah, off the record, at least for now. Do you think that’d be okay?”
“When are you available to meet?”
“Oh, shit … fuck it … I mean, oh, sorry for swearing — nerves. Umm, maybe tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s good. I’m in court briefly in the morning, but how about sometime around lunch? Where would you like to meet? Do you want to come down to the station?”
“The station? Oh, I don’t know. I really don’t feel comfortable enough to go there. Can I get back to you on a meeting place?”
“How about I drive out to your place, Rebecca. Would you feel comfortable there?”
My heart stopped a second and I wondered if he knew where I was living now. Of course he did; he was a fucking cop. “My place? Do you know where that is?” I said, somewhat unnerved.
“Oh, just an idea; do you want to give me your address? I can be there sometime between noon and one. Would that be okay? I know it’s a big step to trust, Rebecca, and for you to want to talk, but I’m not going to push you. You’re in charge, so between noon and one? Do we have a deal?”
“Okay, deal. But you have to find my address,” I laughed a nervous laugh.
“Well, you’d make my day a whole lot easier if you just gave it to me now, kid.”
“Okay, I’m out in James Creek, Lester Road number twenty. Do you know where that is?”
“I’ll find it. You take care. And Rebecca, it’s good to hear from you. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with that the line went dead and I dropped the phone like it was burning me.
I must have paced for hours, going over everything, every detail of it. I grabbed my notepad and jotted down points I didn’t want to forget — things I had tried so hard to banish from me, but which stuck to me like glue in spite of my efforts. I thought of Betty and wanted to call her. I wanted her to approve. As I thought of that, it occurred to me that she would, and that her sharing the book with me was her way of planting this seed in the first place. I smiled and shook my head and remembered her smile of wisdom. Damn, she was brilliant. She had listened to me, supported me, read me like a book, and guided me all without my knowing it.
I first made a call to my sister, to see if she was coming the next day after work; she said she had planned to. We chatted for a moment until she got another call and said she’d see me around six in the evening the next day. I then called to let Betty know that I wouldn’t be dropping by that night, so that she didn’t worry. She thanked me and said she hoped I was feeling better. Just like Betty.
My mind and fingers began to race. First, I would tell Mark everything I knew and everything that had happened — well, almost. I figured it would be wise to leave out the vision of my former life and thoughts about that. And then I thought about opening up my space, and how it could be an opportunity for women like me to learn to breathe, maybe even eventually start to let go of that state of hypervigilance we were forced to live in on the street. And I thought of what a clean bed that hundreds hadn’t slept in before felt like, and clean clothes, and food whenever I wanted, and not having to stand out there anymore just to make rent or score. I wondered if these things were possible to share. I knew that for many of the women, the struggle to stay high was attached to the struggle to obscure the past. And I wondered if maybe there was a way I could have something to offer. I was excited and wrote pages and pages of notes and possibilities. I went to bed happy, smiling for the first time in a very long time the smile of possibilities, and I woke with even more.
Mark was not the least bit threatening; when finally I was able to stop the nervous chatter, we sat down and I told him everything. He didn’t take notes, but looked at me and listened and was supportive and kind. It all came tumbling out and wasn’t nearly as terrifying as I thought it might be. I couldn’t describe the van as well as I had hoped, but I told him what I could. I told him about the attack, how it had happened on my thirty-third birthday, and the blizzard and the lousy seventy dollars I had needed to earn. I told him exactly what I remembered from the picture in my mind of the roofline, and I tried, as best I could, to give him the description of the man who had tried to kill me.
“Can’t be too many men around sixty with that kind of scar, I guess, huh? It’s sorta like a tattoo that just won’t go away.”
Mark immediately changed; he seemed tense, his eyes widened, he moved to sit up straighter, and reached for his notepad. I could feel it connected something for him. “Hope you don’t mind if I write that down, Rebecca. That could be an important detail, and you’re right, there can’t be many men with a scar like that.”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t mind if you write that down. You’re right, there sure can’t be.”
He reached over and gave me a little tap on the shoulder and said, “You know, Rebecca, you’ve done a really good thing here. I don’t want to sound, well, patronizing or anything, but I’m real proud of you. I know you went to hell and back, and that it wasn’t easy for you to tell me, but I’m real proud of you.” It got all caught up in my throat like a lump and I said I was real proud of me, too. And I was.
Monday morning I went in to the police station, wrote out my statement, and signed it. As I was leaving Mark called out my name; I turned around and stopped to wait for him. He walked toward me with another cop. They asked if I had a few minutes to spare to go for a coffee and talk. I figured it was about the case, but once we were settled by the window in the coffee shop across the street, he surprised me. Mark asked me what I thought could be done that wasn’t being done to help women who worked the stroll. I couldn’t believe it — what could be done? I told him I had pages of thoughts on the very subject and told them about how I had been thinking of wanting to open my house to some of them, when they wanted to get away, clear their heads, consider possibilities. They looked at one another and both smiled and looked back at me.
“Well, we think you’d be perfect doing something like that. Would you consider a bit of help?”
“Help? I don’t know. What do you have in mind?”
“Well, there just might be some funding — good funding — for something like that. And we wanted to let you know it’s something to consider and you’d have our full support.” We finished our impromptu meeting and I thanked them both and said goodbye. I couldn’t have been more excited and felt so many things falling into place. I drove home feeling the high of possibilities; it was a high unlike anything I had felt before. I felt a sense of purpose, direction, and focus. Over the following few weeks, I enlisted the help of my sister as I worked out a concrete plan and proposal for the project. This was something I could do, and do well — I hoped.
* * *
Samuel reached for the phone that had rang five times and stopped. He waited the sixty seconds until the system alerted him that there was a message, and then punched in his code to listen.
“Sam; it’s Mark. Sorry to call so early, man. It’s quarter after five; we need you at the station, buddy. We caught a bad one. Get your ass in as soon as possible; I don’t want anyone else handling this one but you. It’s real messy; call me back ASAP.”
Sam dialed Mark’s cell and it went straight to voicemail. “Mark, Sam here. I’ll be there in forty-five minutes. See you shortly,” and hung up the phone.
Sam was put off at the timing; it couldn’t be worse. He had a timetable and this would definitely interfere with it. He considered his options and briefly thought of calling Mark back to get someone else to cover for him, but had already done that twice last month and didn’t want to explain his recent unavailability. He had no choice but to get ready and go into work. He quickly went downstairs to check that everything was secure before he went back up, jumped in the shower, and got dressed. He grabbed his bag, ensured he had all his gear, and wondered why he hadn’t heard anything on the scanner overnight. He reached up on top of the highest shelf, behind some books in the kitchen, to retrieve his keys, and made his way out, double locking the door leading to the triple garage behind him. He looked at the extension of the garage he had completed a few years earlier with satisfaction as he snapped closed the two large padlocks on the door leading into the house. He had recently got around to finishing the remainder of interior drywall of the garage, and had done a second coat of grey paint a few days ago. As he walked past his white van and truck to his car, he noticed some green tape he had missed and bent down to remove it carefully before crumpling it into a ball and free throwing it the eight feet into the trash can.
“Basket.”
The drive typically took thirty minutes on a good day, and forty-five on a bad one. Today was a good day. He arrived at the station at six in the morning, and pulled up to the fifteen-foot-high gates leading to the secure underground garage of the station. He swiped his card and nothing happened. He swiped the card again and honked to get the attendant’s attention. As the attendant walked toward him, Samuel noticed a nervous tension on his face, filed it, and dismissed it. The man motioned for him to roll down his window.
“We’re waiting for maintenance to get here; something has the gate jammed. Sorry about that; there should be parking by the front lobby.”
“Got it, thanks.” He waved as he backed up onto the street and drove around the block to find a spot in front.
Samuel entered the grand marble lobby of the station with a focused, practised, relaxed smile and a leisurely light step. It took exactly thirty-three steps to get from the bank of sliding doors to the locked door at the far left of the lobby at a normal gait. He tried to check his enthusiasm (he loved his work) but knew the inappropriateness of displaying his excitement. He purposely slowed his heart rate, something he had been able to perfect over the years. In a glance, he counted the number of people in the lobby. There were six civilians: two at the counter, two standing near the door, and two sitting on a bench. To his surprise, there were eight people on the job, which was rare. That was the first red flag.
As he headed toward the locked doors leading downstairs to the lab, his senses began to tingle — something wasn’t right. He prided himself on always being aware of details, always noticing everything around him within a glance. It was how he survived; it was primal and necessary. He forced his usual smile, checking his body language as he did. He gave a wave and called out to three of the detectives standing by the desk with four patrol cops, noting immediately that it was unusual for them to be huddled there.
“Morning, gentlemen. Busy day?” he said with a quizzical look. He was acutely aware that they hesitated — just a fraction of a second, but it was there — before responding, and they had exchanged looks between themselves. He also noticed quickly that the staff sergeant for the south end was approaching them in a less than relaxed walk. He slowed his pace from a stride to smaller steps, to give himself moments more to assess. He scanned the lobby trying to control the sudden panic that was rising from his bowels. He noticed one of the girls from the stroll, one that he had taken a few photos of over the last few weeks. She was being escorted from the holding cells, wearing the same thing he had seen her in four nights ago: tight, faded blue jeans rolled up to mid calf; cheap, high, white shoes that seemed a size too big; a wide, white belt, also many sizes too big; and a thin, stained, white T-shirt, tied in a tight knot underneath her bra, exposing her thin torso. Her hair was dark brown, wild, and dirty, and she was fumbling to tie it up as she joked and laughed too loudly with the cop who was walking with her. She turned her head and her eyes met his; he looked down immediately and knew instinct had just betrayed him. He regained the lost second and held his head up, reaching for his eyebrow with the edge of his thumb, touching his scar. A rookie move: reckless. He knew in that moment his body language would have been clear to anyone paying attention to him. His heart rate quickened and he forced himself to take in a deep breath and hold it, count: one, two, three, four … and exhale!
As the girl’s eyes fell on the man walking toward them from across the lobby, she stopped cold. Every sense she had was suddenly on heightened alert. She had seen him before, many times, she was sure of it. He was a creepy troll. She reached up and grabbed the arm of the cop and whispered something. The cop quickly surveyed the lobby, saw Mark motion to him, and quickly turned and took the girl back through the doors they had just walked out of, to her loud objections. Samuel saw the detectives and the patrol cops start to slowly make their way across the lobby toward him, dispersing widely. He instantly stopped, reached for his camera bag, and said out loud, “Damn it, I forgot something.” Everything in him screamed to turn and run out to his car. As he turned back toward the sliding doors, he felt the beads of sweat begin to form on his forehead.
“Hey, Sammy. Where ya going, buddy? Hang on a sec, will ya?” said Mark, his pitch off just a touch. As Samuel lifted his gaze out beyond the doors, he saw the uniformed cops standing there with guns raised. The two supposed civilians, who had been by the door, removed their weapons and aimed at him while slowly starting to approach. He assessed everything in a moment and realized there were no civilians in the lobby at all. His head started pounding and his heart rate rose despite his attempts to calm it. They had him. A smile of surrender and of a game well played started across Samuel’s face.
“Put the bag down, Sam, slowly. Just put the fuckin’ bag down,” and then louder still, with adrenaline-induced panic, “Put the fucking bag down, I said. Put your fucking hands up!” came the order from Mark. Samuel obliged him, carefully and slowly. “It’s over, Sam.”
Sam was surrounded and Mark’s huge hand clamped down on his shoulder as the other turned him effortlessly around to put the cuffs on him. Mark met Samuel’s hard, cold, unblinking eyes and held the contact for a few seconds before he released the gaze with disgust. He shook his head.
As they walked him through the big lobby toward the cellblock, Samuel was already considering the only two possible places they eventually could incarcerate him, and had already begun to think through exit strategies from both facilities. A slight smile crossed his face; his heart rate slowed, and his smile spread as he was ushered into custody through the large metal doors.
Samuel Germaine had been called into work to photograph a homicide scene. He had been a forensic photographer for the police for twenty-one years. No one ever suspected he moonlighted as a serial killer.
The police had already secured the warrant for his home, vehicles, and garage when they made the call for his services. Nothing could have prepared them for what they found. In the basement they found a woman handcuffed to a wrought-iron headboard that was bolted to the wall. She was barely conscious but survived to tell her story, at least what she was able to remember. Her name was Carrie Kidder. In another basement room they found a darkroom, and in another, three metal cabinets filled with photographs of hundreds of women. Each file was marked at the top by a name and date, and inside it were pictures of women working the stroll, getting into or out of cars, or just walking. And then the pictures in varying degrees of their torture and beatings. The final picture in most of the files was of the dump site. The pictures dated as far back as the seventies. The oldest picture from 1970, Mark had quietly told me later, was of a woman named Betty, and it was a picture of her lying on the ground, badly beaten up.
I received the call from Mark on a Friday afternoon, only two weeks after I had first spoken to him about my attack. The man who had attacked me had been found and arrested. He said my description and other details had enabled them to find the man responsible very quickly. Apparently, the scar had been one Mark was surprisingly familiar with.
A part of me wished I could have been there to see his capture and his face when he was finally caught, but I’d have to do with the satisfaction that they finally got the monster. He was stopped and would never, ever be able to hurt another woman again. One down, but who knew how many more were out there?
Samuel Germaine was charged with two counts of attempted murder, kidnapping and confinement, aggravated sexual assault, one count of rape, assault with a deadly weapon causing serious bodily harm, and three counts of first degree murder. He was the prime suspect in forty-seven other cases over the years, spanning as far back as the seventies. He would never get out. Ever. His house was eventually demolished, and the land was put up for sale and was sold with the proceeds going to Victim Services. I received a cheque a year later for an amount that would pay for the plastic surgery I needed.
* * *
I opened Exit Strategy eight months after Germaine’s arrest with a whole lot of help and support, a bit of faith, and luck. It became more successful than I could have ever imagined. But it wasn’t at my home — no, that was to remain my sanctuary. It was a property just on the outskirts, far enough from the stroll, in an old building the city had been trying to find a use for. Mark had known it was available when he and his partner had taken me for coffee. And when I became animated and told them what I had wanted to do by opening my home, he knew he could help. In all his wisdom, he later told me he had known for a long time that in order to really reach and connect with survival sex workers — to offer hope and possibility — there needed to be someone who had lived in invisibility in order to reach those who existed in the realm of the invisible. It was something Mark and many of the other older cops had wanted to find a way to do.
The huge, old, neglected, limestone building had all the potential we needed. There was the big, open first floor with two huge fireplaces, and at one end, a large kitchen. There were an additional three floors of rooms and old offices that were converted fairly easily into bedrooms. Many of the cops and other volunteers came to donate their time and resources to help fix it up. The funding fell into place, which I took as a sign it was meant to be. Who knew? Maybe the tides were finally turning. Maybe some people did care after all about marginalized women, daughters, mothers, and sisters who struggled daily with violence, abject poverty, chronic homelessness, and relentless demons. They struggled with the things they needed to do to forget why and how they ended up on the streets in the very first place, and then all the things they continued to do to forget what they did … to forget.
I hired a few of the old-timers from the stroll and a ballsy young woman named Kelly, who had severed her business arrangement with her pimp and was cleverly helping other women do the same. When I approached her in the diner, and told her the plan and offered her a job, she beamed at me.
“Fuck, yes, motherfucker; so long as it ain’t like no big fuckin’ shelter. That’s where ya go to lay down and die, ya know. Those places keeps peoples down and defeated just enough so they don’t got any fight left in ’em and ifin they don’t got fight in ’em, they don’t always likely use their voices to vote and change shit, ’cause they feel defeated all the motherfuckin’ time. That’s a fuckin’ big fuckin’ problem; peoples need to be informed and empowered, especially us an’ peoples like us, an’ peoples workin’ two jobs and shit — peoples who are struggling always — wes the ones that abso-fuckin-lutely need to be voting and screamin’ and changing shit!” She was explosively passionate, determined, and bursting with ideas.
“You’re absolutely right. But I was thinking maybe, just maybe, we could try and do things kinda different seeing how we’ve been guests. I don’t mean to entirely bash big city shelters; maybe the concept was good once, maybe even with good intentions — at least the staffs have the best of intentions and we know they work their asses off — but the concept is flawed and outdated and needs to be changed.”
“Yeah, ya know, the road to hell is sure paved with good intentions. An’ I got some fucked up experiences with that, so careful yours don’t come back to bite ya in the ass, Becca.”
I was instantly reminded of why I loved the street and the people, and hearing shit said the way it needed to be, cutting right to the meat of the point without any bullshit. Betty approached with a small plate of veggies, fruit, and cheese to complement the fries, and asked if we needed anything else.
“Nah, we’re perfect for now. Thank you, Betty. An’ hey, guess what? I’m negotiating me a straight job,” said Kelly beaming up at her.
“Well, then, I’ll let you two ladies keep working,” Betty smiled. We each took a piece of cheese and a carrot. We fell silent for a few minutes, lost in our own thoughts.
I wasn’t sure how best to articulate my feelings about the deeply flawed idea of homeless shelters. Even the term was a contradiction of tremendous proportion. But I knew that somehow, the shelters were intended to distract the populous from the emotion of defeat that was evoked in people for a moment when they were considered. I couldn’t tear myself from the idea of them — the genesis, the calculated planning of them, like work houses for the disenfranchised, orphanages for the denied ones. How many lives had been arrested because of these shelters? What was gained by the idea of them and who did they really best serve among us? They seemed only to rob individuals of dignity and potential.
“Hey, you know, Kelly, I found out that shelters receive anywhere from two to three thousand bucks a month for every bed they keep filled. I was thinking that maybe that money could be used differently, by providing individual apartments to the women who are chronically homeless. Survival sex workers, I mean. Why isn’t anyone using those financial resources to empower people, increase their independence, self reliance, and definitely their morale and quality of life? And why don’t we give them the option at least of not tricking to survive? It would sure cost less than three grand a month.”
“Yeah, hey, good thinkin’. So’s we could maybe get girls their own fuckin’ digs, right?”
“Yeah, maybe, ’cause that kind of money could do so much more for people than it does, and they sure as fuck deserve it.”
“You sure got yourself a good gig, Becca. What’s the pay like? Better be a living fuckin’ wage, an’ I just know you’d be giving staff benefits, too. Right?”
I laughed and gave her a hug and asked her what a living wage was.
“That’s good that you ask, ya know, ’cause I learnt from the best. Oh, girl, I can teeeeach you some shit. A living wage is above the poverty line and a lot a peoples don’t even make half o’ that and ifin they miss one pay, they’re fucked. That’s just fuckin’ wrong, man.” Kelly kicked the side of the back booth, shook her head, and continued, speaking more softly. “It’s no wonder peoples seem so fuckin’ tense an scared all the time, huh?” Kelly pushed her plate away, picked up her cola, and took a generous gulp, spilling just a little, which she quickly mopped up with her sleeve and smiled.
“Well, what about if they were above the poverty line?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah, okay, well even when they at the poverty line with their income, they never got no job security, sos they always scared and walkin’ on fuckin’ egg shells an’ shit. Can you imagine that stress every day? Tiptoeing, I mean. It’s like always being ascared a yer pimp beatin’ the shit outta ya. I ain’t never taking no job where I gotta live like that agin. It’s got a name; I think it’s called hyper-viglent or somin like that.”
“Wow. Kelly, that’s deep shit — hypervigilant — that’s one of the words my therapist uses to explain what happens when we live on the streets too long.”
“You got a therapist? Like a shrink, huh. What for?”
“Yeah, for over a year. It wasn’t my idea, but … it’s not so bad. I mean, there’s a lot a stuff I can’t talk about yet. But my sister made me go, about six months after …” I motioned to my face and then changed the subject. “Anyway, never mind that shit. I could really use your help, Kelly, whatdayah say: you on board?”
“Really? Ya really think I could work legit, huh, motherfucker? Hell, yeah, girlfriend. I even got me some money saved up: some ew-kwi-ty. I could buy me some straight clothes, too. But, well, ya knows I gots me a unique style, huh.”
“Yeah, I know you do, Kell. You got huge style and huge brains to go with it, sugar.”
“Well okay, then. Let’s do this motherfuckin’ shit, Becca.” And with a spit and a handshake, Kelly was hired. She was remarkably and predictably successful in her work at Exit Strategy. She was loved by all the women, and not surprisingly, embraced by mainstream people who took the time to listen to her and get past the language.
In the first year, thirty-seven women got off the street, some for longer than others. They each had a room of their own, and time to adjust; and eventually, when they were ready, time and support to consider possibilities. By the end of the first year we began a pilot project to provide apartments for ten women at a cost far less than that of a shelter. The project took off and was so successful we were given funding to continue it. Some went on to school, some to rehab when a precious bed was available, some reunited with children, and when safe, some reunited with family members. And of those women, all said that eventually they were able to embrace possibility — even when that possibility was to return to sex work.
Some said they would never leave the stroll; that they’d rather take their chances with a serial killer. They were respected, supported, and given emergency 911 cell phones to help ensure their safety. Some said they were not ready yet to stay off the stroll for very long, but for those who needed to return to the stroll, they were always assured there would be a room for them — safe, clean, and warm — when they wanted it. No questions asked. It just takes some people longer than others, is all, but you don’t mend a life that’s been tattered with spit and glue; you let time, recognition, acceptance, validation, love, support, and stability mixed with a good strong dose of real security, mend itself in its own time, its own way. No question.
Kelly began to count the times a day she said motherfucker, with the encouragement from some of the other women in the house, and managed to get it down to about twenty-five times a day.
She looked at me seriously one afternoon in the great room where a bunch of us were gathered by the fireplace, grabbed my arm, and with a hint of anger said, “I ain’t taking it outta my vocabulary entirely, Becca. Ya just gotta know I love that motherfuckin’ word.”
“Yeah,” I managed to say through the laughter, “I know you do, honey. I know you love that fuckin’ word; it’s a Kelly word.”
We couldn’t help but laugh at her seriousness, every single one of us, and neither could Kelly once we all started. It was one of those big happy laughs; you know, the ones where tears roll down your face and there is the threat of peeing your pants because you’re laughing so damn hard.
That kinda laugh, motherfucker.