Archives for posts with tag: assault

(This story is the beginning of a continuing series, An Assault in Venice.)

I thought that my only encounter with police detectives would be on television. I was a huge fan of Cagney and Lacey in high school. Before that was The Rockford Files, Barnaby Jones and Mannix, which I saw in late night reruns. And so meeting Detective Melissa Mora was highly unexpected, both in its delightfulness and its awfulness.

She showed up one night at my house and identified herself as a detective with the LAPD. She looked very much like television’s version of a police detective—blond, beautiful, vibrant and even tender. I had spoken with a crotchety, matter-of-fact detective that morning who’d informed me that because we had no evidence, our case was basically closed. The case was certainly not closed for me but I was still too traumatized to have yet developed any kind of formidable strategy.

As I led Detective Mora to the guesthouse in my backyard, otherwise known as the crime scene, she explained that she was just following through with things the day detectives hadn’t finished. I unlocked the door and let her go in first. The place creeped me out. There was blood everywhere: pools that had dried on the carpeting where I’d knelt over Jeanette trying to comfort her until the paramedics arrived, and what must have been a gallon more splashed across the tile kitchen floor. Bloody hand and footprints, both hers and mine, had stained the walls, the phone, the door, the steps.
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(This story is part of a continuing series, An Assault in Venice. Part 1 starts here.)


Even though all those late night cop shows I’d watched had given me the basics, I was about to be schooled in the art of becoming a police detective. I suddenly wished I’d been far more interested in piecing the clues together and solving the crime instead of being so caught up in the character development and unfolding relationships. Plot has never been my strong suit.

When Cagney returned to the crime scene the second night to tell me that she’d taken the case herself, she also revealed that the officer who’d been over to dust for prints had found none. So far, any attempt to recover evidence had been unsuccessful. But she brought with her a pair of space-age-looking night vision goggles, which she positioned over her eyes explaining that they were for the purpose of detecting sperm residue. Even though it was determined that Jeanette had not been raped, apparently some men get off on beating women, she told me as she scanned the room. Although I didn’t want this beast to have enjoyed the violence of his actions, I sure as hell wanted some DNA. I was already beginning to think like a cop. And miraculously, Cagney was already accepting me as her partner. When she removed the goggles and shook her head, she asked if I could think of anything at all that might help, no matter how bizarre or remote. That’s when I reached for the piece of paper that had been burning a hole in my back pocket.
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(This story is part of a continuing series, An Assault in Venice. Part 1 starts here.)


Jeanette had moved from Washington, DC, by way of Ohio University where she earned a master’s degree in film studies. She arrived in Los Angeles ready to launch her career as a film director after more than a decade stage managing regional theater. My neighbors, Rob and Amy, held a barbecue in her honor knowing full well that what Jeanette cherished above all else was a sense of community.

Rob and Amy lived in the duplex next to mine. We shared a wall, a yard and a palpable affection layered with dimensions—length, depth, breadth. We grew herbs and vegetables, we composted our waste, we ate like epicureans, and we enjoyed fine wine by candlelight, firelight or starlight. We believed in the idea that only the right things happen. We asked deep questions and attempted to answer them, and when we couldn’t, we’d divine meaning from both sensible and absurd sources, measuring each with equal weight. In a place where people came carrying big, artistic dreams, ours was an enclave of the idyllic, framed by a mosaic tile garden that was literally a work of art. Raised flowerbeds ringed the perimeter, a maze of concrete benches rose up from a tapestry of colored cement, and a towering fig tree in a vase of stone proclaimed its status as centerpiece.

From the moment Jeanette entered our beachside haven, she immediately knew that she’d arrived. I had been the one to tell her that our landlord was moving his graphic design business out of the converted garage and preparing it as a rental unit. I urged her to wait while he completed the renovation, not knowing that it would fall far behind schedule. Still, Jeanette was convinced that this was her new home. She spent months sleeping on various couches, including mine, while her tiny oasis was being prepared for her. When she finally moved in, she lived there for fifteen days.
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(This story is part of a continuing series, An Assault in Venice. Part 1 starts here.)

In some ways, I felt like I’d been communicating with Jeanette all night but I only had fragments of images, and they came at me too quickly to understand. It was as if a movie of the event was being projected onto darkened subway walls, and I was on a train that didn’t make stops. I was eager to call my friend John Edward, psychic medium extraordinaire. I knew he could help me make sense of the images and fill in the blanks.

I waited until it was light enough for me to feel comfortable being in my home alone. It would never again be the safe haven that had always embraced me so comfortably. At 5 AM I tiptoed down the stairs trying not to wake anyone. Rob and Amy were already up; they hadn’t slept much either. I wanted to shower and get a change of clothes. Rob offered to go home with me and wait until I was finished but I told him I was going to make some calls so instead he walked me across the lawn and escorted me inside. We walked slowly from room to room, opening closet doors and confirming what we both already knew: no one was there. It was a routine that would continue for months every time I entered the place.

After Rob left, I fished around in my junk drawer for the pocketknife I’d gotten with some magazine subscription and had never used. Now, and for the next six months, I would never be without it. I opened the blade and made my way back upstairs to my bedroom. The window looked down into the backyard and onto the guesthouse. I stood there for a moment in utter disbelief. It had been less than twelve hours since I’d found Jeanette, and our lives, both hers and mine, had been indelibly marked.

I sat down at my desk and called John. He’d been awakened by images, too, but he was far more equipped than I to interpret them. He gave me a barrage of information I tried my best to write down. The fragments were beginning to create a puzzle that I hoped might somehow lead to answers.

I hung up the phone. It was a start. At that point, no one from the police department had called to say they were investigating, and I wouldn’t meet Detective Mora, aka Cagney, until later that night. Honestly, I felt like I was on my own.
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(This story is part of a continuing series, An Assault in Venice. Part 1 starts here.)

I wouldn’t, of course, take Jay up on his offer… But if I did, would I want the thug to be killed in a counter attack or would I want him to be maimed beyond recognition? I decided he shouldn’t be killed. In a perfect world, they’d string him up, get a confession out of him on tape as he told them exactly what he’d done to Jeanette and then they’d do the same thing to him. After he went to the hospital, he’d go straight to prison. Then, when he got out of prison, because of course he would, he’d get another visit.

Those are the sorts of things that filled my head.

In one scenario, I confronted him myself. Not that I expected him to have much compassion but I wanted to make it clear to him that actions have consequences.

I thought about Marathon Man, that horribly violent movie where Dustin Hoffman’s teeth get pulled out with pliers. I thought about old mob movies where they cut off people’s fingers with bolt cutters. I decided I wanted this man to be physically altered—something that would compromise him, something that would remind him of the wrong he’d done. Maybe they would cut off his whole hand. And then leave him, taking the hand with them.

I’d be sitting in a room staring off into space, daydreaming scenes of violence, and finally come back to myself, stunned. Whole days were going by while I was fixated on revenge.

I called Cagney incessantly. I wanted her to let me off the hook. If she could arrest him then I wouldn’t have to imagine myself as executioner.

Jeanette’s brother Richard had arrived, and they made a date to come back to the house and pack up her things. During the month since the attack, everything had been left as it was. Cagney had cleared it as a crime scene, and there was no way I could allow Jeanette to see it like that. Oddly enough, I didn’t want to hire some service to come through and swab up all the remains of the event; it seemed like some kind of healing ritual to do that myself. But I certainly couldn’t do it alone so I asked my neighbor Rob if he would help. We gathered buckets, towels, sponges, bleach and other cleaning compounds and entered. The room was a temple of some sort: a place where lives had been indelibly altered.
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