Bird of Prey
Author: Gina Gallo, © 2000

I smell him before I see him. An odor best described as "dumpster funk"--cheap booze, reeking body and fetid breath- steeped together in one killer stench that precedes the shambling steps behind me. His white cane taps out a blind man’s awkward cadence on the sidewalk, followed by the shuffle-drag of crippled feet. But this is no sightless senior citizen hobbling through the last miles of his life. This is a vicious rapist, and I’m his next victim.

Dubbed "the blind man rapist" by our tactical team, his M.O. is simple. He strikes in the twilight hours, after the rush hour crowd has dwindled. Once darkness descends, but before an hour that would arouse suspicion of a handicapped old man who lingers on the streets, he taps along near bus stops and street corners that are conveniently close to darkened areas. Playlots with dense groupings of bushes and trees, dimly lit alleys and park property have all been crime scenes for his previous victims--seven so far. Only five survived his brutal attacks.

According to past victims, he’s consistent in his approach. Playing on their sympathy, he wobbles along, pausing uncertainly at a traffic signal or bus stop. A convincing performance, they said, since every step looked to be his last. And when they offered assistance to someone they assumed was a pathetic old man, he accepted gratefully, adding that he’d somehow gotten lost. And then requested "just a little help" in crossing the street, or negotiating a corner. They even took his arm, they said, guiding him along until he was sure no one was nearby and his cover was secure.

Most victims were bound with rope that left deep, raw ligature marks at throat and wrists. Underwear was sliced off and taken as "trophies" by the same knife he used to penetrate them, an act of savagery that was the prelude to the cane and finally, his own thrusting release. Afterward, some of the victims were stabbed, almost as an afterthought. Those who survived recounted how he’d stood there above them, eyes glazed and oddly expressionless, fondling the blade of his knife.

Now he trails me down this dim street, anticipating how he’ll carve me like a helpless bird. Tonight, I’m the predator disguised as prey. A tough transition for a street cop with years of experience in "walking the walk." My instincts dictate I rip his throat out. Instead, I play the helpless female--an anonymous Jane Doe in sensible pumps and conservative clothes. The defenseless working girl as Victim #8.

I lead him past a neon-washed strip--drug store, currency exchange, barber shop--all closed at this hour but still flickering light on the deserted street. Not enough to spook him--just to provide a clear visual for my backup posted down the block.

I pause, considering the steps that lead up to the El platform. By all appearances, I could be heading up to catch my train, a convincing part of my working girl act. I’d love to lure him to the platform, make him do his crippled routine up thirty five steep steps. And finally, when he makes his move, I’d watch the bastard fry when my back-up tosses him on the third rail. A perverse impulse and an unprofessional one. As a cop, it’s my duty to deliver him to the legal forms of justice. As a woman, I can’t help but think of other options.

We stop at the corner. There’s an alley beyond it, and dense six-foot hedges that circle a deserted playground. Near the playground entry is a standard Park District restroom--a small brick building with a doorless shadowed tunnel that separates the two facilities--the perfect cover for a violent crime. The blind rapist steps closer.

He’s next to me now, clutching feebly at the cane he taps in small circles. The smell of him gags me, the proximity of this beast is enough to knot my roiling stomach, but I turn to him with a questioning smile. My reflections dance in the thick lenses of his dark-tinted glasses, and I know he’s gauging me, waiting to reel me in. Anticipating the hand I hold out, my polite offer to help. I want to drop him like a rabid dog. Instead, I allow him to place my hand under his arm.

In every cop’s experience, there are moments when we shudder and cringe, when our hearts and brains and souls scream out that nothing is worth some things we have to do, no amount of money could ever compensate for certain deeds. Usually those are moments involving hurt kids, or crime scenes so horrendous they’d have to be modified to qualify for mere nightmare status.

Tonight, touching this animal is one of those moments.I hold his arm--the one that gutted his victims?--and wonder which pocket holds the rope. Watch his steps become more agile as we approach the hedges and imagine--hope- that he pulls his weapon first. Will my backup have a clear shot?

My heart is tripping double-time, the adrenaline rush before show time. The arm I hold tightens against his ribcage to lock my hand in place as his cane clatters to the pavement. When his hand delves into his jacket I’m ready. Ready to pull him into a throw while sweeping his legs before he ever gets the rope out, or the knife. Not ready for the compact taser he slams against my arm, zapping me with enough voltage to knock me off my feet.

I don’t remember anything else. Not the arrival of my backup or the Mass Transit K-9 unit that spots us from the El platform above. I don’t get to witness the pleasure of the snarling Rottweiler who corners the "blind man," or the way he begs for mercy when my partners slap on the cuffs. Later they’ll show me the other weapons, his knife and rope and the straight-razor found in his shoe.

The "blind old man" is just 37 years old, recently divorced, and, according to his claims, a born-again Christian. After his interrogation, the detectives tell me what we already know, that his attorneys will try for an insanity plea. Since he’s positively ID’d by four of the victims, we’ve got a good case. At least the rapist is off the street, they tell me, and facing some serious jail time. Somehow, it’s not enough.