"U S West, This is Gina.
How can I connect your call?" - you
might remember from my first
post of my life as an operator, was the standard greeting for every
caller to my station. Monotonous, boring, routine... but that was the job.
Sandy was a senior operator. She was rather
tall, had long blond hair, a pretty smile and was in her early 40's. I was new to the job, new to the city, 23 and
in need of the motherly warmth and posture she took toward me. We found ourselves on the same shifts and
often sat next to each other and chatted between calls. A friendship began.
I met her boyfriend, Robert, who was also an
operator, 11 years younger than Sandy, and seemed to be madly in love with
her. Four months into my new life and my
roommate decides that Denver isn't the place for her. I'm left worrying about
how to pay the rent until Sandy says, "hey, why don't you move in with
us?"
They had a loft with a private bathroom in their condo that was
sitting empty. We had shared many dinners and many conversations. It was the
perfect salve for my predicament. August
of 1990, I moved in... warmed by their invitation and by their sincerity of
having me become a part of the family.
I
didn't notice that after dinner drinks became stronger. I didn't notice the look in his eyes when
Sandy and I were conversing in the kitchen while clearing the dishes from
dinner. I didn't notice the bruises on
her neck until I had already moved in.
The doctor had prescribed 1,000 mg. of Eurythromiacin. Reactive Airway
Disease was what they were treating. The
strength of the medicine made me puke... the disease filled my lungs as if I
were drowning. I was only several weeks into my new living arrangements when it
hit me. I lost weight in record time.
I went from 150+ pounds to 110 in less than 3 weeks. My body shook from sickness and lack of sleep. Laying down would certainly
drown me, and sitting in a chair was less than restful, but it was my only
alternative.
I had finally fallen into a somewhat
comfortable sleep. Half sitting, half in prone position. It was the first time
in weeks when I smelled his breath before I felt his hand on my shoulder.
"Gina.. Gina... Wake up. " he
said.
My eyes opened to see Robert, at 2
in the morning, fully dressed and kneeling by my bed.
"Come on. I need to talk to you. We need to go so I can
talk to you." His voice was so
insistent that I didn't even question
him.
My body rose voluntarily from it's spot without even asking me. Before I
could register, we were in his car and driving. His mouth was moving, stop
lights blurred as we raced through town, and my eyes were desperate to focus.
When my eyes finally did adjust to the time and light... it finally came into
view. It was black and square. Not the normal pistol of Gunsmoke or Andy
Griffith. But something more like Kojak or Magnum P.I. would carry. It sat there on the dashboard almost as
afraid and unsure as I was... sliding from side to side as it maneuvered the
corners in opposition to the turns he made.
Lights of the city faded in direct proportion to the fear that rose in
me. He obviously knew where he was
going, but I was dizzy with sickness and fear. He kept talking of acceptance
and belonging and quizzing me on how it all worked. All I could say was "I don't know."
He rambled and his voice grew louder. He commanded answers to questions I couldn't
understand. He demanded voice when I had none.. he demanded sympathy when all I
had was fear.
A series of turns and we
were in the middle of a housing development to be. All that was concrete were
the streets and the streetlights. No
houses... no people... just roads and empty lots... and a street light that
spotlighted the isolation and privacy of it all.
"Get Out." Earlier pleas for understanding or tutorial
were over.
He was angry that I didn't have answers to the ethanol questions on
his breath. He was determined. All I could pray for was rape. I had survived that once before - guns on the other hand, I was pretty sure I couldn't survive.
God please let him rape me and leave me
here miles from anyone or anything.
I prayed for what I thought would be the best of all outcomes.
My prayers were constantly interrupted by his
screaming. By his questions for which I had no answers, by his questions I
couldn't even understand. Hours passed.
I have no idea really what was said. My eyes weary from watching the waving of
the gun and his finger off and on and off again of the trigger.
My pants were
wet. And my legs stung from the
cold. I was tired, and sick, and cold
and sure. Sure that this would be the way I died. Unsure if anyone would ever
find me. Broken to the point that I
barely cared.
He stared - to the East as
the sun dared to rise. He had waited too long.
"Let's go." he said.
"You have an early shift."
We drove back. Silent.
He disappeared. Back to the bedroom where
Sandy lay sleeping. Wrapping his arms around her.
I
sat... for an hour or so until the alarm went off. I showered and made my way to work.
"U S West, This is Gina. How can I
connect your call?"
I was too terrified to say anything more.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Twenty-five year old
Rhonda Maloney was abducted and raped by
Robert Harlan in the early morning hours of February 12th, 1994. Shortly after
5:15 AM, on a cold Saturday morning, Maloney flagged down a passing motorist,
Jacquie Creazzo. As the two women made their way to the Thornton, CO police
department, Maloney's abductor gave chase. He opened fire on the women,
wounding and eventually paralyzing Creazzo. After she crashed her car into the
lawn of the police station, Harlan dragged Maloney from the car and fled. A
police officer arrived one minute later. By that time, Harlan and Maloney were
gone. Over the next few hours, Harlan continued to rape Maloney. He shot her
twice under a highway overpass, placed her in his trunk, hosed the body down at
a car wash, then dumped her body under a bridge in a remote
area."
- DEAD RECKONING: Left At The Scene -
The History Channel
No comments:
Post a Comment