A Bad Date

There was a knock at the door. It was soft, almost cautious. Then another, louder, almost urgent, followed by an unfamiliar voice, muffled and unrecognizable, sending chills down my spine. The clock on the nightstand read two in the morning. I began imagining all sorts of horrors lurking in the darkness outside my apartment.

“Police,” the voice announced. My breath caught in my throat as I realized the gravity of the situation. My heart raced with fear and confusion.

The police were at my door?  For me? I couldn't think of anything I had done wrong. I quickly glanced at the man beside me, sound asleep and oblivious to the commotion outside my apartment. I racked my brain, struggling to remember where I’d met him last night. Which bar was it again? It was all a blur. I couldn't even recall what he looked like. All I remembered was that he wasn't considerate or skilled in bed. But why was he in my bed sound asleep? It was entirely out of character for me to let a one-night stand stay over, so why did it happen this time?

There was complete silence now. Maybe the police had mistakenly knocked on the wrong door. But I knew my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Mason, who lived across from me, wouldn't be involved in any mischief. She was a devout Catholic who went to Mass every day. Perhaps she had stolen the communion wine and started a crime wave. I wished her crime was for being intrusive and nosey. She was always keeping tabs on the men in my life.

Careful not to wake the man whose name I couldn't remember, I crawled out of bed. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I wanted another romp in the sack with him.

I padded over to the window and peeked through the blinds. My eyes widened at the sight of not one but three police cars parked outside my apartment building. What could this mean? At least three, possibly six officers, were here for me. Outside my door.

Another knock sounded, and I knew I had to answer. Silently cursing, I grabbed my panties and bra and quickly slipped into them. Can’t be answering the door in the nude. Well, I did have white socks on. I threw on my house coat and made my way to the door.

A dim sliver of light seeped under the crack as I tiptoed to the door, heart pounding in my chest. Suddenly, the door burst open with a deafening blast, and I stumbled backward, tripping over a chair and falling to the floor. A group of masked men dressed in heavy riot gear stormed in like a raging tsunami. As I curled into a ball, trying to make myself as small as possible, I could hear my own rapid breathing and the shuffle of footsteps around me. Someone grabbed me and pinned me to the floor with bruising force.

I heard shouting coming from my bedroom. Don't move! Show your hands. I wondered how it was possible to both not move and show your hands simultaneously.

“We got him,” someone shouted triumphantly.

From my bedroom, armed police dragged What's-His-Name dressed only in black satin underwear, which I didn't remember him wearing, and handcuffs. His face was a mixture of fear and confusion as they marched him through the dining area and into the hall.

The person who had been sitting on me helped me to my feet, picked up the chair, and sat me in it. “Did he hurt you? Do you want to see a doctor?”

I was completely bewildered. Hurt me? See a doctor? I'd rather someone explain my broken door and the armed cops in my apartment. And most importantly, why was What's His-Name arrested?

“What's going on here?” I asked.

A female police officer by the door swiftly removed her helmet, revealing a pixie haircut. Kindness filled her bright brown eyes as she knelt before me and brushed stray hairs from my face gently. “I'm Lieutenant Lucille Weston from the Kansas City SWAT Team. And your name is?”  Her concern was clear as she waited for my response.

A million thoughts raced through my mind as I struggled to find my voice. Finally, I stammered, “Rhonda Cada.”

The next question caught me off guard. “Did you know who that was in your bed?”

Embarrassed, I shook my head.

“His name is Darren Stokes,” she said and paused. “He is a serial killer.”

At that moment, another officer emerged from the bedroom, carrying a 12-inch hunting knife in a baggie. “We got him.”

The knife and those two horrific words - serial killer - crushed down on me like a ton of bricks. It hit me that the man I’d let into my home, my bed, could have easily killed me. He would’ve killed me. My mind struggled to process this horrifying truth as I gasped for air.