Don’t Look Behind You

force her into a car, and she told him she would do anything he wanted.
    The man was evidently confident that she had no choice in the matter anyway, and he continued to drag her behind a fence where they would be hidden from the street. Once there, he tore off her slacks and panties. He forced his fingers roughly into her vagina, bit her breasts cruelly, and then he raped her.
    Not satiated, the man forced her to endure both oral and anal sodomy. During the attack, he tried to keep her eyes covered. The coat over her mouth and nose was smothering her and she told him she couldn’t breathe. Hearing that, he’d let up the pressure on her face a little.
    Carol suddenly heard the sound of other voices—youngvoices. They were asking her attacker what was going on. Her assailant answered, “We’re just making love.”
    She was so afraid. The man hit her in the chest and she feared he would beat her to death if she called for help now. The children wouldn’t be capable of stopping him and might be hurt themselves. She managed to tell them she was all right, hoping that they would realize that she wasn’t and go for help.
    Carol heard their feet running away. The rapist seemed nervous now, even ashamed. He asked if she was okay, and allowed her to put her clothes back on.
    Then he fled.
    The youngsters had run to their mother and cried, “Mommy, there was a man and he grabbed a girl and she screamed and he dragged her into the bushes and put his hand over her mouth!”
    The woman called police and Wallingford Precinct patrolmen arrived almost at once. But, just as before, the rapist had disappeared into the night, leaving behind only drops of blood from his feet, which had been cut by nails on the fence.
    Carol Brasser was taken to a hospital, where doctors confirmed she had been sexually assaulted, had received deep scratches on her neck, sternum, and back.
    Carol gave Sex Crimes detectives a now-familiar description: tall, thin, ragged shag haircut, mustache, in his twenties.
    Her attacker’s MO matched that of the earlier attacks almost exactly. The man stalked lone women late at night, kept their eyes covered, and not only subjected to sexualindignities but also seemed to enjoy beating them. And when he was finished with his victims, he apologized, and seemed to be asking for forgiveness.
    What was most alarming was the increasing frequency of these copycat assaults. It was quite possible that the rapist assumed his victims had not seen him, that he felt perfectly free to continue his pattern. He had gotten away clean every time. If he felt safe, even overconfident, he might slip, and thereby betray himself.
    Or he might kill his next victim. The number of rape victims who have ended up dead through strangulation or beatings is overwhelming. Sometimes the rapist goes further and uses more force than he intended. In cases of serial murder, the “thrill” of a “simple” rape is no longer satisfying for the sex criminal and he progresses to murder.
    It is a very thin line.
    On June 10, eighteen-year-old Moira Drew* attended a party at a friend’s house in the north end. There were several people she knew there—and a few she didn’t. One stranger was a tall, good-looking man with a mustache. As she left the party between 1:30 and 2:00 a.m., the handsome man approached her and asked if he could have a ride to Aurora Avenue.
    “Sure.” She nodded, and pointed out her car.
    She felt no apprehension. After all, she had met the man at her friend’s house.
    Once on their way, the man, who had told her his name was Neil O’Leary, changed his mind about his destination. He asked her if she would mind taking him to North 91stStreet and Linden Avenue North. It was only a few more blocks out of her way and she agreed.
    “Hey, move over closer to me,” he said softly, as she pulled over at his corner.
    It seemed like a simple pass. She shook her head and said, “No, I don’t know you.”
    As quickly as a cobra strikes, the man’s hand reached out and seized her by the throat, powerful fingers cutting off her air entirely. A black curtain dropped over her eyes and she saw pinwheels of light as she fought to breathe. With her last strength, she leaned on the horn.
    “If you don’t shut up,” Neil O’Leary hissed, “I’m going to kill you …”
    But Moira Drew kept her hand on the horn, its bleating staccato shrieks blasting through the early morning air. A car pulled up, paused, and the driver looked