Pat was getting used to a more normal life and was trying to find a job. It was late August, and the Mid-South Fair was just around the corner. I suggested that she try to get a job at the fair until she could find a full-time job somewhere else. Within days she had one. She worked in a booth where they made the chocolate-dipped ice cream bars and rolled them in crushed peanuts. She was working long hours, and since we lived a few doors down from the station, she used my car to go back and forth to the fairgrounds. I just walked to work.
One night I had to emcee a concert at the Overton Park Shell, an open-air arena in the Midtown area of Memphis. I think it was Procol Harum. I had to use the car. I drove her to work, and she was going to try to get a ride home from the fairgrounds with one of her coworkers.
I was worried because there was a black serial rapist that had raped two white women in Memphis. That was unusual because, at the time, of all rapes, only five percent were interracial. The rapist would beat the women, steal their purses, strip them, and put them out in a bad part of town. One of the women was raped again before she could find help. He would force the women into his car with a butcher knife. Once they were in, there was no door handle or window crank. They were trapped.
Pat couldn't get a ride, so she hitchhiked. She was looking good in her tight jeans and a halter top, so only one or two cars passed before one pulled up to offer her a ride. It was a black man who was kind enough to get out and open the door for her so she could get in. As he shut the door for her, Pat realized why. There was no door handle on the inside. The window crank was missing too. As he opened his door and the dome light came on, she saw a butcher knife stuck into his armrest.
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