Summer Of '94

A "Cold Case" Fanfiction

By Elizabeth Dawson-Depp

This Fanfiction is based on the April 16, 2006 episode, "Execution: Final


Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, plot, or anything like that of "Cold Case." CBS does. I just watch the show because it rocks.

P.S. Due to sensitive subject matter, please be aware of pervasive language, realistic-as-possible portrayal of rape/sexual assault and treatment, realistic-as-possible portrayal of a pervert's mind, derogatory remarks toward said pervert, and a love relationship between the main character and an older man. In other words, reader's discretion is strongly advised. Please don't hurt me if any of the above content offends you. I'm just trying to write a story, people. Thank you.

So…if you've read all that and agree with it, by all means,


I hope you enjoy it!

Love, Elizabeth


A Brutal Confrontation

The Lange household, June 8, 1994, 11:52pm, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

She couldn't sleep. For the past couple of minutes now she'd tossed and turned, restless, with the hopeless result of cocooning herself in the sheets. Her father's words echoed in her head. This will be home, someday.

She sighed. Maybe. But somehow she doubted it.

At last Kate Lange untangled herself from the bed sheets and sat up, leaning over to turn on the lamp on the nightstand. A solution formed gradually in her distracted mind. Then she got to her feet. She was just hungry, that was all. A little nibble of something to eat, and she'd sleep until nine-thirty the next morning.

This was Kate's new house, her and her father's; she thought of this with a smile as she padded in her bare feet to the door and opened it as silently as she could.

She glanced down the short hallway and breathed a soft sigh. Her father's bedroom door was closed. She hadn't woken him.

Next Kate saw to it that she made it to the kitchen in one piece. Gripping the stairway banister tightly, and with one cautious step at a time, she descended into the pitch black. Her right foot brushed the cool wood floor at the bottom as her left came to rest neatly beside it. Good Kate, she praised herself, you haven't fallen once…yet. At school, however, her coordination was another story.

If Kate remembered correctly, from the countless times she and her father had toured the house, with the real estate agent babbling away, the kitchen was right…here. Instantly recognizing the pair of full-length French doors painted white, she slid the one that opened and reached inside, fumbling for the light switch against the wall.

Click. The room was illuminated at once. Like the door, everything was white and silver chrome. Everything except the counters, that is. They were gray and marble-looking.

But her stomach, grumbling with annoyance, was sending a thousand messages a minute to her brain, telling it to hurry up and find something to eat already. So she ditched the oohing and aahing of the scenery and flung open the refrigerator.

Shivering as she squatted in her baggy white T-shirt and matching shorts, Kate found absolutely nothing of interest in that fridge. Just prune juice—nasty, but in some way healthy for you-low-fat milk, Florida's Natural orange juice, and blueberries in a carton that appeared beyond edible.

Closing the refrigerator with a slight thud, she went through all the drawers and cabinets, high and low, with disappointment waiting at the end of the tunnel. Was there nothing to eat in this house?

Then Kate happened to look at the counter. Sitting there on the counter, under her very nose, was a new package of whole wheat bread. Shaking her head in utter disbelief at herself, she walked over and put her hand on it, just to make sure it was real and she wasn't hallucinating from hunger pains.

The plastic wrapping crinkled as she rubbed it between her fingers. The bread was tangible. She tore it open and grabbed the first slice, ravenous. Sliding the bread into the toaster, Kate pushed down the heating lever and waited. Wait-didn't Dad buy some margarine from Ingles? Maybe I skipped over it when I was looking for some actual food.

She opened the refrigerator again and spotted the container of margarine right away. Kate put it on the counter, and a few seconds later her piece of toast popped out of the toaster.

She handled it gingerly since it was hot, but that was the way she liked it. Flipping her shoulder-length blonde hair out of her eyes while opening the margarine, she looked in the silverware drawer and held the butter knife away from her as she spread the golden contents on the toast.

She never got to eat it.



Mr. Wayne Nelson, the owner of the moving company, stood before the Lange terrace, mulling over the malignant details of his scheme with pleasure and excitement. He inhaled the clean nighttime air deeply. Tonight was it. Finally, finally, he would fulfill his craving of feeling a young girl's body move in harmony with his, touching her and stroking her. And she would give herself willingly, be complacent as Faith once had.

Faith. His daughter had run away, disappeared off the face of this earth, and had not returned. He and she had performed their ritual for three years now, up until about five months ago. In the beginning, she had resisted him fiercely, he would not deny that. But he had made her listen, with his hands and fists and sometimes even the weight of his body against hers. He held her body against the floor or the bed or wherever they happened to be when he had a strong craving and they were in private.

He shook his head and the memories dispersed, floating away into the darkest areas of his brain. They would be back, of course, to warm him and soothe him, and then that single painful memory, the day of Faith's leaving, would come roaring out of nowhere and torture him for weeks. It was the memories of Faith that had kept him from hunting for fresh prey for so long. But now even they were not enough, and so he had found another girl.

She was very pretty, blonde, tall and, he thought with a big smile, she had a fine figure.

He shook his head again, harder this time. He had to concentrate. He certainly couldn't waste time just thinking of her.

Clumping up the steps, he fished in his front jeans' pocket for the duplicate key he had made just for this occasion. It fit the lock perfectly, as he knew it would. Patting the back pocket one last time-for the sharpened, wide blade of a knife was there; he did not expect to use it, however. Surely she would need no persuasion.

A moment later the lock had been undone and he was inside, striding noiselessly toward a corner wall where he could observe her but not her him. Kate Lange's waking nightmare had begun.

Upon first sight she was opening a container of margarine and spreading a portion of it on a piece of bread. He gripped the handle of the knife for reassurance; it was his first obvious hint that things might not progress as he'd hoped.

He stood in the doorway with the knife at his side. It was only a moment before she realized someone was there.

She looked up and saw him standing in her kitchen without making a sound. Surprised, but pleased to see him, she said, "Hi! Want a snack, anything? My dad'll be down in a minute." So she assumed.

Then she did something that rendered him suddenly and absurdly enraged with her: she smiled broadly at him.

"Don't you talk to me like that, Faith," he barked in a low snarl.

She jumped at the intensity of his voice and could only stare at him. Confused, she sputtered, "What?"

How dare she try to tease me. How dare she fool around like a dumbass.

"Don't play games with me, girl. Don't you play me for stupid."

Her voice trembled nervously as she tried to convince him. "I'm not Faith," she insisted.

And then she recognized, with a queasy, lurching sensation in her stomach, what it was exactly that Mr. Nelson grasped in his hand.

"I'm not Faith!" she screamed, her whole body quaking with fear. "I swear to God, I'm not Faith!"

He advanced toward her, purposefully, and with no concern whether she would live or die from his actions tonight. He seized her by the arms by brute force, bending her so that the top half of her was closest to him, gripping her tightly. Next he positioned the knife point a mere inch from her throat.

His breath tickled her ear. "You ran away, Faith, remember? You ran away, and you left me."

He paused in his story because she was whimpering louder than he could tolerate, so he shook her. Kate yelped.

"Shut up! I'm talking!" he hissed. Nelson momentarily considered slapping the shit out of her, but decided against it. He could punish her in a minute.

"As I was saying," he continued icily, "you left me all alone for five months. I waited for you every minute of every day. Did you actually think-" chuckling faintly-"that you would get away with it?" his teeth were clenched in rage.

Kate, naturally, had no clue in the universe as to how or why this Faith had run away, so she shook her head. All she could see and think about was the knife that could easily slice her open, if her captor so desired.

He was only pleased with her to a certain extent. Having struck genuine dread in her heart pleased him. But there was one more thing…

"Good," he commended, and watched the taut muscles in her face relax a little, her breathing slow.

"Now," he added, and putting a hand on her chest pushed down, hard, letting her go at the same time.

Her back slammed into the floor.

Kate barely had time to register that the wind was almost knocked out of her, that her back ached, before Nelson was upon her.

She screamed again, helpless sounds that would cause any stranger, unless they were like Wayne Nelson, to come running to her rescue. They were not as loud as they could have been, though, because almost immediately he leaned his some of his weight against her mouth, muffling the cries.

He successfully trapped her flailing arms and pinned them to her sides. Wrapping one arm tightly around her torso to keep them there, Wayne slipped his right hand up the inside of her shorts, his wandering fingers crawling up the inner part of her leg, searching for her vagina. Once, he brushed her pubic hair briefly, and the shudder that followed vibrated through her.

His next move took place so quickly her brain was left spinning in circles. His crude hands found the elastic waistband of her shorts and wrenched them down.

A horrified yelp, barely a breath of sound, escaped her. She was exposed. Paralyzed, she watched the material leap over her toes and get tossed aside somewhere.

Then he got up. And began loosening his belt.

She implored him, "Pl-please don't. I-I didn't d-do anything…I promise." If she thought she sob her way out of this one, she was wrong. So terribly, terribly wrong.

Nelson pulled down his pants, with the young woman's reaction being a slight gasp and to avert her eyes, cringing.

"What, you've never seen a dick before?" was his callous response. "Sheltered girl, aren't you?" he remarked. She nodded her head complacently as he smirked to himself.

His violent side returned with an impulsive vengeance as he lunged for the girl lying on the floor.

Kate Lange's cries of terror were once again stifled as he pressed his arm against her mouth. Straddling her none too gently, he leered into her petrified eyes. "Are you ready for some fun, Faith?"

Then, before she could move, he began to shove himself inside of her.

It was a struggle neither would soon forget. He had not reckoned at all that she would be strong, fight him as hard as she did.

How dare she fight me. Stupid bitch.

The moment he touched her she began to thrash, kicking and yelling in panic, hoping her father would hear and barge in on the scene. Once she even managed to wrestle an arm free from his grasp and hit his shoulder, though not hard enough to hurt him. In response, he pinned the flailing arm back to her side and slapped her across the face so hard that it prickled for quite some time after.

He marveled at her strength and on the other hand was infuriated by it. She had fought like this in the early days, but then had surrendered herself to him absolutely. There had never been any passion on her end of their line, only fear and submission.

But not this time.

Their bodies moved in harmony, just as he had dreamed of. This serenity-at least, on Nelson's side there was serenity,-was once more interrupted by an endeavored rebellion.

Kate threw her knees into the air, hopeful that they would cause him injury. Anywhere, anything…Just hit something. They made sure she scored this time. Her left knee jabbed his shin. He merely grunted and ignored the sting.

Her right nailed Wayne squarely in the crotch.

A throbbing pain entered the area between his legs, and Nelson let out a sharp squeal similar to that of a pig when you accidentally tread on its tail. He bit his tongue so hard it was a wonder only a trickle of blood came out.

She would have laughed if she wasn't so scared.

For several moments he could do nothing except squeeze his eyes shut and mutter the ABC's of profanity, mostly the Big Six, in between groans.

She had done it! Kate extolled every religious figure she could think of. Now to get away…

Logically, Kate did the only thing one could if a much bigger and much heavier man was practically sitting on top of them and it appeared the said man had no intention of moving anytime soon: she attempted to wriggle her way out from underneath him. Alas, it was the one thing, and the wrong thing, to do.

She squirmed slightly, trying to pull with her arms and push with her feet. She moved about a millimeter. She tried again.

And was decidedly immobilized by a pair of hands grasping her elbows in a death-grip and mechanically shoving her back down.

He had paid no mind to the initial fidget because he was still going through the Alphabet of Curses. The pain in his crotch was even now too existent to pay a moment's worth of time to some girl who was getting uncomfortable lying on the floor under his weight.

The next wriggle she made caused him to take notice, in spite of the pain he was in. He glanced down, slightly irritated.

She's trying to escape. The thought stuck him like lightning.

He was so incensed that his mind became eerily blank and calm. If someone had asked him his name, he could not have said. If the person had told him he was going to die tomorrow in a violent car accident, Wayne Nelson would have shrugged his shoulders with the composure of an individual who is quite possibly high.

So, he reached for the knife. And in one smooth, sweeping motion plunged it halfway into Kate's left shoulder.

Her mouth opened wide with a single, long shriek of agony. Her lungs felt like they would explode if she didn't draw another breath.

Daddy! Daddy! Oh Daddy, where are you?

The knife was pulled out of her with a sickening squelch, and immediately sticky, warm blood soaked her nightshirt and gushed down her arm as it spurted from the wound. She didn't scream anymore now because she became aware that he was glaring at her, furiously.

His voice was harsh and disdainful.

"You deserve this, Faith. You know why? If you weren't always being such a slut, and a bitch, whining to me like you're some Goddamn innocent little virgin, if you just went along with me, Faith," he sucked in a breath, and his eyes were wistful, "then you would see how wonderful it really is to touch someone that way…"

His twisted fantasyland trailed into the air but seared into her memory vivid images that would haunt her for the rest of her life. Its most direct effect,-for now, however,-was to make her nauseous. Very, very nauseous.

Kate let out a soft burp as her stomach turned over and over and then did a back flip. Don't. Don't you dare. Her brain transmitted these urgent messages to her stomach as an alarm.

Salvia and acid rose into her throat. She belched again.

Oh God. Oh God, please don't let me throw up and die. Please.

"Shut your face, damn it," he growled at her, even though she hadn't said a word. "Filthy whore," Nelson continued, sneering mockingly. "You know that's what you are now, don't you? A shitty, half-naked whore."

She tried to defend herself, tell him she was no such thing. Her mouth opened. "I-I'm not," she managed hoarsely, but with certainty. "I'm not a wh-whore," a little stronger. Her mouth closed.

He stared at her incredulously. The hell she isn't. Asshole.

"How dare you contradict me," he spluttered. "The hell you're not a bitchy whore."

Wayne was so insulted at being disagreed with that he was at a loss for words. When he was at a loss for words, things didn't bode well for those who put him there.

He seized the knife, now covered with dried blood, and held it lightly against her throat. She turned her head, and it grazed the side of her neck, leaving behind a red rash-like streak from the middle of the back of her neck to the side of her neck. She moaned.

He backslapped her this time, on both cheeks. Hard.

Bastard. This insult breezed through Kate's mind, face burning, and she had to struggle to restrain herself from speaking it aloud.

Victim and assailant ogled one another for she didn't know how long; her bright eyes boring into his dark ones. Kate's displayed her inner strength and courage, and Wayne's stripped away his tough exterior to reveal his weak soul.

It was freaking him out more than he cared to show. Quit staring at me like that. But of course she was not telepathic. He might have as well been talking to a tree.

After a minute or so, he eased himself off of her, and to his feet, brushing his clothes as though she were contaminated. He leered at her again, watching and enjoying the transformation of her face as he spoke.

"Well, Faith, my darling," as if he held any affection for her, "I would have killed you, but…" he allowed an amused smile to play on his lips, and pointedly eyed the bloodstains on her shirt, "I've decided to let you suffer. Farewell!"

He smiled, for Kate's expression was one of sheer horror.

And with that, and no more, he walked towards the door and let himself out of the house.

She lay on the floor, trembling.

Daddy! Daddy, where the HELL are you?