Despite the best efforts of the New York City police, Edward Poole Bingham was back on Gate 204, one of the many upper bus platforms of Manhattan's Port Authority bus station.  His recent history included arrests for assault, attempted rape, indecent exposure and possession of an illegal knife, and two six-month stays at Rikers Island jail, and at the moment his zipper was open again.
     Bingham, a tall, gaunt man with receding blond hair, strategically placed theNew York Post over his pants and looked away as a businessman in a tan trenchcoat stepped off the escalator and walked warily past the unkempt man leaning against the glass wall of the dingy waiting area.
     Cassandra Lopez, who in a moment would become a key player in New York Transit Police Incident Report No. 91-V6055, hurried up the narrow escalator to catch New Jersey Transit bus No. 108 to Newark.  She'd been in Manhattan all day, first covering the airline luncheon, then, after checking back with the Travel Set office, filling in for another reporter at the opening of a midtown hotel's new Business Floor.  But all day her mind had been wandering back to Newark, to the past, to Rom.  He'd sounded nervous on the phone that morning.  That wasn't as she remembered him.  Careful, a bit shy, mysterious, yes.  Nervous, no.  But then again, who wouldn't be, after such a long time?
     She remembered the news clippings Hector had shown her of their former houseguest.  A priest!  And what he had gone through!  She and her brother had talked a lot about "that night" back in ‘69.  He'd confessed to jealousy, she to being young and in love.  But regret was not among her emotions, then or now.
     She'd thought of Rom so many times during those "lost" years.  She'd fantasized about where he lived, what he looked like, whether he was married, what his children looked like.  What their children would have looked like.  Now, on a rainy Monday evening in Midtown, she thought of him again as she hurried up the escalator steps to the bus platform.
     As she stepped off, she saw the disheveled, unshaven Bingham and froze. He was staring at her, stroking himself.  "Hey," he said, "you like this, don't you?"
     Cassandra steeled herself and remembered New York street law: Be crazier than the crazies.  She saw the No. 108 waiting at the end of the platform, the last few passengers boarding.  As she plotted a quick dash past him in the narrow corridor, she registered surprise.  "Wow! What a tool!" she yelled.  "Where have you been all my life?"
     Bingham paused a second, puzzled.  Cassandra pushed past him but he grabbed the sleeve of her raincoat.  She swung her umbrella around and caught him under the chin.  In a second he had grabbed her arms and pulled her in close to him.  Now his stench reached her.  He pushed her against the glass wall and grabbed her face.  She tried to scream but he shoved his dirty fingers into her mouth.
     She bit down hard and brought her knee quickly up into his groin.  This sent him back against the other wall, and she screamed as she tried to escape the tight grip he still had on her coat.  Down the platform, a few commuters watched, frozen.  Casssandra caught a glimpse of a man coming up the escalator and yelled to him to help.  The business-suited young man turned and scrambled back down the ascending escalator steps.
     Now her assailant had pushed her to the grimy, wet linoleum floor and was trying to get one knee between her legs.  She reached for the umbrella on the floor and tried to hit him but couldn't get enough room to swing.
   She struggled in a tearful fury.  "Help me, somebody!  Help me!  What's wrong with you?  He's hurting me!"  Then suddenly he was being yanked off  her.