Ten Times Guilty (5 page)

“Hello, Miss Harris,” Cooper addressed the patient. “I’m Officer Cooper and this is Sergeant Sanders. We’re from Special Services and we’re here to help you.”

Suzy rolled her eyes and Reese saw it. He had to give her credit—she said nothing.

“Would you tell us exactly what happened?” Cooper asked Cindy, opening her notepad.

Cindy turned her face to the wall. “I already told the other officer.”

“I know it’s difficult,” Reese said, keeping his voice gentle. “but we need to hear it from you. Take your time, and start from the beginning. Try to remember everything you can, any detail you might not think important.”

Haltingly, Cindy began with her walk home and continued to the attack. Suzy stayed by her side and never let go of her hand, crooning softly when Cindy began to cry.

“I-I don’t know anything after...after he grabbed me,” she choked out. “He . . . hit me.”

The nurse began laying out the rape kit, placing the sterile swabs, containers and labels within easy reach of the doctor and the detective. Cindy’s eyes followed every movement.

“As you can see,” Cooper explained, “Dr. Prescott will be doing a pelvic—” 

Cindy gasped and pulled the sheet tighter.

“It’s for trace evidence,” Cooper told her. “Maybe we’ll be lucky and find some answers.”

“No, please...” Cindy edged closer to Suzy.

“I’m sorry, but it has to be done. You’re a nurse. You know the routine.”

Suzy gripped Cindy’s hand. “It’s okay, honey, we’ll help you through it.”

When the nurse flipped up metal stirrups attached at the end of the bed, Cindy blanched whiter than before.

“I’m going to be sick.”

“I know, I know,” Suzy soothed. The nurse patted her hand and placed a plastic pan next to Cindy’s head.

“It’ll be over soon.”

Cindy’s eyes flew to Reese. “Please, not him . . . does he have to be in here?” Her eyes reminded him of a wounded animal. He knew that look, knew it well.

“I’ll wait outside.” He could see the relief on her face. Cooper snapped on latex gloves and picked up a pen for labeling the samples. Doctor Prescott sat on the stool at the foot of the bed and nodded to the nurse. She flipped on the light.

Reese stepped around the curtain and heard Cindy gasp. It had begun.

***

Twenty-eight minutes later, Cooper pulled the curtain slightly and motioned to Reese. A lab technician carrying a tray of rattling glass tubes squeezed by them.

“I’ll give you ten minutes,” Doctor Prescott instructed, “then I want you out. My patient needs rest.”

Cindy lay still as death. Reese fought the urge to put his arms around her.

“A couple of last questions,” Cooper said.

Cindy turned her face to the wall.

“I know you didn’t see him,” Cooper began, “but did he say anything? Make any sound?”

Cindy said nothing.

“Please, Miss Harris. We need your help.”

“He...didn’t say anything.”

“Did you get a feeling you knew him?”

“He had on one of those masks, a ski mask . . . it all happened so fast.”

“One last question. Why did you choose to walk home after midnight?”

Suzy gasped. Reese looked sharply at Cooper. What the hell.

“Choose?” Cindy struggled to sit up. “I didn’t choose anything. My car was in the shop. I had to work. What’s the matter with you people?” She broke down with hard sobs. Suzy leaned over to hold her.

Doctor Prescott stood. “That’s enough,” he said, glaring at the detectives.

Reese felt sick. Had he been like that? Ah, Cooper, you’re the one who needs lessons. “Excuse me,” he broke in, ignoring Cooper’s glare and the doctor’s order to leave. He shoved a plastic chair next to Cindy and sat down.

“Miss Harris, may I call you Cindy?”

Cindy remained frozen. Rigid.

“I’m sorry this happened to you.” Reese’s voice was gentle. “Is there anything we can do? Personally? Anyone you’d like us to contact?”

Cindy’s face crumbled. “No, please, I-I don’t want anyone to know.” More tears welled and overflowed, making wet tracks down her cheeks. She cleared her throat and spoke again, so low Reese could barely hear her. “I should have...fought more.”

Reese picked up a tissue pack from the bedside stand. Cindy took one and blotted her eyes, but the tears kept flowing.

He took her hand and held it quietly until she calmed and gave him her full attention. He looked into her eyes.

“I want you to remember something very important. You did the right thing. You survived. Nothing else is as important as that, nothing. Don’t ever forget that, Cindy, no matter what.”

Cindy looked at him as if she were drowning and he was a heroic lifeguard. Suzy smiled at him, her blue eyes sparkling.

Reese reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a card and placed it on the table next to the bed. He stood. “If you think of anything, the slightest thing, give either of us a call.” With one last squeeze of her hand, he slipped past Cooper and left the cubicle. Cooper tromped after him.

“What the hell do you mean, cutting me off like that?” she demanded. “How dare you undermine my interrogation?”

He sighed. “I did nothing of the sort. Take my advice, Cooper. Remember victims are human beings, not just numbers on your sheet.”

“That, from the great Sergeant Sanders?”

“God, I hope I’m not the same prig.”

“You know what your trouble is? You’re letting guilt override your investigative skills.”

Reese studied her a moment, then headed for the door.

“Wait!” she called after him. “You’re supposed to work with me, you have—”

The double-doors slid apart and Reese stepped into the night air. It must have rained while they were in the hospital; pools of water shimmered on the pavement and he could smell moisture in the air. A blanket of dull gray clouds covered the sky.

Was it his guy? Possibly. The results of the DNA test should tell him. But unless there was a file, some record of the perp to make a comparison, all the DNA in the world wasn’t going to help.

Chapter Seven

Tracy woke, sobbing.

She’d had the dream again, the same one that had haunted her since childhood. She was clutching her doll and backing away from a gray-haired man.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes full of sympathy, “but I have to take it. It’s on the inventory. See?” He pointed to the paper. “Large bride doll.”

About three-feet tall, the doll had brown eyes instead of the usual blue, rosy cheeks and a rosebud mouth. Dressed in a yellowed satin gown with a netted train studded with pearls, it always sat on a special shelf across from her bed and was the first thing Tracy saw each morning.

Cardboard boxes filled the tiny apartment. The men were repossessing everything, even taking pictures off the wall. Tracy’s mother stood in the middle of the room and wrung her hands.

In the dream, Tracy watched helplessly as her mother begged the supervisor to let Tracy keep the doll she loved so much, the doll her real father had given her. Her step-father stared out the window.

“Sorry, lady,” the supervisor said. “There’s nothing I can do. I’m supposed to take everything on the list.” He reached for the doll.

Gulping air in deep, hard breaths, Tracy sat up in bed, blinking away the fogginess of sleep. She thought it ridiculous, a grown woman, the mother of a child almost a year old, crying over a doll.

Still, she ached with the loss.

She sat listening to the rain tapping against the windows and thought about the dream. Would she ever be free of the past?

She had been nine when her mother brought Jim home. Louisiana’s steaming heat had been close to a hundred, and they lived about five miles out of town in a row house on the north edge of a cotton field. Her mother hated the smell of fertilizer and the sun constantly beating down on them, but Tracy loved it. Right out their front door and across the dirt road, hundreds of neat rows of white bolls swayed in the breeze. Her own flower paradise. And she had several friends from the peeling white duplexes that had once been share-cropper houses.

Then one day everything changed.

She had been washing the skillet and dish she’d used for her supper of fried bologna and mayonnaise sandwiches when she heard footsteps on the sagging wood porch. Keys rattled at the door, then it swung open.

“It’s me,” Eloise called.

Tracy threw the dishtowel over her shoulder and rushed to the living room. Her mother would never leave work at Hal’s diner unless something was wrong.

Eloise stood talking to a strange man. He looked huge, like one of those wrestlers Tracy had seen on TV. She couldn’t see him clearly; his features were muted by the yellowed window shades pulled against the late afternoon sun.

Still in her red-checked waitress uniform, Eloise took his arm and pulled him to Tracy.

“This is Mr. Hammond, Jim Hammond.”

Tossing a slight nod in Tracy’s direction, Mr. Hammond’s gaze darted around the room, past the old brown sofa, the heavily scratched wood rocker and the battered thirteen-inch TV sitting on a wheeled cart.

Eloise smiled and slipped a thin arm through his.

“Isn’t he handsome?” she asked Tracy. “Reminds me of your father.”

Puzzled, Tracy studied the man. Her father and Mr. Hammond had the same dark curly hair and brown eyes, but everything else was different.

He sat on the rocker and drummed his fingers, tapped his foot and never looked directly at her.

“Hello, Mr. Hammond,” Tracy said the way her mother had taught her. She offered her hand like she had seen the grown-ups do. Mr. Hammond barely touched her.

“Yeah, kid.” He wiped his hands on his trousers, then wet the ends of his fingers with his tongue and ran the moist tips down the sharp creases.

Tracy backed away and looked at her hands. Were they dirty? But they couldn’t be; she had just washed dishes.

Eloise beamed. “I want you two to get acquainted. He’s going to be your new daddy.”

Tracy dropped the dish on the worn linoleum, breaking it into several large pieces. Her stricken eyes flew to Mr. Hammond then back to her mother. She couldn’t breathe.

“Now honey,” Eloise said, bending to pick up the pieces, “try to understand. It’s hard to raise you all by myself. Besides, I need...” She faltered, keeping her head lowered, “I need someone.”

Tracy dropped to her knees beside her mother. “But Mama, you got me,” she whispered, trying not to cry.

“Baby, I know, but this is different. You’ll understand when you grow up. Not too many men want a ready-made family.” She smoothed Tracy’s bangs from her forehead. “I’ll be able to get you some pretty clothes and maybe that nice red bike.”

Tracy didn’t respond. Everyone was quiet while Eloise dumped the broken pieces into the garbage can. Back in the living room, she gazed at Mr. Hammond, her eyes full of love.

“We’re lucky,” she said to Tracy. “Jim likes children.”

Mr. Hammond rose and walked to the kitchen. “Got anything to drink?”

Now, Tracy tried to shake off the memories that had plagued her most of her life. Since leaving home, she had worked hard to forget all that had happened when she was a child, searching the library for self-help books and going to lectures. And now the dream again. Why? Was she doomed to have Jim with her forever?

She stepped to the crib and stood watching Ritchie sleep, taking comfort from the sound of his soft breathing. His yellow pajama top had bunched into a ball on his back. Carefully, she pulled the cheap cotton over his diaper.

“No one is ever going to take away your things,” she whispered. “I promise you that.”

In the kitchen she put the kettle on for tea, sat at the table and picked up the school brochure. She checked her watch. Six-thirty. She could call at eight.

***

“So, how much money do I need to start the class?” Tracy cradled the receiver on her shoulder and grabbed the notepad on the kitchen table.

“Well, let’s see,” Mrs. Wellington said. “As long as nothing changes in the immediate future, I’m sure your aid will come through. All you’ll need is enough for books and some miscellaneous supplies. About two-hundred dollars should do it.”

Two hundred dollars? “But I thought financial aid paid for the books.”

“No, dear. The loans and grants pay for most everything, but you’ll still have some expense.”

Some expense. Might as well be a million. Even with all her scrimping, Tracy didn’t have nearly enough. And wouldn’t have in three weeks, no matter how much more she cut her budget.

All of her plans evaporated like a puff of smoke. Tears formed and she wanted to hang up before she started crying and made a fool of herself.

“There’s no way I could come up with that kind of money,” she said, her voice low. “Thank you for your time.” She pushed the button, cutting off Mrs. Wellington in mid-sentence. The pencil rolled across the table and hit the floor, smashing the lead point. Just like her plans. Why couldn’t she ever get a break?