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“We’ll still photograph your shirt,” he said as Officer Candalle came back carrying a digital camera similar to Cassie’s.
“Can you point out your injuries?” he asked, and when I pointed to the top of my head, he snapped a few photos.
He studied me, his eyes narrowed slightly. “Does your face hurt at all anywhere?”
“No, why?” I looked at Brett, wondering why he was asking.
Candalle shook his head. “Nothing major. Just a few superficial cuts. Can you tell us what happened while we take the rest of the pictures?”
He snapped away, taking pictures of my head, my face, and Brett’s shirt, while Santos typed quickly on his laptop.
“We were walking toward campus,” I said, “on our way to the softball fields, when some guy came out of nowhere and attacked my sister. She was behind us, so no one noticed at first.”
I felt light-headed, so I put my head between my legs for a moment. The room was quiet, and the officers waited patiently until I could continue.
“When I turned around, I saw her head fly to the side. He’d hit her. We all started running back for her at that point, but he hit her again. Then the next thing I remember was the guy telling me he had a gun, asking me if I wanted to die, and then I woke up with Brett carrying me across campus. But I’m sure more happened after I passed out. You have to ask my sister.”
“Can you describe the assailant?” Santos asked, still typing.
“He was about five foot eleven, but skinny. Looked like he weighed maybe a buck fifty, not muscular in build, but quick. He was damn fast on his feet,” I said, searching my mind for other details. “Oh, he had dark blond hair that went to his shoulders.
It was stringy, and looked dirty. That’s all I remember.”
Candalle nodded and set aside the camera. “That’s great, really helpful. Anything else you can think of? Did he have any distinguishing marks that you can remember? Any tattoos? Scars?”
“Not that I recall,” I said, feeling like a failure.
“What about you, Brett. Did you get a good look at him?”
Brett shifted on his feet. “I didn’t, actually. I just saw Dean fall to the ground, and I knew I needed to get him out of the situation.”
Santos rose to his feet and came over to where I sat. “I’m not a doctor, but I did have some medical training. Do you want me to look at your head?”
“Please,” I said, and relaxed a little with relief.
He dug around in his desk and found a pair of latex gloves. Once he’d snapped them on, he leaned forward and gently moved sections of my hair aside to check my scalp. As he did, small shards of brown glass fell to the floor.
“It looks nasty, but it’s already stopped bleeding for the most part. I don’t think you need stitches, but keep an eye on it. I’m not a doctor, so I’d advise you to stop by the ER or urgent care and get it checked out.”
“Understood. Thank you, though,” I said.
As he pulled off his gloves and tossed them into the trash can, I closed my eyes for a second, wishing I had something for the pain. My head hurt like a bitch.
“You mentioned your sister. Where is she now?” Candalle asked, and I shifted in my seat.
“I don’t know. I hope she’s home by now, but I don’t know.”
“Can you find out? And what’s your full name and hers?”
I nodded, reaching for the cell phone in my pocket. “Dean Carter and Cassie Andrews,” I said as I called my brother’s number and held the phone away from my ear as it rang.
“Dean,” Jack said, sounding relieved when he answered the phone.
“Hey. Do you have her? Is she okay?” I asked, trying not to sound as frantic as I felt.
Candalle leaned closer to listen.
“We’re at her apartment. I was going to help her clean up her face,” Jack started to say, and Candalle overheard and lifted a hand in the air.
