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“What then?”
His mouth trembles, eyes fight tears. Sounds escape around his tight lips like cries for help working around a gag.
“Affair?” I ask. “She was going to leave you for this guy, and as it turns out he wouldn’t leave his wife for her? And your wife couldn’t bear it?”
Shakes his head. “I said they never met like that.”
I sit back. For a business mogul this guy is as tender as a bitch in heat. Of course we’re talking about his dead bride here. I open my desk drawer and pull out a bottle of whiskey. Drop it on the table with a thud loud enough to make him jump in his seat.
I keep a sleeve of plastic cups for guests. I pour him a shot.
“B
ottom’s up,” I say and I sound like my old man. I push him the cup.
“I don’t drink,” he manages to say around a lump in his throat.
“Then do whatever it is you do to pull yourself together and get on with this.” I shoot the swill myself. Good sting. It rises up through my face and gives the kind of internal swat that you want in an eye-opener.
“I should start by saying I’m having an operation in eight days—”
“Start by saying who you want found,” I say. Pour another shot.
Deep breath. Shudder. Begins. “In 1992 my wife and I came home from the movies. We walked into our house during an invasion.”
I settle in for a narrative. It’s no use; he’ll begin where he thinks the story begins. One hand in my lap next to the comforting weight of the ten grand and the even more comforting weight of the revolver. My left hand rolling the plastic cup around in my palm like it was a meditation exercise.
“I was struck right away—” He reaches a hand up to the crown of his skull; a ghost motion he probably doesn’t know he does every time he recounts this story. “—she was, assaulted. I think it was only one man. Her rape kit only revealed one, ummm...intruder.”
“DNA?” DNA was a fledgling thing in the SAPD back in the early ’90s. It was still considered voodoo by some in law enforcement. It probably won’t matter.
“None,” he says, looking down at his hands. “There was a lubricant commonly associated with some brand of condoms. No semen. Sheila—my wife—she described one man. Said he was behind the door. My mom always said I was so rude. I—”
He stops. Looks away to his happy place. One way to get a witness to recall a crime is to have them close their eyes and re-imagine the whole thing. Pull that skin back on for a minute, like a snake sliding inside its shed husk to recall the taste of the last mouse it ate while in it.
When interviewing a witness to a gas station robbery, have them sit there and imagine pulling into the parking space. Mime putting the gear shift in park. Turn off the engine. Hot outside? Stuffy inside the car? What side of the vehicle was the sunlight coming in? Now, when the first robber ran out the door, which way did he turn?
This is how it goes. Petticoat here, he’s remembering the worst night of his life. Tugging back on that shed skin.
“It’s funny,” he starts up. “I always opened a door and walked through it first. My mom said it was the rudest thing. I remember on prom night I did that and she jumped my ass right there in front of my date. I was so proud of myself later because for the rest of the night I let my date through first. But as soon as the night was over, I just reverted. I went back to walking through a door first.”
“Did he take anything? Did he burglarize the home? Did he remove any property?”
“No. He just waited.”
“Did he take a trophy from your wife? A memento of the rape?”
“Yes. Her panties.”
Some rapists, along with other douche bags like serial killers and Ronald McDonald, they’ll take something by which to remember the occasion when they are finished with the crime. They’ll stash it and look at it occasionally to relive the thrill of the event. Lockets, jewelry, a trinket, a clip of hair, clothing, a photograph, a body part. Developing a suspect and then raiding the suspect’s house has led to the discovery of a treasure trove of these mementos. It helps police connect one suspect to dozens of crimes.
“Who did the police suspect?”
“Nobody. They might as well not have worked the case.”
“How so?”
“There was nothing to go on,” Petticoat says, closer to a whine. “No prints. Neighbors didn’t see anything. No DNA. The attacker didn’t speak. Wore a mask. After he clubbed me, Sheila was already stepping inside. He bashed her in the face. He duct taped her hands behind her back. She couldn’t scrape him. No skin under her nails. Nothing.”
