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He looked at his dinner as though he might have a bite, but then changed his mind.
“In the kit, are four long swabs. I have to swab all the orifices. Mouth, vagina, anus. I need to do it even if the victim says there’s no need. You can’t trust everything they say. They might not be ready to talk about some of the things that happened to them. So they don’t always acknowledge that they even happened. Later, when they’re ready to talk about specific acts, you’ll want to have swabbed everything. There’s a nail pick to scrape under the victim’s nails. Again, I ignore them if they say they didn’t scratch their rapist. It’s possible they might not remember, and you don’t want to not have a sample if they do remember. The kit also contains vials for blood and urine. Unfortunately, they have to give a urine sample in front of a nurse, me. Otherwise, it technically breaks the chain of evidence.”
He stopped and took a long breath, then went on,
“At this point I get the victim onto the exam table. I fold up the paper they’ve been standing on and put it into the bag provided. Then I do the internal exam, noting any injuries. This is usually the hardest part. Before they leave, I get them a prescription for antibiotics. Their blood will tell us if they’ve picked up any STDs. but we go ahead and treat first.”
We had all stopped eating. It was a lot to take in. Finally, I asked, “And then they talk to the detective?”
He shakes his head.
“That usually happens before we collect the evidence.”
“But that can take hours.”
“Yes.”
Somehow that seemed the worst part. Talking with detectives is an ordeal all on its own. Having to go through that before you’ve gotten out of the clothes you’d been raped in, while you’re still covered in your assailant’s semen… Well, I can see why so many victims choose to take a shower.
“Thank you. I have to interview three rape victims. It helps to have some idea what they went through.”
“I don’t know about anyone else, but I need another drink,” Junior said. That seemed to break the tension. More wine was poured, dinners were eaten, and at eight o’clock we were in the living room watchingMelrose Place.
I stayed pretty quiet, thinking about the three women I needed to interview. After what they’d been through—the rape, the statements, the exams—I could see how much they’d want someone to be caught. Otherwise, the whole thing, the whole ongoing trauma of it, wouldn’t make any sense. It must have been so satisfying when their rapists were convicted. And now that was being taken away.
When the show was over, Ronnie turned the television off, saying, “Such a dreadful show.”
“Why did we just watch it then?” I asked.
“It’s a cultural phenomenon. We don’t want to be left out.”
“All I have to say is that Heather girl is no Bette Davis,” Junior added. “She’s not even a Joan Crawford.”
“They’re both dead, aren’t they?” I asked. It did prevent their auditioning for the role.
“Of course, they’re dead. Bette died in Paris. Chic right to the end. I met her, you know. Did I mention that?”
He had. Several times.
“She had the top floor of this apartment building, four stories, brick. I can see it like it was yesterday. I swear it was on Franklin and Sierra Bonita.”
I was fairly certain it wasn’t, but we’d had that conversation. Bored with this, John said, “My favorite thing aboutMelrose Placeis the boys. They’re all so sexy.”
“I’d kill to live in a courtyard building like that,” Junior said.
‘‘There are a couple just like it on 3rd Street. I can check and see if they have anything coming up,” Ronnie said. He wasn’t all that fond of Junior.
“Oh, but I love it here with the two of you. You’re so wonderful.”
“Then I guess you wouldn’t kill to live in a building like that. Would you?” I pointed out.
“You’re so literal.”
“Well, I suppose it’s time for bed.”
“It’s nine o’clock,” Junior started but then stopped. “Oh, I see. Well off you go. Have a lovely time.”
“Good night, John,” I said.
