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“They want to take her,” Maggie said. “Looks like she was hit pretty hard. But she wasn’t raped. She has some cuts, but nothing like the other women.”
“Thanks Mag,” I said, nodding. “Stick around in case she needs you,” I added.
“Of course.”
The house was tight, as expected. You walked in from the front porch into an L-shaped room that served as both the living room and dining space.
The house was old, sure, but a lot of love had been put into updating the interior. The walls were a warm beige, all but hidden by tall bookshelves, their shelves bending a bit under the weight of the tomes packed onto them.
The wall under the plate glass window had a green velvet couch under it.
On said couch was our victim.
And the only survivor of the serial sadistic rapist who I refused to call by his sensationalized headline moniker.
I wouldn’t give that bastard the satisfaction.
Our survivor, Mari Yates I’d been told over the phone, had a pink, blue, and white blanket pulled tightly over her body. No shirt or pants peeked out from it, so I imagined she was naked—or nearly—underneath it.
I hated to think it, but I was worried about any evidence being ruined by the blanket she needed to cover herself, to protect her modesty, to prevent her from being re-victimized by being caught naked and vulnerable.
There were things I expected about her, thanks to the other victims, based on the profile we had for the killer.
Mari was short and slight with brown hair. Mari’s was shorter than the other two women, just teasing her shoulders.
The murderer didn’t have a preference for facial features or eyes, but the other two victims didn’t have any tattoos or piercings other than their ears. Neither did Mari.
Mari Yates had a round, sweet face, making her look young and doll-like, though she had to be between twenty and thirty, if the profile was right.
Her face was bruised and swollen, including one eye, but she had a pretty shade of honey-brown eyes.
Her fingernails that were clutching the blanket to her body were short and unmanicured, but caked in blood. One foot was rested on top of the other, the nails painted a deep purple.
That wasn’t pertinent, but I tried to notice everything about a crime scene and victim.
Maggie was right, Mari Yates was a bit shut down, disassociated. But still, when asked, she recounted the events of her attack with certainty and clarity.
My mind moved through the attack with her, seeing the scene through her eyes. I would run through it again after I checked out the crime scene, looking at it from the attacker’s view, then as a third party, standing in the doorway, watching it unfold.
I couldn’t tell you why she’d survived.
The evidence said the other two women had fought as well, their wrists had been raw from fighting against the binds.
They just… hadn’t known how to get out of the zip ties. Or, if they had, they didn’t get an opportunity.
Maybe the assailant’s ego, bolstered by two ‘successful’ attacks, was a bit too inflated, making him think there was no way a little woman could overtake him.
Maybe she’d made it out because she was a woman who kept a knife in her dresser. And a bat by her front door, I noticed while waiting for her to answer.
Sure, there was a chance she just played ball. But it was more likely that she was the kind of woman who liked to be prepared. Who kept weapons around just in case she might need them.
I finished taking Mari’s story, and went to check out the main crime scene while the paramedics finally took her away.
“Well, at least we got some DNA this time,” Casso, one of our forensics guys, said, showing me the bag with the knife.
When the survivor mentioned a knife, I’d imagined one of those all but useless folding kinds they marketed toward women for self-defense. About as useless as most of the tasers on the market, and a lot of the damn pepper spray too.
This knife was not that, though.
