Ten Times Guilty (13 page)

Cooper gathered the robe and torn clothing and put them in another bag. She then wrote something on a gummed notepad, tore it off, and stuck it on the front of the bag.

“What’s she doing?” Tracy asked.

“Your clothes are considered evidence,” Sharon explained.

Jean gave Tracy two long swabs with cotton on one end.

“Just run them over the inside of your cheek and over your tongue, then give one to Officer Cooper and one to me. Be very careful and do not touch the cotton.”

“That’s for DNA,” Sharon said.

When Tracy complied, Jean then picked up an instrument that looked like a small knife and asked Tracy to raise her hands. She carefully scraped under each of Tracy’s fingernails.

“This is also for DNA,” Sharon told her. “You might have scratched him.”

Tracy closed her hands. “Will DNA tell you who did this?”

“If it matches any samples on file, it will.” Reese spoke up. During the proceedings he had remained quiet. Unobtrusive.

“So if...he hasn’t...done this before, you can’t tell who it is?”

“When we have a suspect and he matches the samples, we’ll have him.” Cooper said.

“But not until then?”

“We’ll run the samples to see if there are any matches. If not, we wait.” Cooper deposited the scrapings into a small envelope, which she labeled, sealed, and placed next to the others on a tray.

Tracy fixed her attention on a paint spot on the wall. As soon as she could get out of the hospital, she’d take Ritchie and get as far away as her meager savings would take them. She’d take nothing except what she could carry.

She just had to get through the next couple of days.

The curtain parted and a young dark-haired woman carrying a tray of tubes stepped in. They clinked and rattled.

“Hello, I just need some samples.”

“What is the blood for?” Tracy asked Sharon.

“The standard blood work; pregnancy—”

“But I’m not pregnant.”

“It’s routine with any woman in her menstrual years. Sometimes a woman can be in the early stages and not know it, and the embryo can be damaged if she’s given certain medications. Then there’s the drug screen and also the blood alcohol. And of course, testing for the HIV virus.”

“Oh my God,” Tracy gasped.

“They’ll automatically test for it along with your other blood work, but it’s too soon to tell. It’s really a blood count, and you’ll need to talk with your doctor about follow-up tests.

“More tests?”

“Usually at three and six month intervals.”

After the samples were taken, the lab tech labeled two vials and gave one to Cooper, then placed the other in the correct slot in her tray. With a small wave, she left the room.

Jean flipped up the stirrups attached to the end of the bed and snapped them into place.

Tracy stared at them. Her mouth went dry.

“Please,” she whispered, tears starting. “I can’t.”

“I know it’s rough,” Sharon said, her voice gentle, “but it’s not that different from what you’ve had before. Just try to relax and it’ll soon be over.”

“Please slide down and place your heels into the stirrups,” Jean instructed.

Tracy drew her legs together and didn’t move.

“All these people...” Tracy murmured.

“Would you like me to leave?” Sharon asked.

Tracy nodded. “Please understand, I appreciate all you’ve done, but...”

“Of course I understand. I’ll be right outside.” With a thumbs-up sign, she quietly left the room.

“I’ll do the same.” Reese got up and followed her out. That left Officer Cooper, Jean, and the doctor. Tracy wished the officer would leave, too, but knew she wouldn’t. Feelling as if her blood had frozen, Tracy slid down. She tried to make her mind a blank, tried not to think about what was about to take place.

“All the way down. Place your fanny at the edge of the table, and I’ll help you into the stirrups.” 

Chapter Seventeen

Karr sat in his recliner clad in shorts and undershirt, the chrome barrel of his Colt .45 and a soft piece of an old t-shirt on his lap. To his left, a dented metal snack tray held the rest of his disassembled gun, his cleaning equipment and a bottle of Hoppe’s Number Nine. Two empty beer cans and a full one sat on the end table to his right, and smoke from a lit cigarette made a trail to the ceiling where it hung in the still night air. It was muggy and supposed to rain again.

After he left Tracy, he kept out of sight.

Jesus, he didn’t mean to stick it to her right then and there, but that lush body squirming up against his had blown his good intentions all to hell. After all, how much could a guy take?

He didn’t wanted to hurt her, either. After all, she wasn’t like the others. If only she’d have let him love her instead of acting like he was trying to kill her or something.

He trailed her home, watching her get up and fall, get back up and go some more. Damn if he wasn’t tempted to go help her. What the fuck was wrong with him?

He saw the ambulance; then, keeping a good distance away, he trailed it to the hospital.

After that, he’d hightailed it home. And began cleaning his gun. It hadn’t been fired in so long he was afraid it would misfire or something.

The apartment was quiet; Rosa was asleep in the bedroom. He tiptoed in to be sure she was dead to the world. She’d have a shit-fit if she knew what he’d done, but what the fuck. If she’d put out a little more, he wouldn’t have to go looking.

Broads. All alike. Tempt and tease, then yell when you want some. Christ, he hated them.

Karr took a swig of beer, picked up the remote and turned on the TV. Cheers and catcalls from the TV caught his attention. He hit the mute and listened for a moment to make sure Rosa didn’t wake up.

On one of the talk show reruns, a good-looking black broad was talking. He raised the volume just enough to hear.

“—and I should be able to wear anything I want without being hassled.” Enthusiastic applause broke out from the audience and she stood and bowed playfully. Almost six feet tall on spike heels and endowed with a figure most women would kill for, she was a knock-out. Decked out in a clinging lavender jumpsuit with a plunging v-neck, she drew the male eye like a fly to a fly-trap.

Another broad, Caucasian, looking about sixteen, dressed in a short leather skirt and one of those vest-things, got up from the row of chairs on stage and slapped the black broad’s hand with a high five. They both acted like they’d really scored or something. Disgusting.

The camera followed the female moderator to a kid in his early twenties, standing and waving his arms.

“Sure, you can wear anything you want to,” the guy said, “but if you go around wearing stuff like that, don’t act so bugged when guys look at you. That’s why you’re wearing it, ain’t it?”

Another round of applause. The black broad looked like she’d just sucked a lemon.

“Fucking two-faced cunts.” Karr muted the sound. He took a long swig of his beer. Dammit, what was wrong with women? Why couldn’t they stick with one person, be faithful, no matter if it was a lover, husband, or even a son? But no, they were always out there, strutting their asses in front of someone else’s nose.

He drained the can and wiped the wet streak from the corner of his mouth. God, he hated women. Always treating him like a sack of shit, like he didn’t have no feelings. 

Showing him he didn’t count.

Just like Tracy. Always cutting him off like he wasn’t important. Well, he showed her.

But what if she talked? Not only would his career be in the toilet, but his whole fuckin’ life would go down. He didn’t think that mousey little tramp would say anything because he sure as shit had scared the crap out of her.

Was he willing to bet his life on it? He crushed the beer can with his fist. Maybe, just to be on the safe side, he’d disappear for awhile. Yeah, that’s what he’d do. Wouldn’t take long to pack. There wasn’t much around there he cared about, just his clothes, uniforms, and of course, his gun and stuff.

In the bedroom he opened the top dresser drawer and lifted the cheap flowered jewelry box. Rosa had just gotten paid and hadn’t had time to take care of the bills yet. He took three twenties, leaving her with a ten and some ones. Ah, Christ. He put a twenty back in the drawer. At least she had put up with him all this time, and he supposed she loved him, in her own way.

Dressed in jeans and his black windbreaker, he picked up his cardboard box of books from the floor and set it by the front door. He was an avid reader, with books on firearms and Karate, which he practiced religiously, books on police work, and his collection of porn and action-novels.

From the kitchen, he got a couple of paper bags, one for his toiletries, the other for his underwear. He carried the bags down to his car, then returned for the rest of his things including his box of ammunition and various pieces of gun cleaning equipment.

He could keep better watch on things from his van anyway.

Chapter Eighteen

Tracy couldn’t delay any longer; there was just so much table left. She slid to the edge, and then, of all things, started to cry. A person wouldn’t think there’d be any tears left, but there they were, rolling down her face and into her hair.

Jean stepped up to the table to raise Tracy’s feet and place them properly in the stirrups, but Tracy had such difficulty opening her legs that the nurse had to pry them apart. Then she draped a sheet across them.

Finally everything was in position. When Dr. Cole leaned toward her, Tracy’s knees came together.

“Tracy,” he said, looking up, “I need your cooperation.”

Tracy swallowed helpless tears. “I’m sorry. Please, can’t you do this later?”

“We realize this must be hard for you,” Jean told her, “but it’s necessary. If you just try to relax and let the doctor proceed, it’ll soon be over and you won’t have to think about it. The longer you delay, the longer you’ll be in here.”

Tracy turned her head away and opened her knees. She stared at a crack in the wall.

“Vaginal lacerations,” he said to Jean, “on and around the vulva. It sounds worse than it really is, Tracy. It’s actually a few small tears, but they do need suturing. We’ll apply a local anesthetic so you won’t feel a thing. We’ll do that toward the end of the exam, right before the sutures. It won’t be any worse than stitches after childbirth.”

Cooper made notes.

The doctor inserted the speculum. “Abrasion of the fornices and cervix,” Tracy heard him say. “That’s medical speak for bruising,” he told her, “and time will take care of it.” He continued his examination. “The next step involves evidence of sperm. We’ll do a wet prep and a UV.”

Tracy closed her eyes.

Dr. Cole explained the process to Tracy. “What we’re doing, aside from checking for injuries, is keeping the evidence separate and labeled. When the police get the guy, the court will know the chain of evidence has been preserved. That way they can use it against him.”

Tracy turned her face away. She didn’t care about chains or anything else while she lay spread open and exposed. She counted the minutes while he did something with glass slides.

Dr. Cole showed Tracy a small comb with bristles on the end.

“This is to collect foreign pubic hairs.” He gently combed Tracy’s pubis, then, with tweezers, dropped the hairs into the envelope Cooper held.

“I’ll have to use tweezers to remove a few of your own. It might sting.” He pulled a few and repeated the process with Cooper.

“Next we’ll use a special light to check for semen.” Jean handed him a rectangle light, about eight by two. He turned it on and ran it over Tracy’s body, then scraped at something on her thighs and vagina. Again, he carefully gave Cooper something. “We’ll administer the anesthetic now,” he told Tracy, “for the stitches. Then one more injection, a couple of pills, and we’ll be finished.”

“Another injection?”

“For sexually transmitted disease prevention. The pills are Ovral, an emergency contraceptive and considered very effective. You’ll take two now and two more in twelve hours.” He stood up and peeled off the gloves. “Good news, Tracy. We’re finished. After you take your medications, you’ll be moved to your room.”

“Thank God,” she whispered.

Jean helped her out of the stirrups, then folded them back under the table. She acknowledged Tracy’s look of distaste. “Nobody likes them, not even me.”

“Good night, Tracy,” Dr. Cole said, leaving the room. “Get some rest, and I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

Sharon stepped in as Jean administered the injection.

“It’s over and you made it,” she said encouragingly.

Tracy turned away, too fatigued to talk or think. She just wanted to wrap herself in a protective cocoon and drift away.

***

In the hallway, Cooper approached Reese.