“And he agreed to use it?” he questioned, not attempting to hide the doubt in his voice. What, did he think that I forced the guy to wear one? I tried to subdue my frustration.
“Not at first. But I threatened him with eighteen years of child supp
ort if I ended up pregnant, and after telling me that I was more trouble than his ex, he agreed.”
“You’re shitting me,” he deadpanned.
“No, I assure you I’m not.”
“Unbelievable. Not that I don’t believe you,” he quickly corrected himself. “But the fact that you were able to get him to use a condom or listen to you at all, for that matter, is unheard of. I can’t think of a single case where this has happened.”
“Well, I did what I had to do, and with my luck, I definitely would have ended up pregnant. And since this guy was ugly as sin, it wouldn’t bode well for my future child, now would it?” I added, trying to lighten the tone of the conversation.
He stared at me and then shook his head slightly, as if to clear it. “So after he agreed to wear a condom…”
“He told me that he was through talking and to get undressed. I had promised to cooperate, so I did what he said. He wanted me to undress him, so I did.” I said this in an almost clinical fashion, hoping he could just use his imagination for the rest. Evidently, he couldn’t.
“I’m sorry, but I have to ask…” And he truly did look sorry. In any other situation, I probably would have felt bad for the guy.
“I know,” I said with a heavy sigh. Deep breath, Celeste. Then I began….
***
After reliving what had happened for hopefully (but not likely) the last time, I finally looked up into his eyes and saw pure, unadulterated compassion. Since it wasn’t pity, I could deal with it. Pity just pissed me off. He didn’t seem to be able to speak, and I was ready to get going, so I asked, “Where do we go from here?”
Snapping out of it, he answered, “Well, I need you to meet with our local forensic artist, who will sketch a facial composite based on your description of the attacker. This will be crucial to our investigation, so please provide every detail you can remember. As glad as I am that he wore a condom, for your sake, it makes our job a hell of a lot harder without a semen sample. Not saying that it’s impossible though, and maybe the hospital can—”
“DNA won’t be a problem,” I interrupted him. He looked at me questioningly, so I continued. “Even though he didn’t seem like the brightest crayon in the box, I knew that if he had half a brain, he’d flush the condom down the toilet…which he did. So, I raked my fingernails down his back. Of course, the dumbass probably thought it was an act of passion. Regardless, I haven’t washed my hands since it happened, which has been extremely difficult for me not to do, I might add.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope, still not.”
“What would make you think to do that?”
“You mean, do I watch CSI? No, actually, I don’t even have cable, even though I am well aware of what a great babysitter the TV could be. But I would much rather read or play games with the twins or spend time outside or—”
“You didn’t answer my question, but those are nice things to know,” he interrupted gently. I couldn’t help but notice when one of side of his mouth barely turned upward.
I sighed. He was probably going to find out anyway before this whole nightmare was over. “Let’s just say that this isn’t my first rodeo,” I answered quietly and looked away, but not before catching the look of horror that swept over his face as recognition hit him as to what my statement meant.
“This has happened to you before?” he breathed, barely above a whisper.
“Yes. State of Texas v. Jared Kyle Young. You’re welcome to look up the case if you want, not that it’s relevant. The two incidents are nothing alike.”
“I’ll decide if it’s relevant,” he said, sounding almost angry. Which, of course, was making me angry. What the hell was he getting upset about? That was the past, and the past was exactly where it should stay.
“Fine, if you must know—and because you’ll find out soon enough anyway—I was the victim of date rape when I was younger…much younger. I fought like hell, and it didn’t turn out well. There wasn’t a gun involved but I was beaten pretty badly.” I continued quickly, hoping he wouldn’t ask any more questions, “That’s how I knew that this time I didn’t stand a chance. And obviously I didn't have kids then. Speaking of which, I would really like to get out of here so I can go get them. Can we head to the hospital now?”
If it were possible, he looked even angrier than he did before. I’m not sure if this anger was directed at asshole number one, dickhead number two, or me, for jacking up his whole day.
“Thompson! Price!” he yelled, startling my still-raw nerves. When the two guys entered the room a minute later, the detective spoke to them in what was definitely not his talking-to-a-victim voice. “Take Ms. Logan to the Med. They’ll know what to do. Make sure they get the skin cells from under her fingernails before she washes her hands. After that’s done, bring her to the station and I’ll have the artist ready to sketch. The faster we get a look at this fucker, the better.”
“Yessir,” Thompson or Price answered.
“Ma’am,” the detective said, now looking at me. “I’m sure I’ll see you again today. I’ve got to get back to the station.” His clipped tone made it seem like he couldn’t get away from me fast enough. Then he turned and walked away, leaving me to wonder what was so damn important that he couldn’t be bothered going to the hospital with me himself. If I didn’t know it already—which I obviously did—there was one truth I knew, without a doubt: men suck.