The Wolves of Porterville

By Mary Base

Amorak. That word pops into my brain and I don’t even know what it means until I consult a present-day shaman who takes me on a shamanic journey. Among other things, I learn that amorak is a First Nations word which means wolf. And that my animal spirit guide is telling me to watch out for an evil predator.
Yeah, right. I’m a police detective and a mother of a 15 year old; what are the chances I’m going to put any faith in that kind of crap? Yet when I run a stolen car full of bank robbers off the road, and one of the felons is an Inuit man from the Yukon, strange things begin happening—bizarre dreams, visions of malevolent eyes, instances of psychokinesis.
Retired anthropology professor, Richard Morris, has harbored a lifelong interest in First Nations people and begs for an opportunity to meet the Inuit bank robber. When he comes to Porterville’s jail he brings books about First Nation cultures and a box of Inuit artifacts he thinks the man will find interesting. Of course I look through the box to check for contraband before allowing it into the prisoner. Oops! An ancient flint-bladed knife is removed from the box and remains behind on my desk.
The felon, Julius, inspects the artifacts with fascination but observes, “At my parents’ home in Whitehorse, I have a knife—much like the one left behind on Miss’s desk.”
“Did...how...?” I splutter.
“I see it, Miss,” says Julius. “I also see a black spirit which my mother sends from Whitehorse to help you fight the evil predator.”
After the visit between Julius and Professor Morris, someone has removed the knife from my desk. It is nowhere to be found until it shows up days later in a cold, dark cellar and comes in handy for cutting the duct tape bonds which imprison a beautiful pole dancer and me.
With all this, I begin to question whether or not our world isn’t more than just facts and evidence.
A serial rapist is on the loose and strikes in Lincoln County, in Porterville, even on the ESU campus, leading me to work closely with Campus Police Officer Jaydeen Huff putting both of us in peril so that, finally, I find myself desperately calling her name in the dark subterranean tunnels beneath the university. Then I find her:
Quentin’s murderous glare sears into me.
“Why?” he asks softly, through gritted teeth. He raises Jaydeen by the hair and pulls her to her feet, an effective shield, against his chest. “Why can’t you bitches just learn your place?” The voice increases in volume and pitch. “I’ve tried to teach you all your place!” Now he is crescendo-ing. “But you just don’t get it! We all have our places in this world; yours is not above man! Now this one will have to die and so will you.”
To complicate matters, my philandering husband wants a divorce. Since I’m feeling a little vulnerable, I get the hots for a good looking, double-dimpled deputy from Stevens County.
George Rooney, a bounty hunter of whom I’ve never been fond, flips his Ford Bronco upside down in a torrential down-pour, causing my daughter to be late for her birthday party so that we can save his sorry ass. Then we learn that the bail jumper Rooney was transporting from the Flathead Indian Reservation in Montana has escaped. This guy enjoys setting people he doesn’t like on fire. And now he’s loose in my jurisdiction. Then as if things weren’t touchy enough, Rooney has the gall to suggest that I might just be his daughter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Base
• Release date: Feb 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310382444

Mary Base

I was raised til age 15 on a farm in Central Idaho. My dad was a Czech immigrant and my mom was an Oklahoma City business woman. I graduated from Gonzaga University in 1968 with a B.A. in English.In the days before women routinely became street cops, I'd read a book about a woman who did that and decided that was for me. Beginning in 1981 I worked for 21 years as a police officer, first in Davenport then in Cheney, Washington .In 2002 I hung up my gun belt and went back to school for a BA in Education so I could teach Criminal Justice at Lewis & Clark High School in Spokane. After three years of that, I decided that the public school system and I were not going to see eye-to-eye, so hung up my lazer-pointer and turned my attention to the martial arts school I'd established in 1998.I'd studied marial arts since 1974 and, over the course of 34 years, earned a 4th degree black belt in Goju-ryu Karate. But I'd also, with my husband, team-taught women's self-defense based on the well-known "Model Mugging" system.Since I'd first been able to put words to paper, I'd aspired to be a writer. So, here I am.

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The Wolves of Porterville

A Magnum Schultz Mystery Novel

By Mary Baše

Copyright 2015 Mary Baše

Smashwords Edition

Cover Image by Geoffrey Kuchera

*****

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. It remains the copyrighted property of the authors, and may not be reproduced, copied, scanned or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes without permission from the authors.

If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer, where they can also discover other works by

Mary Baše and Lynn Bain.

Gratitude and respect to Lynn Bain, my academy buddy and fellow police officer turned English teacher whose assistance editing and revising are invaluable.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1—Rooney

Chapter 2—Magnum

Chapter 3—Michael

Chapter 4—Bank Robbers

Chapter 5—Julius, Razzle and Quentin

Chapter 6—Laney Maddox

Chapter 7—Super Eight

Chapter 8—Fifteenth Birthday

Chapter 9—Deputies Bolton and Truman

Chapter 10—The Torngak

Chapter 11—Following Up

Chapter 12—Lobo and Misty

Chapter 13—Shaman

Chapter 14—Zips’ Briefing

Chapter 15—Indiana Jones

Chapter 16—About Wolves and Teens

Chapter 17—Searching for Cindy

Chapter 18—Rooney Says Thanks

Chapter 19—Salina

Chapter 20—Artifact Found

Chapter 21—In Your Dreams

Chapter 22—First Date

Chapter 23—Arrest of Kevin Bryant

Chapter 24—Wolf and Hare

Chapter 25—Hunting a Predator

Chapter 26—The Gypsy

Chapter 27—Who’s Yer Daddy?

Chapter 28—Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

Chapter 29—Witness at the Super Eight

Chapter 30—Jail House Interviews

Chapter 31—Teeth Marks

Chapter 32—The Tunnels

Chapter 33—Black Wolf

Chapter 34—Finishing Points

About the Author and Editor

Other Titles by Baše and Bain

Chapter 1—Rooney

Wednesday, March 28

0945 Hours.

With an explosive crack, his size 13 work boot smashed into the door at knob level. The flimsy wood shattered into splinters. One more kick and the door slammed inward and rebounded against the wall. The bearded man paused in the doorway and watched as Velasco sprang up from his breakfast so abruptly that the table and two of the chairs toppled into a jumble along with his toast, scrambled eggs and bacon.

The man glanced around the kitchen. I knocked, he said, calmly, as he took two steps toward Velasco. He grabbed Velasco by the front of the shirt and spun him around. But maybe you didn’t hear me.

Velasco was a kicker and a squirmer, and almost as large as the bearded man, who had Velasco’s face pressed into the side of the refrigerator with one huge palm. Velasco squawked and thrashed wildly about, profanity erupting like molten lava, in English and some other language Rooney couldn’t place.

Oh, for chrissakes. Hold still already so I can get the cuffs on ya. Velasco wouldn't stop fighting the inevitable, so the bearded man cautioned, Ok. But this is going to hurt you more than it does me.

A right hook anesthetized Velasco and he slumped to the floor. The bearded man ratcheted cuffs around Velasco’s wrists, stood up, and looked toward the panicky squawks that emanated from another part of the house. The squawks, punctuated by small screams, preceded a buxom, dark-complected woman, long black hair and pink silk kimono flying in her wake, as she tore into the kitchen. The lady of the house, the man surmised.

What have you done? she shrieked. Leave him alone!

Ah, stop whining. I didn’t even use the brass, he said, referring to the bulge in his right back pocket. Apparently, she didn’t get it that he’d already cut her punk-ass boy-toy a significant break, because she tried to shove her way between him and Ander Velasco.

Shaking his head resignedly, the bearded man gripped both her upper arms, lifted her easily off her feet, and set her into the one kitchen chair that was still upright. It scraped loudly.

Now just sit there, Ellen, he told her. It’s what you get for hanging with a big-time asshole like him.He’s jumped bail on several felony warrants out of Washington State.

H-How do you know my name? she stammered.

I do my homework, the big man winked at her. George Rooney, Ma’am, Bounty Hunter. He extended his hand, but she declined the offer.

Sorry about the door, he said. Velasco was still groggy, so Rooney propped him up against the door jamb while he extracted a hundred dollar bill from the wallet in his other hip pocket. But this’ll give you a chance to buy one of a better quality. Try Home Depot or maybe Lowe’s in Missoula. And get one that takes at least three good kicks to bust down. Don’t wait too long though. This morning’s news predicted high winds and more snow by tonight. Here in the Flathead Valley, where the snow tended to drift, Rooney didn’t relish getting caught in that kind of weather. He wasn’t that young anymore and preferred sleeping in a warm, comfortable bed.

Ellen stared at the hand with the cash as though the man was handing her a rattler. He sighed indifferently and tucked the bill under a Folgers coffee can on the counter beside the door. He made a mental note that this left him with only about five hundred dollars in his wallet.

Now, you have a nice morning, Ellen, he said, polite as pie.

Rooney grabbed an elbow and helped Velasco to his feet. On the way out, he pulled what was left of the door closed behindt them and escorted Velasco down the sidewalk by the scruff of the neck, stepping over weed-filled cracks, avoiding patches of ice, and pushing out the gate that hung by one hinge. He wondered if the piece of crap house belonged to Ellen, who looked at least partially Native American, or if she rented it from some white slum lord. He shook his head. White folk still managed to find ways to put the screws to the aboriginals.

He opened the passenger door of the brown, ‘67 Ford Bronco and stowed Velasco behind the passenger seat on an old mattress installed for just such occasions. He uncuffed one of Velasco’s wrists just long enough to re-cuff him around the Bronco’s roll bar. That should hold him till our next stop, he thought to himself.

You stay comfy, now, Rooney said, patting Velasco’s shoulder in a fatherly fashion and moving around to the driver’s door. He didn’t wish the dirt bag any further injury, since his karma was already in a sad way. Velasco rewarded his efforts with a look that put Rooney in mind of a rabid coyote he’d had to dispatch once.

He leaned against the Bronco’s front fender to light up a half smoked butt that he’d stashed in his shirt pocket earlier. Smokes were sure expensive these days, he thought. Butt hanging off his lip, he removed his wire rimmed glasses and polished the lenses with a clean white hanky. Damn bifocals, he thought, but a man’s got to see.

Since he was only about four and a half hours east of Porterville, Rooney contemplated stopping there for the night, putting Velasco up in their jail, and finding himself a nice cozy motel room.In the morning he could drop in to say howdy to little ol’ Margaret Schultz, which always shook her up greatly. Rooney found it amusing. She was just like her mother.

Lil’ Margaret—who liked to be called Magnum—didn’t know Rooney had known her ma, in a Biblical sort of way, and he hadn’t seen any reason to tell her. He drew the last puff from the butt, dropped it on the wet pavement and ground it beneath his boot. He pulled a pocket watch out of a side pants pocket and consulted it. Nearly eleven o’clock.

Right then a cold gust of wind reminded him of the late winter storm that was brewing, and he reckoned he was being too ambitious, given the mountain passes between him and Washington State. He’d give himself two days to make Porterville. Then it’d be only about five more hours to King County to deliver his bail jumper.

He shrugged into the heavy, tan canvas jacket that he’d left on the driver’s seat and decided to head south on Highway 93, drive for about an hour, then somewhere near Ravalli or Arlee, take a lunch break. From there it was only a hop, skip and a jump to Missoula. He could put Velasco up for the night in the Missoula County Detention Center and get himself a room at a Missoula motel. He’d have time to see if a little gal named Gwen still lived there. She’d always been real happy to see him when he’d shown up on past trips.

An hour and a half down the road, Rooney’s stomach started growling like an angry pit bull. At a wide-spot-in-the-road gas station and restaurant, where he’d stopped for meals before, he pulled in and parked the Bronco in front of the restaurant’s big plate glass window. This way I can keep an eye on ol’ Ander, he thought. He marveled that only 75 miles further south, the temperature seemed a few degrees warmer, but he wasn’t going to change his plan for a couple degrees.

Rooney ordered the Wednesday special, liver and onions. Wish they’d sell hog’s liver, he thought, but it’s not on a menu anywhere. Guess it’s beef as usual. It was going on 1330 hours by the time the waitress set the food in front of him and refilled his coffee cup for the third time.

Rooney had entertained himself by watching this dipstick of a kid courting a pretty little slip of a thing in the booth two up from his. The kid was probably twenty-four or five. She was about eighteen. She didn’t seem to appreciate the way the dipstick kept coming on to her, and it was starting to annoy Rooney. He watched the kid’s moves all through his meal and couldn’t figure out how the punk was so dense as to not get what she was trying to tell him. If she’d been a daughter of his, Rooney thought, she would have been schooled in the fine art of scumbag-deflection, as in "unless you want me dancing the Watusi all over your pitiful face, asshole, leave me the fuck alone!"

Rooney was sopping up the last of the onion and green bean juice with a hunk of bread, and shoving it home, when the girl finally decided that one way out of her predicament was to visit the ladies room.

Rooney watched as the girl beat feet out the diner’s front door and headed around the corner toward the restrooms. Immediately, the dipstick got up, left money on his table and went out the door after her. Rooney swigged the last of his fourth cup of coffee, left some cash on his own table, including a tip, and moseyed toward the door.

He looked in on Velasco, who had fallen asleep with his neck in a most uncomfortable looking position. He’s in for a neck ache, thought Rooney, no doubt about it. He left the paper sack with the burger and fries he’d bought for Velasco on the front seat. Then, since he had about an hour’s worth of travel still ahead, he figured that he might as well wander out back to take a whiz himself. He dug into the pocket of his blue and black plaid shirt and came up with a brand new Marlboro from its squished-up pack, scratched a match on a brick of the restaurant, and lit up. He took a deep drag and sauntered out behind the building.

Sure enough, that dipstick was holding the girl up against the hood of an ‘89 Ford Ranger, attempting to stick it to her. She was crying and flailing, and trying to push him away. By rights, Rooney thought, he should sic Magnum Schultz on the cocksucker. Lil’ Margaret would’ve axe kicked him in the fuckin’ temple and killed him deader than a doornail. But since she wasn’t around, Rooney guessed he’d have to step up to the plate.

Carefully, he stubbed the fire off the Marlboro and laid it on the lip of an open blue dumpster. He took off his bifocals, folded them, and placed them alongside the Marlboro.

The kid was so engrossed in what he was doing that he didn’t see Rooney walk up behind him. Reaching into his hip pocket, Rooney slipped the brass knuckles comfortably around his right hand, got hold of the dipstick’s right shoulder with his left, and spun him around. Then he was treated to the most startled, disbelieving expression he’d seen in a long, long time, right before he hit the kid in the face with the brass.

The blow whirled the kid in a counterclockwise direction, a trail of blood arcing around his head. He went down hard and didn’t move. Gotta love those brass knuckles, Rooney thought. One hit and the fight’s over.

The girl was sobbing and gasping something awful, and looked nearly as terrified of Rooney as she had been of the dipstick. He couldn’t say that he blamed her, looking scruffy with that full salt-and-pepper beard and all. The dipstick had pulled her little skirt clean up around her waist and nearly ripped off those skimpy red undies. And now she was shrinking down onto the Ford Ranger’s passenger step side, struggling hard to get herself reassembled. Hmmm. Didn’t realize Ford made a step side in ’89.

Rooney backed away to give her some breathing space and used the time to redeem his glasses and the Marlboro. He fitted the glasses back over his ears and struck another match to reignite the smoke. After a couple puffs, he noted that her snuffling had settled down. When she finally looked up at him, he offered her a drag on the cig. She accepted it with trembling fingers, and put it to her lips. She took a drag then coughed like non-smokers do.

You all right now? he asked. You want I should call the cops or somebody?

She shook her head, fingers still quaking as she handed the Marlboro back to him. Please don’t call anyone, she managed, sniffling. Mascara and tears streaked her cheeks. Rooney handed her a clean white hanky. She took it and said, Especially not the cops. My dad’s the chief of police. He’d kill me for getting into this situation. He keeps telling me not to be so friendly with people. He’ll just say ‘I told you so.’ …But what about him? She nodded towards the dipstick who was still out cold on the ground. Rooney nudged the kid’s shoulder with the toe of his boot. Dipstick groaned.

He’ll be all right, Rooney assured her, wondering why the hell she’d even care. He might need some stitches to close up that gash. And he’ll probably have a hell of a jaw ache for a few days. Maybe a broken tooth or two. ...So, you know his name?

She shrugged. "I only know his first name. It’s Kevin. I’d seen him around town and even thought he was kind of cute, so when he started talking to me, I was okay with it. I agreed to have lunch with him. But he got real…familiar...trying to touch me, you know?"

She squinted up her eyes as if she might start squalling again, then managed to control herself and blow her nose on Rooney’s hanky. I was so scared. Can I just go now?

I can drop you somewheres, he suggested. I got a passenger, but I can guarantee that he’ll stay in the back seat.

N-no. Please. My Mustang is parked in front. I just want to drive to my girlfriend’s house. She’ll take care of me.

She picked up a little dinky purse that she’d apparently dropped during the struggle, brushed off some wet slush and pulled out a set of keys. Then she scurried toward the front of the restaurant, big blue eyes glancing fearfully over her shoulder as if Rooney might decide to grab her after all. Before she disappeared around the corner, she turned and called, Thank you. I–I don’t even know your name.

George Rooney, Ma’am. Bounty hunter.

*****

Rooney returned to the Bronco after using the men’s room. Velasco was awake, and sure as hell, started complaining about the pain in his neck. Rooney unlocked the handcuffs and walked him behind the cafe so he too could avail himself of the facilities. Velasco looked at the dipstick, who was still on the ground groaning, and said What happened to him?

He’s just napping, Rooney explained, then winked at Velasco and let him go into the bathroom by himself. Though Rooney didn’t trust Velasco, he hadn’t pegged him for a foolish man. Velasco took care of business then came right back out, real respectful-like.

At the Bronco, Rooney relocked one of Velasco’s cuffs to a strut on the roll bar so he’d have one hand free to eat the burger and fries and drink the bottled water.

While Velasco ate, Rooney got back on the highway south toward Missoula and used his cell phone to call the local sheriff’s office. When they answered he said, There’s an injured dipstick named Kevin behind Clark’s Cafe just outside of Arlee. Guess he was in the process of attacking some gal out back, and she must have cold-cocked him with a rock or something and then run off.

What’s your name, sir? they asked. And how do you have this information?" Rooney pretended he hadn’t heard the question, hung up, and kept driving.

*****

Chapter 2—Magnum

Thursday, March 29th

1235 hrs.

Gunfire to the right and to the left. Double tap. Triple tap. Forty-five calibers with explosions so loud they jarred your sternum; the pop-pop of smaller calibers; plinks as the ejected brass struck the cement. This must be how war sounds, I thought.

I’d already qualified with my .9 mm Smith & Wesson. But now I squinted, left eye focusing through the goggles, and lined up both sights of the five shot .357 Ruger. Focusing carefully, I squeezed the trigger and fired two more times in rapid succession. Felt the considerable recoil of the hotter rounds all the way down my arms, jarring into my shoulders. As Porterville’s Detective Sergeant, I wanted to carry the .357 revolver so would have to qualify with it as well. I’m left-eye dominant but have excellent focus and therefore excellent scores—usually.

Today I’m distracted and have thrown several rounds out of the ten ring. My score is going to suck this time, I think dismally. Thanks, Michael, you asshole.

Dave Travis, our firearms instructor, blew his whistle and yelled, All clear on the firing line! I reloaded the Ruger from my speed loader and—preferring cross-draw—holstered it against my left side. Impatiently, I shifted from foot to foot as the other officers took their sweet time reloading and holstering their weapons, bantering with each other good-naturedly. C’mon, c’mon. Some of us have things to do.

Go forward, called Travis, Collect your targets. Get ‘em scored and get back to work!

I stomped sullenly toward my target as the other officers headed toward theirs.

What a fucked up way to start the day: six in the morning and Michael calls to say, I want a divorce. He doesn't even have balls enough to drive down from Colville and tell me in person. Sure, we've lived two hours apart for three years. So what? We've still had occasional conjugal visits. And we have a daughter together.

I rip my target off the plywood and study the results. Not my usual tight groupings, but at least a qualifying score. Damn that Michael! I’d bet next month's pay he wants a divorce because he found someone willing to be a stay-at-home little wifey like he wanted three years ago when he left. I couldn't do it then, and I can't do it now. Of all people, he should understand why I can't just up and quit doing what I love; he has the same dedication to the National Park Service that I have to the Porterville Police Department. But he doesn’t approve of the work I do. What a hypocrite.

How’d you do, Sarge? Detective Leonard Jordan asked, falling in step for the fifty yard hike back to the firing line. I glanced up at his six foot three.

I’ve done better, Jordan. How about you?

I’ve done better too. He tilted his target so I could examine it. Must be a crappy day for everyone.

You don’t know the half of it, I mumbled.

What’s that?

Yours doesn’t look half bad.

He gave me a satisfied smirk. Scumbag.

In spite of Jordan’s long legs, I beat him to the range master's shack, handed in my target, and headed for the maroon Crown Vic. Jordan could catch a ride with Frank Kovitch, my other detective.

What was a woman supposed to feel when her husband says he wants a divorce, but for years she’s refused to live with him? Maybe I had no right to feel this upset. So why did I?

*****

1305 Hrs.

I climbed behind the steering wheel and picked up the radio mic. Nine-zero-nine, Porterville, I said to Melanie, the day shift dispatcher. I’m clear of the firing range, enroute to the station.

But Melanie had other plans for me. Magnum? she said. Respond to St. Jerome's Hospital ER where Doc Lopez has a rape victim. Doc requested you, personally. But I can send a patrol officer.

It’s okay. I’ll take it, I said.

Ten minutes later, I parked in one of the hospital’s police only parking stalls and told Melanie that I was on scene. I hurried for the hospital’s extra-wide emergency doors. They swooshed open as I approached, which usually made me feel like royalty. Not today.

Colleen, the desk nurse, pointed to Room 7. She’s in there with Doc Lopez, Magnum.

Thanks, Colleen.

I veered off and headed for Room 7. As I rapped on the door, I heard snuffling and a woman’s distraught voice. A nurse poked her nose out the door and said Yes? I shoved my badge toward her face. Detective Schultz, Porterville Police Department, I said, tersely.

Looking miffed, the nurse stepped back to allow me entry. Another woman, about five-seven, with short dark hair and wearing a white doctor’s coat was examining the top of a young woman’s head.

Doc Lopez glanced at me and smiled. Hello, Magnum. Your dispatcher said you were on duty. The attack actually occurred on ESU’s campus, but Officer Huff is still on vacation, so I requested they send you if possible.

I’d recently received a three-day suspension for a working out of jurisdiction and wasn’t anxious for a repeat. But Doc Lopez and I had worked together many times over the years, and I had the utmost respect for the 45 year old M.D.'s judgment. If she wanted me, I was there.

This is Denise Remington, Dr. Lopez continued, referring to the petite woman who sat on the examination table dressed only in a pastel flowered hospital gown and a pair of white athletic socks. She looked about eighteen or nineteen. Denise, this is Detective Sergeant Schultz, Porterville Police. Doc Lopez turned to me. Denise tells me she was dragged around by her hair. What I’m seeing would support that, the scalp has abrasions and the hair is pulled loose in places.

Denise Remington was a mess; her long, blond, platinum streaked hair was decidedly roughed up, like a 1960’s back-combing gone wrong. There were bloody spots on her scalp, bruises on her face, a split lip, and a deep cut on her forehead just above the left eye, with blood still seeping.

She came in on her own at ten this morning, Lopez said as she dipped a long handled q-tip into some evil looking, orangish liquid and touched it to places on the girl's scalp. The girl winced each time the q-tip touched her. That was very courageous of her, don’t you think, Detective?

Absolutely, I agreed and meant it.

I’m sorry, Doc said to Denise. I know this stuff stings. We'll bandage you after Detective Schultz has talked to you and taken photos of your injuries.

Denise glanced my direction and raised one hand from her lap in a feeble greeting.

Hello, I said. I’m sorry you were hurt. Did you know the person who attacked you?

Denise shook her head.

Can you describe him?

I...can try…

How did you get these abrasions on your back, dear? Lopez interrupted, peering through the gap in the back of Denise’s hospital gown.

I guess when he dragged me along the carpeting, Denise responded. At first he pulled me by the hair. But that hurt so bad, I grabbed onto his wrists to keep him from ripping my hair out. Then he got a hold of my feet and dragged me backwards.

Denise, lie back now for your pelvic. When we’re done, you’ll be able to speak with Detective Schultz. Doc sent me a meaningful glance.

Denise lay back gingerly, gasping from injuries both seen and unseen. I moved around the examination table to Denise’s head while the nurse draped a sheet over her lower half and helped her bend one knee then the other, placing her heels into the stirrups.

I handed a department camera to Lopez and saw the flashes as she snapped photos of Denise’s injuries. When she was finished with the photos, she continued her exam and dictated a diagnosis while the nurse took notes. Massive bruising. Abrasions of inner thighs and genital area. Ripped labia major and minor, Doc reported quietly. Denise occasionally winced and cried out.

I’m not sure at what point I linked hands with Denise. The notepad I’d been using was still in my left hand, but my pen was on the examination table just below Denise’s elbow.

As usual, my gut reaction to such trauma was an unmitigated compulsion to castrate the bastard who caused it. Luckily for him, this time I would only take the initial report. The rest of the investigation would be turned over to Jaydeen Huff, Eastern State University's only female

cop; the best officer they had, as far as I was concerned. I tried to remember when she'd be back from vacation.

Denise removed her shaking hand from mine so that she could use it to shift herself up-right. As she pulled herself to a sitting position, she moaned. I redeemed my pen and as the nurse completed the rape kit, I finished jotting notes.

Tell me what happened, Denise, I said to her.

I’d never been in Liberty Hall on Eastern's campus, before, she said. I went there with a boy I’d just met at a sorority party. He seemed really nice.

You’d been drinking? Doc Lopez asked, off handedly.

Yes. But I wasn’t drunk.

What was the name of the boy you went with? I asked.

Jeremy.

Jeremy what?

I didn’t get his last name, said Denise.

Did Jeremy rape you?

N-no, not Jeremy!

Then where was he while all this was going on? I asked.

I don’t know, said Denise, starting to cry again. When we got to the dorm, we went to his room. He had me wait while he ran downstairs to get his laundry out of the dryer. He dropped the clean laundry on the bed then said he was going to go get us some vodka from a friend of his. But he never came back.

So all of this started in his room after he left? I asked.

"No, not in his room. He was gone such a long time that I went down the hallway to the lounge to look for him. There were some guys in the student lounge watching television. When I asked them if they knew where Jeremy went, they said they hadn’t seen him tonight. I sat and watched TV with them for a while. Some of them left, so I wandered down the hall again to see if I could find Jeremy.

"Finally, I just decided to leave the dorm and walk home. That’s when this…this man stopped me in the stairwell. He seemed a little older than most college students, but there are lots of older students on campus these days. He said he knew where Jeremy was, and that he’d take me to him. At first, I got this uneasy feeling about the guy, then decided I was just being paranoid. After all, he said he knew Jeremy, and I was in an ESU dorm, so I thought I’d be safe.

"I followed him down a couple of flights of stairs and then started feeling kind of creeped out. I saw 4th floor printed on the door of a landing, and when the man said, ‘He’s in here,’ and opened the door, I was relieved. I thought there would be people in there, like on the other floors. He held the door open for me then followed me. But there weren’t any lights on. I