“The client is also my sister,” he said, scowling.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I need it to be over. If it can ever be over.”
“I put a call in to the sexual assault unit,” the detective said. “We have to establish whether there was another crime.”
She looked through a bunch of pictures and bingo, there he was. She identified him and they told her he had a record; quite a few felony arrests for everything from robbery to battery to sexual assault.
She told them he had given her the creeps but he didn’t fit her image of a career criminal; he was so clean-cut, so preppy. After she’d spent a little time with him she knew he was wrong. She never anticipated how wrong.
The sexual assault sergeant introduced himself simply as Charles. He asked her to explain how she knew he was a deviant or maybe just explain why she was dead set against seeing him. So she told them about that one night he was invited inside, how enraged he was with his dysfunction, how difficult it was for him to successfully complete intercourse.
As far as they could determine, his name was actually Craig Dixon. They showed her an artist’s rendering too, a pencil sketch. “That’s him,” she said. “Why do you have this?”
“He’s committed other crimes. He has other victims.”
They asked her seven times where he was. Seven times she told them she had no idea, that she ran from him, that she feared him.
Charles was incredibly tall with giant feet that made her think of Goofy, the Disney character. He folded his legs uncomfortably under the desk. Detective Lundquist left the office briefly, while the remaining two detectives questioned her. “You know it’s best if we locate him and bring him in,” Charles said.
“If I could help you do that, I would. But I don’t know where he is.”
“Is it possible you got drunk and you and your boyfriend ran down a cyclist and left him by the side of the road, critically injured?”
“No,” she said much more calmly than she felt. “He’s not nor was he ever my boyfriend. I’m telling you, I didn’t even know where he lived. We had one official date and he was stalking me after that. I’m afraid of him.”
“Have you seen him at all since that night?”
“I think I see him a lot, but it’s just my nerves. It always turns out it’s not him. It must not be him—he hasn’t bothered me at all. Why would he come all the way to Colorado if he didn’t intend to hurt me again?”
“Wait? Colorado?”
“I thought I saw him in a mall in Colorado Springs, but he didn’t see me. He finally turned and I don’t think it was him. His nose was too big.”
The sergeant fished out a more mug shot—profile and forward—that was newer than the photo and the pencil sketch.
“Oh God,” she said.
“Is this the man you saw in Colorado?”
“Maybe it was. He was kind of far away. But I followed him for a while because I thought it might be him and I had to know. But I was on crutches. I had a sprained ankle. I wasn’t moving very fast.”
“He didn’t approach you?”
“No. And he was gone before I could verify it was him. The story of my life—seeing my nightmare over and over and never being sure.”
“Did he say anything that night? Anything memorable?”
“I asked him what he hit while we were driving and he said, ‘Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t driving. You were driving.’ But I wasn’t. I couldn’t have driven if my life depended on it.”
“I believe that’s enough for today,” Cal said. “Ms. Jones is not under arrest and doesn’t have to—”
“We could arrest you for obstruction,” the detective said. “You were with him in the car and it was 1.7 miles from that gas station that the cyclist was hit. He might’ve died but for the fortuitous presence of a passerby with medical knowledge who came along less than a minute later.”
“Obstruction from a girl who was drugged and raped? That will never get by a judge,” Cal said. “Her head is clearly lolling on the tape and he gets behind the wheel.”
“I have medical records,” she said. “I didn’t report it to the police but I went to a clinic. I was bruised and injured and afraid of disease. I had showered but they did a rape exam anyway. Since the police weren’t involved they didn’t have evidence. But they have records. It was the Macmillan Women’s Clinic.”
The detective looked at his watch. “We’ve been at this all day and it just occurred to you to mention medical records?”
“I talked all day! I answered all your humiliating questions in front of my brother!” She looked at him. “Cal, I’ve had enough.”
“We’re done here. We won’t be answering any more questions without a warrant. You pretty much squeezed her dry. If you have any more questions, we’ll be in Colorado.”
He took Sierra’s elbow to lead her away.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “My turn. You’ve been looking for him? For the hit-and-run?”
“Among other things,” the detective said. “You’re going to have to be very cautious, ma’am. Craig Dixon is a dangerous man.”
“Why are you looking for him?”
“Rape, for one thing.”
“But I don’t want to testify against him! He terrifies me! And if for any reason he isn’t put in prison...”
“Let’s worry about that when we have him in custody,” the sergeant said. “For now, my advice is, caution.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I need it to be over. If it can ever be over.”
“I put a call in to the sexual assault unit,” the detective said. “We have to establish whether there was another crime.”
She looked through a bunch of pictures and bingo, there he was. She identified him and they told her he had a record; quite a few felony arrests for everything from robbery to battery to sexual assault.
She told them he had given her the creeps but he didn’t fit her image of a career criminal; he was so clean-cut, so preppy. After she’d spent a little time with him she knew he was wrong. She never anticipated how wrong.
The sexual assault sergeant introduced himself simply as Charles. He asked her to explain how she knew he was a deviant or maybe just explain why she was dead set against seeing him. So she told them about that one night he was invited inside, how enraged he was with his dysfunction, how difficult it was for him to successfully complete intercourse.
As far as they could determine, his name was actually Craig Dixon. They showed her an artist’s rendering too, a pencil sketch. “That’s him,” she said. “Why do you have this?”
“He’s committed other crimes. He has other victims.”
They asked her seven times where he was. Seven times she told them she had no idea, that she ran from him, that she feared him.
Charles was incredibly tall with giant feet that made her think of Goofy, the Disney character. He folded his legs uncomfortably under the desk. Detective Lundquist left the office briefly, while the remaining two detectives questioned her. “You know it’s best if we locate him and bring him in,” Charles said.
“If I could help you do that, I would. But I don’t know where he is.”
“Is it possible you got drunk and you and your boyfriend ran down a cyclist and left him by the side of the road, critically injured?”
“No,” she said much more calmly than she felt. “He’s not nor was he ever my boyfriend. I’m telling you, I didn’t even know where he lived. We had one official date and he was stalking me after that. I’m afraid of him.”
“Have you seen him at all since that night?”
“I think I see him a lot, but it’s just my nerves. It always turns out it’s not him. It must not be him—he hasn’t bothered me at all. Why would he come all the way to Colorado if he didn’t intend to hurt me again?”
“Wait? Colorado?”
“I thought I saw him in a mall in Colorado Springs, but he didn’t see me. He finally turned and I don’t think it was him. His nose was too big.”
The sergeant fished out a more mug shot—profile and forward—that was newer than the photo and the pencil sketch.
“Oh God,” she said.
“Is this the man you saw in Colorado?”
“Maybe it was. He was kind of far away. But I followed him for a while because I thought it might be him and I had to know. But I was on crutches. I had a sprained ankle. I wasn’t moving very fast.”
“He didn’t approach you?”
“No. And he was gone before I could verify it was him. The story of my life—seeing my nightmare over and over and never being sure.”
“Did he say anything that night? Anything memorable?”
“I asked him what he hit while we were driving and he said, ‘Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t driving. You were driving.’ But I wasn’t. I couldn’t have driven if my life depended on it.”
“I believe that’s enough for today,” Cal said. “Ms. Jones is not under arrest and doesn’t have to—”
“We could arrest you for obstruction,” the detective said. “You were with him in the car and it was 1.7 miles from that gas station that the cyclist was hit. He might’ve died but for the fortuitous presence of a passerby with medical knowledge who came along less than a minute later.”
“Obstruction from a girl who was drugged and raped? That will never get by a judge,” Cal said. “Her head is clearly lolling on the tape and he gets behind the wheel.”
“I have medical records,” she said. “I didn’t report it to the police but I went to a clinic. I was bruised and injured and afraid of disease. I had showered but they did a rape exam anyway. Since the police weren’t involved they didn’t have evidence. But they have records. It was the Macmillan Women’s Clinic.”
The detective looked at his watch. “We’ve been at this all day and it just occurred to you to mention medical records?”
“I talked all day! I answered all your humiliating questions in front of my brother!” She looked at him. “Cal, I’ve had enough.”
“We’re done here. We won’t be answering any more questions without a warrant. You pretty much squeezed her dry. If you have any more questions, we’ll be in Colorado.”
He took Sierra’s elbow to lead her away.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “My turn. You’ve been looking for him? For the hit-and-run?”
“Among other things,” the detective said. “You’re going to have to be very cautious, ma’am. Craig Dixon is a dangerous man.”
“Why are you looking for him?”
“Rape, for one thing.”
“But I don’t want to testify against him! He terrifies me! And if for any reason he isn’t put in prison...”
“Let’s worry about that when we have him in custody,” the sergeant said. “For now, my advice is, caution.”
