Jane Doe No More (9 page)

Donna also had guarded hope that the WPD would someday find her attacker, and that she could stand in front of him, testify, and put the entire incident—at least from a justice standpoint—behind her. Healing would never be complete without that happening.

Yet Donna was well aware that this would not be an easy investigation. DNA was not the master evidentiary key—especially where rape cases were concerned—that it would become in the years that followed. It was one thing to have a DNA sample, but law enforcement needed somebody to compare that DNA to. DNA is only useful when there is another sample to make a comparison.

“I did feel in some respects as though we would find my attacker someday,” Donna said later. “But I was also aware of the fact that we did not have much to go on.”

At work now, Donna was taking back her life and moving on. It had been two weeks since the attack. As each day passed, she expected to hear something from the WPD about a suspect or any progress being made by investigators. Some sort of an update. Anything.

But no word came.

As the days passed, the memory of her assailant’s shadow crept up on Donna, and his words came back to haunt her:
If you call the pigs, I will kill you
. Would he return to finish the job? Was he following her to and from work? Was he someone she saw during the normal course of her day? The guy who sold her coffee? The guy behind the lunch counter? She had even shied away from the WPD because she was scared that he was watching her—
If you call the pigs, I will kill you
.

Then Donna learned of something that had happened on September 9, 1993, two days before her attack. The incident on that day involved Donna’s sister, Maria Cappella. Maria had left her apartment in Waterbury to pick up a friend in a neighboring town. As she drove down the street, a car driven by a man, Jeff Martinez,
^*
who worked for a local glass company, approached from the opposite direction. Jeff beeped his horn at Maria and motioned for her to pull over. Maria knew Jeff from years ago; he lived a few streets over and palled around with a group of familiar guys and girls from the neighborhood. She had seen him from time to time around town and always waved a neighborly hello. Her sister Donna had too. These days Jeff was married with kids.

Maria pulled over on the crest of a hill not far from her apartment; Jeff’s car pulled in behind her. Jeff walked over to the passenger’s side of Maria’s car and leaned down.

“Hey,” Jeff said through Maria’s open window. “I saw Donna’s picture in the newspaper!” He seemed excited, adding, “I didn’t read the article. I only saw it because I was wrapping newspaper around some glass and there was Donna’s picture.”

That article, “A Dream Job with Benefits,” had been published in the
Republican-American
on August 31, 1993. It was a cover story in a section of the newspaper called “Today’s Woman,” focusing on local women and their stories of triumph. A head shot of Donna accompanied the article. “Her job in advertising allows her creative juices to flow,” read the caption. The photo showed Donna smiling, a happy, attractive, successful businesswoman. A sidebar near the photo listed some information about Donna: married with two children, lives in Waterbury, volunteers at St. Mary’s School, and attends Immaculate Conception Church. The body of the piece centered on Donna’s accomplishments in the world of advertising. Donna’s strong personality and tenacious will came through in every quote. Donna talked about male chauvinism in the workplace and how she had dealt with it over the years. The article gave specific details about Donna’s personal life, including certain parts of Donna’s and her husband’s schedules. One of her coworkers called Donna “Robowoman.”

“She’s not Superwoman, by any means,” the reporter paraphrased Donna’s explanation. “When things get rough, she relies on her faith in God.”

“Some things seem so overwhelming,” Donna told the reporter. “I always try to step back and take a minute to get through the situation.”

Maria didn’t think too much about her conversation with Jeff on the street until after Donna’s assault. She remembered the chat—and especially him mentioning the article—as September turned into October. The thought occurred to Maria—if only subtly then—that perhaps someone—not Jeff, specifically, but
someone
—had read the article about Donna and developed a fascination or obsession with her. Maria explained to Donna what Jeff had said, and they considered that when the time was right, maybe the article would become important to her case. It turned into one more thing Donna had to keep track of as she waited to hear from the WPD regarding any new developments.

So the sisters put it on the back burner.

It would not be the last time Maria saw Jeff Martinez. Nor would it be the last time anyone considered that Donna’s attacker was somebody she knew.

On October 6, 1993, Donna received a call at her office from a Lieutenant Douglas Moran, who explained that he had been on vacation during the time of her attack, but her case had been assigned to him. Moran had an associate’s degree in science from Mattatuck Community College. He had studied psychology and sociology at a second community college and had joined the WPD in 1978 after a stint with an ambulance company in town. Moran’s reputation within the department was rock solid—no suspensions or even reprimands on his record. He had been a patrol officer from 1978 until 1984, when he was promoted to sergeant. He held that position for about six years until, he later stated under oath, he was “reassigned to Vice and Intelligence” in 1990. Moran claimed to have been involved with “dozens” of sexual assault cases. By 1992 he had worked his way up to lieutenant, in charge of the WPD’s Sexual Assault unit.

Moran explained that he was calling to ask Donna if he could come down to her office. He wanted to get caught up on the case and brief her about a few things the department was working on.

“I’m picking up the case from Detective Cote and need to speak with you.”

A lieutenant, Donna thought. She was curious and nervous at the same time. Why was a lieutenant getting involved? It must mean something.

“Whatever I can do to help,” Donna said.

“The results of the DNA came back,” Moran explained at their meeting. “There was a lot of semen recovered. Some pet hair . . . Caucasian hair, and saliva.” Moran emphasized how important the evidence would be regarding any “future suspects.” Just the fact that the WPD had DNA was a significant piece of the investigation. As soon as they could round up a few suspects, the testing could begin. What’s more, the DNA from Donna could be tested against known rapists with records in the system once investigators started looking more closely at potential candidates recently released from prison and offenders living in the area.

The words—
a lot of semen
—made Donna sick to her stomach. She trembled as she flashed back to what had happened that night. It was like a movie playing in her head in strobe-light fragments. At the same time, though, the thought that the WPD had what seemed like plenty of evidence was reassuring. It was clear that the WPD had trace and DNA evidence available, both of which were key factors in solving rapes. Donna and John had never owned pets because of allergies, and yet there was pet hair. This was a positive development, as far as Donna could tell.

A day or so later, Moran called Donna again. He said the WPD had “confirmed” that her “panties had been cut from the back and that one fact . . . had helped to verify” Donna’s story.

It was the first time Donna considered that what she had told the police needed verifying. Still, it was good news.

But then Moran questioned the severed phone lines. “I’ve been to your house,” he said, “and I inspected the outside wires . . . They were confusing.” What he meant was that he had seen a tangle of various wires all bunched together outside the house. “How would the guy know which ones were the main phone lines to cut?”

Why would Moran ask such a thing—especially of the victim?
Donna suspected something was wrong. But she had no idea what Moran was trying to accomplish, or if this was standard procedure.

Days later Moran visited Donna at her office again. He wasn’t imposing or overwhelming in any respect, nor was he an overly friendly type of police officer. His “bedside” manner could have used some work, according to Donna, but she was pleased with having a lieutenant take her case, not to mention the recent progress with the DNA evidence.

“I have taken over your case,” Moran reiterated after Donna invited him into her office where they could chat. “I just need to get some more details from you.”

Donna recalled again what she could. Then she handed Moran the newspaper article Jeff Martinez had mentioned to Maria, saying, “I don’t know if it means anything, but this was published two weeks before the assault.”

Moran took the article. He didn’t say much about it. It appeared to Donna as though he had his mind on other things. Moran thanked Donna and said he’d be in touch.

On or about October 12, 1993, Moran called Donna at work again. This would be Donna’s first indication that there were problems with the investigation—problems, it would soon turn out, about the WPD’s belief in her story of what happened inside her house the night of the attack.

“I was wondering if you would be willing to go under hypnosis,” Moran asked. “It might help you to recall some more detail about the incident.”

Donna was taken aback.
Hypnosis
?
Why would they need me hypnotized?
Donna had not been drugged or knocked out during the attack. She had repeatedly stated that her attacker had covered his face. What sorts of details could she possibly provide under hypnosis?

“I had told them everything—in great detail—that happened,” Donna recalled. “I had left nothing out. The hypnosis request seemed so far out of left field.”

“Why?” Donna asked Lieutenant Moran.

“Well, Mrs. Palomba, it might give us some additional information.”

“I’ll get back to you. I need to speak with my husband.”

Donna hung up and stared at the phone. There was a certain shift, she felt, in the tone and pace of Moran’s communication. Not that he was easy to read in this respect; he wasn’t. But the investigation didn’t seem to be a ticking clock—as if they were hunting some crazed, maniac serial rapist and every moment mattered—situation any longer. It was as if the WPD was thinking of alternative scenarios.

A day after the hypnosis request, on October 13, Donna’s sister, Maria, saw Jeff Martinez again, that old friend she had bumped into two days before Donna’s attack. This time the encounter took on an entirely new meaning for Maria and—eventually—for Donna. In fact, where Maria and Donna were concerned, a prime suspect in Donna’s sexual assault was about to emerge.

It was about 11:30 a.m. Maria was at home and heard a truck pull up outside her apartment. She looked through the blinds and saw that it was a truck from the glass company for which Jeff worked. Maria watched as Jeff “took a while” to get out of his truck, as if he was doing something inside the vehicle that she couldn’t see. Then he approached the porch and knocked on the door.

“Who’s there?” Maria asked.

“It’s Jeff from [he gave the name of the glass company].”

Maria opened the door. “Hi, Jeff . . . what brings you here?”

This was the second time she had seen this man within about a month. Up close and personal. What gives? It wasn’t like they had seen each other much in the recent past or talked on a consistent basis.