Love You More: A Novel (5 page)

We’re all one big family, but we’re still very much alone.

I approached the building as I had been trained, my elbows glued to my waist to protect my service weapon, my body turned slightly to the side to form a smaller target. I angled away from the windows and kept to one side of the door, where I would be out of direct line of fire.

The most frequent call out received by a uniformed officer is situation unknown. At the Academy, we were advised to treat all calls like that. Danger is everywhere. All people are suspect. All suspects are liars.

This is the way you work. For some officers, this also becomes the way they live.

I mounted three steps to a tiny front stoop, then paused to take a deep breath. Command presence. I was twenty-three years old, average height and unfortunately pretty. Chances were, whoever opened that door was going to be older than me, bigger than me, and rougher than me. Still my job to control the situation. Feet wide. Shoulders back. Chin up. As the other rookies liked to joke, never let ’em see you sweat.

I stood to the side. I knocked. Then I quickly threaded my thumbs into the waistband of my dark blue pants, so my hands couldn’t tremble.

No sounds of disturbance. No sounds of footsteps. Lights blazed, however; the occupants of 25B were not asleep.

I knocked again. Harder this time.

No sound of movement, no sign of the residents.

I fidgeted with my duty belt, debated my options. I had a call, a call required a report, a report required contact. So I drew myself up taller and knocked
hard. BAM. BAM. BAM
. Pounded my knuckles against the cheap wooden door. I was a state trooper, dammit, and I would not be ignored.

This time, footsteps.

Thirty seconds later, the door silently swung open.

The female occupant of unit 25B did not look at me. She stared at the floor as the blood poured down her face.

A
s I learned that night, and many nights since, the basic steps for handling domestic violence remain the same.

First, the officer secures the scene, a swift, preliminary inspection to identify and eliminate any potential threats.

Who else is in the home, Officer? May I walk through the house? Trooper, is that your weapon? I’m going to need to take your firearm, Trooper. Are there any other guns on the property? I’m also going to need your duty belt. Unhook it, easy … Thank you. I’m going to request that you remove your vest. Do you require assistance? Thank you. I will take that now. I need you to move into the sunroom. Have a seat right here. Stay put. I’ll be back
.

Scene secured, the officer now inspects the female party for signs of injury. At this stage, the officer makes no assumption. The individual is neither a suspect nor a victim. She is simply an injured party and is handled accordingly.

Female presents with bloody lip, black eye, red marks on throat, and bloody laceration high on right forehead
.

Many battered women will argue that they’re okay. Don’t need no ambulance. Just get the hell out and leave ’em alone. Be all better by morning.

The well-trained officer ignores such statements. There is evidence of a crime, triggering the larger wheels of criminal justice into motion. Maybe the battered woman is the victim, as she claims, and will ultimately refuse to press charges. But maybe she is the instigator—maybe the injuries were sustained while the female beat the crap out of an unknown party, meaning she is the perpetrator of a crime and
her injuries and statement need to be documented for the charges that will soon be filed by that unknown party. Again, make no assumptions. The trooper will alert dispatch of the situation, request backup and summon the EMTs.

Other bodies will now start to arrive. Uniforms. Medical personnel. Sirens will sound in the horizon, official vehicles pouring down the narrow funnel of city streets while the neighbors gather outside to catch the show.

The scene will become a very busy place, making it even more important for the first responder to document, document, document. The trooper will now conduct a more detailed visual inspection of the scene, making notes and snapping initial photographs.

Dead male, late-thirties, appears to be five ten, two hundred ten to two hundred twenty pounds. Three GSWs midtorso. Discovered faceup two feet to the left of the table in the kitchen
.

Two wooden kitchen chairs toppled. Remnants of broken green glass under chairs. One shattered green bottle—labeled Heineken—located six inches to the left of the table in the kitchen
.

Sig Sauer semiauto discovered on top of forty-two inch round wooden table. Officer removed cartridge and emptied chamber. Bagged and tagged
.

Family room cleared
.

Upstairs two bedrooms and bath cleared
.

More uniforms will assist, questioning neighbors, securing the perimeter. The female party will remain sequestered away from the action, where she will now be tended by the medical personnel.

Female EMT, checking my pulse, gently probing my eye socket and cheekbone for signs of fracture. Asking me to remove my ponytail so she can better tend my forehead. Using tweezers to remove the first piece of green glass which will later be matched to the shattered beer bottle
.

“How do you feel, ma’am?”

“Head hurts.”

“Do you have any recollection of blacking out or losing consciousness?”

“Head hurts.”

“Do you feel nauseous?”

“Yes.” Stomach rolling. Trying to hold it together, against the pain, the
confusion, the growing disorientation that this can’t be happening, shouldn’t be happening …

The EMT further examining my head, finding the growing lump at the back of my skull
.

“What happened to your head, ma’am?”

“What?”

“The back of your head, ma’am. Are you sure you didn’t lose consciousness, take a fall?”

Me, looking at the EMT blankly. “Who do you love?” I whisper
.

The EMT does not reply
.

Next up, taking an initial statement. A good trooper will note both what the subject says and
how
she says it. People in a genuine state of shock have a tendency to babble, offering fragments of information but unable to string together a coherent whole. Some victims disassociate. They speak in flat, clipped tones about an event that in their own minds already didn’t happen to them. Then there are the professional liars—the ones who pretend to babble or disassociate.

Any liar will sooner or later overreach. Add a little too much detail. Sound a bit too composed. Then the well-trained investigator can pounce.

“Can you tell me what happened here, Trooper Leoni?” A Boston district detective takes the first pass. He is older, hair graying at the temples. He sounds kind, going for the collegial approach
.

I don’t want to answer. I have to answer. Better the district detective than the homicide investigator who will follow. My head throbs, my temples, my cheek. My face is on fire
.

Want to throw up. Fighting the sensation
.

“My husband …” I whisper. My gaze drops automatically to the floor. I catch my mistake, force myself to look up, meet the district detective’s eye. “Sometimes … when I worked late. My husband grew angry.” Pause. My voice, growing stronger, more definite. “He hit me.”

“Where did he hit you, Officer?”

“Face. Eye. Cheek.” My fingers finding each spot, reliving the pain. Inside my head, I’m stuck in a moment of time. Him, looming above. Me, cowering on the linoleum, genuinely terrified
.

“I fell down,” I recite for the district detective. “My husband picked up a chair.”

Silence. The district detective waiting for me to say more. Spin a lie, tell the truth
.

“I didn’t hit him,” I whisper. I’ve taken enough of these statements. I know how this story goes. We all do. “If I didn’t fight back,” I state mechanically, “he’d wear out, go away. If I did … It was always worse in the end.”

“Your husband picked up a chair, Trooper Leoni? Where were you when he did this?”

“On the floor.”

“Where in the house?”

“The kitchen.”

“When your husband picked up the chair, what did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“What did he do?”

“Threw it.”

“Where?”

“At me.”

“Did it hit you?”

“I … I don’t remember.”

“Then what happened, Trooper Leoni?” The district detective leaning down, peering at me more closely. His face is a study of concern. Is my eye contact wrong? My story too detailed? Not detailed enough?

All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, my two front teeth, my two front teeth.

The song sounds in my head. I want to giggle. I don’t
.

Love you, Mommy. Love you.

“I threw the chair back at him,” I tell the district detective
.

“You threw the chair back at him?”

“He got … angrier. So I must have done something, right? Because he became angrier.”

“Were you in full uniform at this time, Trooper Leoni?”

I meet his eye. “Yes.”

“Wearing your duty belt? And your body armor?”

“Yes.”

“Did you reach for anything on your duty belt? Take steps to defend yourself?”

Still looking him in the eye. “No.”

The detective regards me curiously. “What happened next, Trooper Leoni?”

“He grabbed the beer bottle. Smashed it against my forehead. I … I managed to fend him off. He stumbled, toward the table. I fell. Against the wall. My back against the wall. I needed to find the doorway. I needed to get away.”

Silence
.

“Trooper Leoni?”

“He had the broken bottle,” I murmur. “I needed to get away. But … trapped. On the floor. Against the wall. Watching him.”

“Trooper Leoni?”

“I feared for my life,” I whisper. “I felt my sidearm. He charged … I feared for my life.”

“Trooper Leoni, what happened?”

“I shot my husband.”

“Trooper Leoni—”

I meet his gaze one last time. “Then I went looking for my daughter.”

5

B
y the time D.D. and Bobby finished circling around to the front of the property, the EMTs were retrieving a stretcher from the back of the ambulance. D.D. glanced their way, then identified the Boston uniform standing outside the crime-scene tape with the murder book. She approached him first.

“Hey, Officer Fiske. You’ve logged every single uniform entering this joint?” She gestured to the notebook in his hand, where he was collecting the names of all personnel to cross the crime-scene tape.

“Forty-two officers,” he said, without batting an eyelash.

“Jesus. Is there a single cop left on patrol in the greater Boston area?”

“Doubt it,” Officer Fiske said. Kid was young and serious. Was it just D.D. or were they getting younger and more serious with each passing year?

“Well, here’s the problem, Officer Fiske. While you’re collecting names here, other cops are entering and exiting from the rear of the property, and that’s really pissing me off.”

Officer Fiske’s eyes widened.

“Got a buddy?” D.D. continued. “Radio him to grab a notebook, then take up position behind the house. I want names, ranks, and badge numbers, all on record. And while you two are at it, get the word out: Every state trooper who showed up at this address needs to report to Boston HQ by end of day to have an imprint made of his or her boots. Failure to comply will result in immediate desk duty. You heard it straight from the state liaison officer.” She jerked her thumb at Bobby, who stood beside her rolling his eyes.

“D.D.—” he started.

“They trampled my scene. I don’t forgive. I don’t forget.”

Bobby shut up. She liked that about him.

Having both secured her scene and stirred the pot, D.D. next approached the EMTs, who now had the stretcher positioned between them and were preparing to climb the steep stairs to the front door.

“Hang on,” D.D. called out.

The EMTs, one male, one female, paused as she approached.

“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren,” D.D. introduced herself. “I’m the one in charge of this circus. You getting ready to transport Trooper Leoni?”

A heavyset woman at the head of the stretcher nodded, already turning back toward the stairs.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” D.D. said quickly. “I need five minutes. Got a couple of questions for Trooper Leoni before she goes on her merry way.”

“Trooper Leoni has sustained a significant head wound,” the female answered firmly. “We’re taking her to the hospital for a CT scan. You got your job, we got ours.”

The EMTs took a step closer to the stairs. D.D. moved to intercept.