by Harry Kraus
The regular beep of her heart monitor skipped erratically, taking on the sound of a dull pounding.
Thump. Thump-thump. Her heart stopped. The doctor pounded on her chest to save her life.
Brittany opened her eyes. She was back in her little basement apartment alone. Someone was pounding on the front door. Good grief! What time is it? She rubbed her eyes and studied the clock. “Coming!” She flipped on the light in the bedroom and let it guide her toward the pounding.
Who could be here at this hour? Her first thought was that her on-again- off-again boyfriend Jason must have finally caught up with the news that she’d had surgery. It would be just like him to show up in the middle of the night to check on her. He had never had an abundance of what her mother called “social graces.”
She crept slowly forward, holding her right side. The thumping had ceased since she yelled out, but now, it continued again, except as a sharper sound, with a familiar rhythm which called for her response. It was the childhood rhythm game that everyone seemed to know: knock, knock-knock, knock, knock. . . . She sang out her response, “Knock, knock!” She tried to remember the stupid little phrase. Shave and ahaircut ...two bits!Knock, knock-knock, knock-knock .. . knock, knock!
She had only time to twist the lock on the doorknob to open when the door popped open, slamming into her forehead. It exploded forward with such force that she was knocked backward, dazed. She reached for her head and squinted toward the doorway, but he was already on her, throwing her to the floor.
She pulled to her hands and knees, attempting to crawl away, but she was slammed forward into the floor again. Her scream was immediately squelched by a hand over her mouth. She bit down on her attacker’s finger. She heard him yell and felt his grip lessen. She managed to roll to her back. That’s when she got her first glimpse of him in the dim light coming from her bedroom.
Who is he? He was wearing a surgical mask. Like the ones she’d seen only yesterday.
Claire awakened to the electronic chirp from her phone. She groaned. Have I overslept? She squinted at the darkness. No, it’s still dark. She groped for her phone. Who would be calling at this hour? She studied the digital readout of the number on her phone without recognition. With a groan, she pressed the talk button. “Hello. Dr. McCall speaking.”
The voice was female and youthful with palpable apprehension. “Oh, Dr. McCall,” she began in a low, nearly whispered volume. “You’ve got to help me. Please help me,” she cried.
Anxiety tightened a grip just below Claire’s breast. “I . . . uh . . . sure. Who’s calling?”
The syllables tumbled out in erratic sobs. “Brit–tan–y.” She sniffed. “Lew–is.”
“Brittany. I am here to help you,” she responded with calmness she did not feel. “Try to settle down and tell me what has happened. Are you in pain from your surgery?”
“No–o,” she sobbed. “A man—A man—tried to ki–ll me.”
Claire couldn’t believe her ears. What? Here? In Stoney Creek? “Brittany. Where are you?”
“Home.” She sniffed. “He, he r–raped me.”
“Have you called the police?”
“No. He’s gone now. I’m alone.”
“Who did this? Do you know him?”
“I don’t know. He was wearing a mask.”
“Can you come to my office?” Immediately, Claire realized the stupidity of her question. The patient was traumatized, and early post-op. “I’ll come pick you up at your apartment. You will need an examination.”
“Okay.”
“Listen to me very carefully. Did this just happen?”
“A little while ago. Tonight,” she sobbed.
“Okay. Don’t clean up. Don’t even wash your hands or change your clothes. I need you to promise me this. It will help the police to figure out who did this, okay?”
“I want to take a shower.”
“Please don’t. Let me collect the evidence first. Brittany, this is so important. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Give me fifteen minutes. I can have the police meet us at my office. Will that be okay?”
Her voice was quiet. Resolved. “Yes.”
Claire terminated the call and quickly dressed. She called Lucy Dellinger, her nurse, from her car.
“Hello.”
“Lucy. This is Claire. I’m so sorry to wake you so early. I’m on my way to pick up Brittany Lewis. She was sexually assaulted tonight.”
She could hear Lucy’s audible sigh. Lucy was the only Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner for the county and was used to nighttime interruptions.
“Can you open up the SANE room for us? And call the police and tell them to meet us at the office.”
“I’m on my way.”
Claire shut off the phone and whispered a prayer for Brittany and for herself. This was not part of her training as a surgery intern, but she knew Lucy would guide her so the evidence would not be mishandled.
When she arrived at Brittany Lewis’s apartment a few minutes later, Claire stood by her VW for a moment looking at the front of the house. A chill raised Claire’s skin into a sea of goosebumps. It was over a block to the nearest streetlight, and at this predawn hour, the sidewalk leading around the house was dark with shadows. Of all the times not to have a flashlight. Images of a lurking predator hiding in the bushes flashed in her mind, freezing her feet to the road.
Oh, Father, keep me safe. Claire edged forward, forcing her paralyzed feet to move. A dog’s sudden and menacing bark from across the street provided the stimulus she needed to move. Walking briskly, and then running, she drove herself forward along the sidewalk leading around the house. Beside each bush, Claire accelerated, imagining a rapist hidden behind the rustling branches.
At the back door, Claire knocked quickly, wanting to appear calm, but desperately wanting off the small concrete stoop and into the relative safety of Brittany’s apartment. She took a deep breath and whispered to her soul, “Yea, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil . . .” Answer the door, Brittany!
She heard a timid voice from across the door. “Dr. McCall?”
She steadied her response. “Yes. Brittany, it’s me, Dr. McCall.”
She listened to the snap of a dead bolt. Claire resisted the urge to push her way in. She squinted into the dimness of the room, trying to make out the dark silhouette in front of her. “Brittany?”
Claire stepped forward as her patient’s face came into view. She felt Brittany’s hand on her arm. “Come in.”
The door closed behind her. “Brittany!” she spoke at a low volume. “Why are you standing in the dark?”
“I was afraid he might see in.”
Claire squeezed Brittany’s hands and waited as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Slowly the scene came into view. Brittany stood in the middle of her small den wearing nothing but an old University of Virgina T-shirt. On the front was a cavalier, with a long curving sword arcing toward the right, and disappearing in a maroon stain. Instinctively, Claire reached for the spot. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s my surgery wound,” she said, gripping her upper abdomen. “I think it stopped now.”
Claire put her arms on her shoulders and gently coaxed her into an embrace. For a moment, Brittany stiffened, then yielded, collapsing into her doctor’s arms. There she began to sob, and Claire felt the young girl tremble. “Oh, Brittany,” Claire responded. “You’re safe now. He’s not coming back. I’m here.”
For the first time in her memory, Claire had a sense of being a mom. She squinted around the room. “Where are the clothes you were wearing . . . during the attack?”
“I was in this.” She pointed to the bedroom, where pale light illuminated a doorway in a shallow hall. “My panties were torn. I threw them away.”
“Do you have a zip-lock bag?”
She followed Brittany to the kitchen and bedroom, giving instructions and placing Brittany’s underwear into the zip-lock bag for evidence. Then, she helped collect a pa
ir of jeans and a sweatshirt for her patient to put on later in the office, and placed a blanket around her shoulders. “Let’s get going.”
On the way to the Stoney Creek Family Medical Center, Claire carefully explained what would happen to Brittany during the SANE examination. Her patient trembled and responded only with an uneasy silence and a nod of the head.
“Why didn’t you call your mother?”
“She lives with her new husband over in Brighton . . . we’re not close.”
“You’re so young to be on your own.”
“I’m in school. Blue Ridge Community College. I want to transfer to Brighton University after two years. My apartment is cheap. Hopefully when I go to Brighton, I can live in a dorm with other girls.”
Claire was thankful to have something other than the assault to talk about. She wanted Brittany to relax. Claire glanced at her as they drove through the small-town streets, which showed little signs that Stoney Creek was beginning to awaken. A paperboy undulated up the sidewalk, pushing his bicycle to cooperate under the weight of papers in a large handlebar basket. A poultry truck passed in the other direction, carrying the first load of birds toward the Tyson plant near Fisher’s Retreat. A white chicken feather floated onto her windshield as they sped by.
When they arrived at the clinic a few minutes later, the lights were on and a member of the county sheriff ’s department was sitting in a marked brown car.
Claire reached for Brittany’s arm before getting out. “Don’t worry. He won’t be in on the exam. He’s just here to get your story and to take the evidence to deliver to the State Police forensics lab down in Roanoke.”
Brittany nodded.
Claire introduced herself to the officer, a thin man of about thirty, who walked forward with quick steps, his shoes clipping along against the asphalt in regular snaps.
He held out his hand. “Randy Jensen, Warren County Deputy.” He nodded his head in a rhythm which reminded Claire of a Parkinson’s patient.
“This is Brittany Lewis. Why don’t you follow us in? You may sit in our waiting area if you like. We have our equipment in our SANE room,” she explained to the officer as she ushered Brittany into the office ahead of them. “All of our equipment was given to the clinic on a grant by the state after Lucy Dellinger received the SANE training and agreed to do the exams in this county.”
Officer Jensen cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, I’ve been with Dr. Jenkins and Lucy before. But I suspect this is a first for you,” he said, continuing to bob his forehead.
Claire wanted to club him, wondering if he could manage to show a little tact to inspire confidence in her tremulous patient. Instead, she glared at him for an instant before shaking her head. Thanks a lot, pal. She extended her hand toward the chairs in the waiting room, and allowed the door to swing shut behind her, leaving Randy in the front room.
Lucy met them in the hall. “Hi, Brittany. Come right this way.”
She ushered them into the exam room. Lucy pointed to an area on the floor where she had unfolded a white paper. “Stand on this, Brittany, and take off all of your clothing. Leave them here on the sheet and then put on this gown.” Lucy and Claire stepped out and pulled a curtain to give the patient privacy. When she indicated she was finished, Claire dropped the torn pair of panties from the zip-lock bag onto the sheet and watched as Lucy carefully folded the clothing items up in the paper sheet and sealed it, labeled it, and signed it across the seal. She placed the small package into a cardboard box on the counter. It was the size of a woman’s boot box, and was labeled “PERK.” Lucy looked at Claire. “This is the Physical Evidence Recovery Kit.” To Brittany, she added, “I’m going to need you to lie down on this table. Have you had a pelvic examination before?”
Brittany nodded. “Once.”
“I’m going to video the exam for evidence. Your face will not appear on the tape. Just lie down and put your heels in these stirrups. That’s a girl,” she gently coaxed. “Lift your butt,” she said, sliding a second white paper sheet onto the exam table beneath the patient. Lucy initiated the video, which was mounted on a tripod over her left shoulder. “I need to do a combing first. This will allow us to collect anything from the attack which may have been left behind.” Lucy combed through Brittany’s pubic hair, teasing out loose hair and a few flakes of dried mucus. The paper towel was retrieved, folded, labeled, signed, and placed in the PERK box.
Brittany began to cry. “I’m on my period. I couldn’t find my tampon string.”
“That’s okay,” Lucy coached. “You’re going to feel my fingers.” She lubricated a pair of examining gloves and retrieved the tampon from the vaginal vault, and placed it in a sealed plastic evidence bag. Again, she meticuously followed protocol to preserve the evidence.
Lucy guided Brittany through the twenty-minute exam which included obtaining patient pubic and scalp hair samples, anal and vaginal swabs, and collections of material from the patient’s inner thighs. Each specimen was labeled, sealed, and signed by Lucy and placed into the PERK box. Then she instructed Brittany to clean beneath her fingernails with a sharp plastic probe to remove any possible skin from her attacker she might have lodged there during the assault. This too was done over a special white paper which was then folded over the scrapings and placed in the box.
During the exam, Claire assumed the role of hand-holder and support, letting Lucy perform all the technical aspects. This was a first for Claire; Lucy had been in this situation dozens of times. While the nurse worked, Claire forced herself not to twist her expression in response to what she was saw. At the end, Lucy drew blood, explaining gently that it was just for baseline information and for precautions. Claire knew the blood would be screened for sexually transmitted disease screen and pregnancy. With all the evidence collected, Claire sealed the top of the box with a special tape and signed her name across its overlapping edge.
Once the exam was completed, Claire inspected and redressed Brittany’s cholecystectomy incisions. “The bleeding has stopped. It looks like they will be fine.”
Brittany was given her own clothing and allowed to dress alone. When she emerged from the exam room, she was ashen and quiet, but no longer trembling. Claire led her to the waiting area which was uninhabited except for Officer Jensen. “I need to hear your story,” he began. “I know this is painful, but it is important for you to recall as many details as you can while the event is fresh.”
Claire watched him nod his head and she tried to push the image of a bobble-head doll from her mind.
Brittany told a story punctuated with sobs. She detailed the attack, including the details of the rape, her fear of suffocating, and her first disoriented awakening after the trauma. As she spoke, Claire began to feel a vague sense of déjà vu, as if the description carried some sick familiarity for her. Lena?
Randy Jensen took meticulous notes, pausing to ask for clarifications, and apologizing repeatedly for the intrusive nature of his need to know. In spite of his irritating quirks, Claire came away impressed with his sensitivity.
“I need a physical description,” Randy urged.
Brittany shook her head. “It was dark.”
“Tall? Short?”
Brittany stood up and held her hand a bit above her head. “About this tall.”
Officer Jensen responded, “Looks like about five ten or eleven.” He scribbled on the pad in his lap and continued, “Heavy, fat, skinny?”
“Medium.” Her hand went to her mouth. “He smelled of alcohol. He was wearing a mask.”
“A mask? Really?” Jensen looked at Claire. “Most rapists do very little to disguise themselves.” He tapped his pen on his notepad. “What kind of mask? Ski mask?”
“No. A medical mask of some sort. Like the ones my surgeon wore at the hospital.”
Claire leaned forward. “A surgical mask?”
Brittany nodded.
Jensen’s head bobbed. “Did he speak to you? Tell you to shut up, threaten you?”
“N
o.”
“How did he leave you? Any clue of tenderness? Any search for reassurance?”
“No. I don’t remember him leaving. I thought I was going to suffocate. All I can remember was needing to get air.” She paused. “I must have passed out. When I woke up, he was gone.”
“What happened next?”
“I called Dr. McCall. She told me what to do. I didn’t do anything. I just waited for her to pick me up.”
As Claire listened to the story, she was struck by her solidarity with Brittany. For a moment, her heart rose to her throat as she remembered the abuses of her own past, growing up with the unpredictable violence of her alcoholic father. And in that moment, she felt vulnerable. An unexpected horror had crept into Stoney Creek, threatening her idyllic country town. And in that moment, she longed for the safety of the familiar. She wanted to run to a place of refuge, to the comfort of John Cerelli’s arms. The place where she had found solace and the desire for love.
She coerced herself to listen, to pay attention to the details of her patient’s pain. But again, an ill-at-ease feeling knotted her stomach. The story was vaguely familiar, as if a memory called her from the corner of a large hall, just beyond her ability to hear.
She strained to pinpoint her anxiety, unable to make sense of the perception. But one idea persisted. She needed to return to Brighton. She needed to talk to Lena Chisholm.
Billy Ray awoke to a pounding in his head. He felt terrible. He began to stretch when his arms struck the steering wheel in front of him. That was his first clue that he wasn’t sleeping in his bed. What’s going on? He opened his eyes, careful to squint away the sun glaring from the hood of his truck. He looked around and groaned. A fifth of cheap whiskey lay on the seat beside him, evidence of the night’s activity. His legs were stiff, frozen in their cramped position beneath the brake pedal. He tried with limited success to extend his knees. Then, another sensation awakened. First his head demanded attention. Then his legs. Now his bladder seemed to pound in a rhythm with his head, a sick duet calling for relief.