She concluded the statement by saying that her intruder took a “sterling silver puffed heart on a silver chain . . . that had a noticeable dent on one side of the heart . . . He also took $250 in cash, a full strand of pinky-tinted pearls, and a stone necklace of different colors . . .”
To Donna it felt like a weight had been lifted. She had openly talked about the rape itself, the threats made against her life, her attacker leaving as stealthily as he had appeared. John sat nearby, his arm around his wife, helping her get through it all. Donna was able to articulate the night and not lose total control of her emotions, a major step.
Cote explained that he had purposely misspelled several words as he typed out the report so Donna could circle the words and place her initials near each one. It was a way, Cote said, for the WPD to verify that the statement she had given was under her own free will and exactly what she had wanted to say. By Donna correcting the words and then initialing next to each misspelling, it showed on the document that she was in control of what was being written.
Donna considered the request strange, but she did it. Leaving the WPD, Donna and John had a sense that the case was moving forward.
I was feeling like they were continuing on the case, and they were doing whatever they could to solve it. Detective Cote seemed sincere. Even though John and I believed that Cote didn’t come across as the sharpest knife in the drawer, we hoped—and certainly believed then—that he “got it.”
Later that same day, Cote and a colleague showed up at Donna and John’s Leffingwell Avenue home to have a look around. A one-paragraph report of that visit (three days after the crime occurred) offered what they found: “The scene of a past burglary and larceny and sexual assault. There was no sign of forced entry. [We] processed the scene for latent fingerprints and no identifiable prints were lifted.”
The following day Cote and his colleague were back at Donna’s house. They met a phone company field supervisor there to look around the outside structure. After locating the telephone line junction box “near ground level,” they first photographed the box. In his report Cote documented what he found, writing: “This junction box was a result of the telephone line being cut by the intruder prior to entering the building.” Then Cote and his team removed the junction box from the side of the house “in an effort to compare the cut marks with a cutting tool should it be recovered at a later date . . .” The entire structure was “entered as evidence . . .”
This activity was another indication to Donna that the case was getting the attention it deserved, not to mention moving forward. The WPD was working on it—collecting evidence and taking statements. A good sign. Donna felt they were getting somewhere. The fact that they dusted the house for fingerprints three days after the crime seemed strange to John and Donna, but maybe the police knew something they did not.
The initial theory, now being checked out by the WPD, was that a security company employee monitoring homes in the area, or a phone company employee who knew the neighborhood, was responsible. It made sense. The man would have known the layout of the houses in the community, where the phone lines were located, and how to cut the lines. The phone company performed a test for Cote on-site, demonstrating how hard it was to cut the phone line. You’d need a special tool, strong enough to get through a tough outer coating of wire that was manufactured to withstand New England weather.
Furthermore, the more Donna thought about it, the more she suspected that her attacker might have snuck into the house before she arrived home from her night out with the kids. Maybe he had hidden inside somewhere until everyone was in bed. Whatever the case, the man who attacked Donna must have known her routine, or even personal aspects of her life. Donna Palomba had been chosen as a target; she was not attacked at random, which could only mean one thing.
Donna knew her attacker.
CHAPTER FIVE
Life Goes On . . . But Only for a Moment
Donna Palomba’s greatest desire was to go to sleep one night soon with the consoling feeling that the man who had raped her was behind bars. But weeks after the attack, as she began the process of taking back her life, she realized that wouldn’t be the case.
Donna was a successful marketing executive at a small advertising agency that she and two partners had started in 1987. The agency, GP&P, named for Nick Gugliotti (her cousin), Tom Peterson (a friend), and Donna, was the result of a dream and years of hard work.
We had a handful of employees—a couple designers, receptionist, bookkeeper. We were truly like a family. I worked four days a week so I could be home with the kids on Tuesdays, and since I was working part-time and having babies when we formed the agency, I was a minority owner but always hoped one day to be an equal partner (which eventually happened). I remember when Johnny (our son) was born. The agency was young. I felt needed at the office. I came back to work two weeks after Johnny was born and turned my office into a nursery. I took him with me so I could nurse him and be with him.
Now, after her attack, Donna would get counseling. There would be times of tremendous emotional struggle. But this assault was not going to defeat Donna Palomba. Part of the healing process, Donna knew, was getting back into the swing of everyday life right away and leaning on her Catholic faith. She had turned to her religion before in times of celebration and desperation. She knew her love and faith in God could carry her through what would be the toughest period of her life, and it was that inherent trust in God, Donna was convinced, that had been driving her since the very moment her world had been turned upside down.
It was amazing to me when I looked back on it later, that on the night of my attack, this immense feeling of gratitude had come over me. I never felt, Why me? Why did this have to happen? From the first moment after the attack, I was overcome with a sense of gratefulness like I had never experienced. I was elated to be alive. He put a gun to my mouth and then to my temple. I absolutely believed that I was going to be killed. I did not think I would survive. And my children . . . my goodness, they slept through the entire episode. After I had a moment to stop and realize, okay, my children are fine . . . even as I stood there in my neighbor’s kitchen, I knew I would be okay with what happened. The attack would not define who I am. I felt like a survivor, not a victim. This belief, along with my strong faith, would carry me through the worst days of my life, which would lie ahead. I had literally cried out to God that night in my bedroom, asking Him to absolve me of all my sins—because I believed my days in this world were over. Maybe that’s why I was able to overcome this with so much gratitude. A family member said something about a week after the crime that I heard about, and it bothered me: “Donna will never be the same . . .” It was the total opposite of how I was feeling. I did not like that someone thought I would not be able to recover. I did not feel guilt. I did not feel shame. I felt free. I felt . . . thankful.
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.<
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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.
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