Gitchie Girl: The Survivor's Inside Story of the Mass Murders that Shocked the Heartland by Phil Hamman & Sandy Hamman Page A
Authors: Phil Hamman & Sandy Hamman
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composure to write so determinedly without once breaking down? Wouldn’t the natural reaction to hearing about her boyfriend’s death be to break down and cry? He’d been stunned when she’d simply nodded silently at being told of the homicides. And now, here she sat, scribbling away without a hint of emotion, not a smile, not even a grimace. She was like a machine that didn’t stop. One word kept coming to his mind: cold.
The reality was that Sandra didn’t know what the word “homicide” meant. She had pieced enough information together to establish that it had to mean there had been a crime and perhaps it had something to do with drug raids. She had been informed that the three men from the previous night were not cops, and she was determined to use every last bit of strength to catch these criminals. Sandra pushed herself past her limit. She was so drained it took all her strength and concentration just to keep her eyes open. She found that if she wrote without stopping, her body resisted shutting down. When she paused, exhaustion overcame her, which is why she hadn’t stopped writing until the final detail left her pen. It was up to her to provide the information to catch these offenders.
By the time Sandra completed her handwritten report, a captain and lieutenant from the detective bureau had been assembled with two quick phone calls. They took over the investigation and began questioning Sandra about the previous night. Both read the detective’s initial report, their eyes settling on the word “cold.” They added the information to their folders, yet were prepared to explore all possibilities about the girl at this point as they’d been trained. The sheet of questions they held were carefully designed to not only glean information but would be used to eventually try to winnow out inconsistencies in her answers. First, though, they would just let her talk. Sandra didn’t know it at the time, but there had already been discussions throughout the police department that the girl who’d shown up as an unexpected witness probably had more to do with the case than she’d be willing to admit.
A dull pounding, exacerbated by fatigue, pulsed from the top of her head down to her neck. The two detectives, one much younger than the other, shuffled through important-looking folders, and one of them looked up at Sandra with suspicion. Another man entered the room; he introduced himself to her as Sheriff Craig Vinson, then leaned over and whispered something to a woman sitting at the table ready to take shorthand notes. They both glanced over at Sandra. Vinson introduced the woman to Sandra as the person who would record a written account of the interview. The woman nodded politely and returned to the notes on her clipboard. Sandra reeled at having been read her rights, and her guilt seemed to be the overwhelming consensus. She’d seen the suspicious looks and heard the accusatory tones. Yet, for the first time since arriving at the station, she felt a wisp of trust, and it hovered in the air between Sandra and Vinson. She’d immediately warmed to his soothing voice and good manners. Qualities that reminded her of Roger.
The three men pulled their chairs up around the table, and one of them turned on a tape recorder. It whirred to life. Sandra took a deep breath, ready to give her statement.
Chapter 23
The first questions were easy: What is your date of birth? Where do you go to school? How many brothers and sisters do you have? Then came the part she dreaded.
“Tell us everything that happened last night starting with the phone call from Roger.”
Sandra found herself reliving the nightmare with each lengthy explanation. Never once stopping and asking for a break, she answered with details that painted a night of horror and refused to quit until she’d unloaded every strange memory that had been gnawing away at her weary mind.
“Honey, you’ve been through a lot.” Vinson’s jowly voice was calming.
The reality was that Sandra didn’t know what the word “homicide” meant. She had pieced enough information together to establish that it had to mean there had been a crime and perhaps it had something to do with drug raids. She had been informed that the three men from the previous night were not cops, and she was determined to use every last bit of strength to catch these criminals. Sandra pushed herself past her limit. She was so drained it took all her strength and concentration just to keep her eyes open. She found that if she wrote without stopping, her body resisted shutting down. When she paused, exhaustion overcame her, which is why she hadn’t stopped writing until the final detail left her pen. It was up to her to provide the information to catch these offenders.
By the time Sandra completed her handwritten report, a captain and lieutenant from the detective bureau had been assembled with two quick phone calls. They took over the investigation and began questioning Sandra about the previous night. Both read the detective’s initial report, their eyes settling on the word “cold.” They added the information to their folders, yet were prepared to explore all possibilities about the girl at this point as they’d been trained. The sheet of questions they held were carefully designed to not only glean information but would be used to eventually try to winnow out inconsistencies in her answers. First, though, they would just let her talk. Sandra didn’t know it at the time, but there had already been discussions throughout the police department that the girl who’d shown up as an unexpected witness probably had more to do with the case than she’d be willing to admit.
A dull pounding, exacerbated by fatigue, pulsed from the top of her head down to her neck. The two detectives, one much younger than the other, shuffled through important-looking folders, and one of them looked up at Sandra with suspicion. Another man entered the room; he introduced himself to her as Sheriff Craig Vinson, then leaned over and whispered something to a woman sitting at the table ready to take shorthand notes. They both glanced over at Sandra. Vinson introduced the woman to Sandra as the person who would record a written account of the interview. The woman nodded politely and returned to the notes on her clipboard. Sandra reeled at having been read her rights, and her guilt seemed to be the overwhelming consensus. She’d seen the suspicious looks and heard the accusatory tones. Yet, for the first time since arriving at the station, she felt a wisp of trust, and it hovered in the air between Sandra and Vinson. She’d immediately warmed to his soothing voice and good manners. Qualities that reminded her of Roger.
The three men pulled their chairs up around the table, and one of them turned on a tape recorder. It whirred to life. Sandra took a deep breath, ready to give her statement.
Chapter 23
The first questions were easy: What is your date of birth? Where do you go to school? How many brothers and sisters do you have? Then came the part she dreaded.
“Tell us everything that happened last night starting with the phone call from Roger.”
Sandra found herself reliving the nightmare with each lengthy explanation. Never once stopping and asking for a break, she answered with details that painted a night of horror and refused to quit until she’d unloaded every strange memory that had been gnawing away at her weary mind.
“Honey, you’ve been through a lot.” Vinson’s jowly voice was calming.
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