highlighted blonde hair damp, her face washed
clean of makeup. A contusion on her left cheekbone was swollen and discolored.
Too late, Dana thought. She’d already bathed. Dana turned to Matthew Harwood and said, “I’ll talk to you later, sir, but do
you mind if I talk to Ms. Gillespie alone? You might wait right outside with my partner. He’ll need some information.”
After Matthew Harwood was gone, Dana had a fleeting thought that this woman was not much older than she, and that made it
more troubling. Dana said, “I know how… I have an
idea
how you’re feeling right now, but we’ll need to take you to the hospital to tend to your injuries and to get some evidence
swabs. Is your underwear here or down where it happened?”
“He never made me remove my underwear,” Sharon Gillespie said. “It didn’t get that far. And this bruise on my face is my only
injury. I’m not going to a hospital. I’m going to bed.”
“Okay, what do you mean, ‘It didn’t get that far’?”
“He held the weapon in front of my eyes. A box knife, like the nine-eleven hijackers used. He pushed me into the backseat
of my SUV. He pushed my head down. He said he’d cut my eyes out if I didn’t…”
“Tell me the exact words that he said to you.”
“He said, ‘Suck my cock or I’ll cut your eyes out, you filthy slut.’ ”
“And then what happened?”
“What do you think happened? I did it.”
“I know this is very difficult,” Dana said. “But I have to know details. If we can collect any semen at all, we can get his
DNA profile. His genetic fingerprint.”
“I know all that,” Sharon Gillespie said. “I’m not stupid. But he didn’t ejaculate. He didn’t even get hard. He got angry.
Furious. He called me all kinds of things. ‘Whore, slut, pig, drunk, bitch.’ I don’t know what else.”
“Drunk?” Dana said, writing in her notebook. “Had you been drinking?”
“No, I’d just come from work.”
“Okay,” Dana said, “so there was no ejaculation?”
“No,” she said. “After a few minutes, he jerked me up by the hair and with that box knife in his fist punched me in the face
and jumped out and ran toward the fire exit door.”
“Would you be able to recognize the man if you saw him again?”
“No. He was a Middle Eastern guy in his twenties. Close to six feet tall, wearing a light blue T-shirt and jeans. He had black,
curly hair and he looked like the nine-eleven hijackers. With that same kind of box knife.”
“A box cutter,” Dana said. “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” Sharon Gillespie said, “I’ve seen the guys at Home Depot cutting open boxes with those things.”
“Did he have a Middle Eastern accent?” Dana asked.
“No, he had no accent that I could make out. He didn’t say much. Only those filthy obscenities.”
“About calling you a drunk,” Dana said, “could he be someone who’d seen you at a bar or restaurant when you were having a
few drinks? Maybe a busboy or waiter?”
“I go to a lot of restaurants in my business, but I never get drunk,” Sharon Gillespie said. “Now, please go out there and
catch that god-damn Arab!” Then she started to weep.
After Dana put out a further description of the suspect to the RTO at Communications Division, she walked down to the parking
garage. There she found the lazy night-watch detective “Compassionate Charlie” Gilford, a lanky, middle-aged veteran D2 notorious
for his horrible taste in neckties and acerbic comments at crime scenes.
The detective said, “SID’s gonna have to crawl that SUV with a black light.”
“No, they aren’t,” Dana said. “There’s no semen in there.”
Charlie Gilford, who had a thing for well-preserved fortyish woman like Dana, said to her, “What, no dribble in the withdraw
mode? You got the panties?”
“Nope,” Dana said, and before she could explain, Charlie Gilford said, “Those drawers and what was in them is a crime scene.
clean of makeup. A contusion on her left cheekbone was swollen and discolored.
Too late, Dana thought. She’d already bathed. Dana turned to Matthew Harwood and said, “I’ll talk to you later, sir, but do
you mind if I talk to Ms. Gillespie alone? You might wait right outside with my partner. He’ll need some information.”
After Matthew Harwood was gone, Dana had a fleeting thought that this woman was not much older than she, and that made it
more troubling. Dana said, “I know how… I have an
idea
how you’re feeling right now, but we’ll need to take you to the hospital to tend to your injuries and to get some evidence
swabs. Is your underwear here or down where it happened?”
“He never made me remove my underwear,” Sharon Gillespie said. “It didn’t get that far. And this bruise on my face is my only
injury. I’m not going to a hospital. I’m going to bed.”
“Okay, what do you mean, ‘It didn’t get that far’?”
“He held the weapon in front of my eyes. A box knife, like the nine-eleven hijackers used. He pushed me into the backseat
of my SUV. He pushed my head down. He said he’d cut my eyes out if I didn’t…”
“Tell me the exact words that he said to you.”
“He said, ‘Suck my cock or I’ll cut your eyes out, you filthy slut.’ ”
“And then what happened?”
“What do you think happened? I did it.”
“I know this is very difficult,” Dana said. “But I have to know details. If we can collect any semen at all, we can get his
DNA profile. His genetic fingerprint.”
“I know all that,” Sharon Gillespie said. “I’m not stupid. But he didn’t ejaculate. He didn’t even get hard. He got angry.
Furious. He called me all kinds of things. ‘Whore, slut, pig, drunk, bitch.’ I don’t know what else.”
“Drunk?” Dana said, writing in her notebook. “Had you been drinking?”
“No, I’d just come from work.”
“Okay,” Dana said, “so there was no ejaculation?”
“No,” she said. “After a few minutes, he jerked me up by the hair and with that box knife in his fist punched me in the face
and jumped out and ran toward the fire exit door.”
“Would you be able to recognize the man if you saw him again?”
“No. He was a Middle Eastern guy in his twenties. Close to six feet tall, wearing a light blue T-shirt and jeans. He had black,
curly hair and he looked like the nine-eleven hijackers. With that same kind of box knife.”
“A box cutter,” Dana said. “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” Sharon Gillespie said, “I’ve seen the guys at Home Depot cutting open boxes with those things.”
“Did he have a Middle Eastern accent?” Dana asked.
“No, he had no accent that I could make out. He didn’t say much. Only those filthy obscenities.”
“About calling you a drunk,” Dana said, “could he be someone who’d seen you at a bar or restaurant when you were having a
few drinks? Maybe a busboy or waiter?”
“I go to a lot of restaurants in my business, but I never get drunk,” Sharon Gillespie said. “Now, please go out there and
catch that god-damn Arab!” Then she started to weep.
After Dana put out a further description of the suspect to the RTO at Communications Division, she walked down to the parking
garage. There she found the lazy night-watch detective “Compassionate Charlie” Gilford, a lanky, middle-aged veteran D2 notorious
for his horrible taste in neckties and acerbic comments at crime scenes.
The detective said, “SID’s gonna have to crawl that SUV with a black light.”
“No, they aren’t,” Dana said. “There’s no semen in there.”
Charlie Gilford, who had a thing for well-preserved fortyish woman like Dana, said to her, “What, no dribble in the withdraw
mode? You got the panties?”
“Nope,” Dana said, and before she could explain, Charlie Gilford said, “Those drawers and what was in them is a crime scene.
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