Love You More (Tessa Leoni, #1)(10)

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.


As 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.”