Love You More (Tessa Leoni, #1)(43)

“Tessa ran home in the middle of the night?” Bobby spoke up with a frown.

“Tessa lived on the same street, five houses down. Not a big distance to cover. When the dad made it downstairs, he yelled at Juliana to have her mom call nine-one-one. Which is the scene I walked into. Bloody family room, dead teenager, missing shooter.”

“Where was Tommy shot?”

“Upper left thigh. Bullet nicked his femoral artery and he bled out. Bad luck, if you think about it—dying from a single GSW to the leg.”

“Only one shot?”

“That’s all it took.”

Interesting, D.D. thought. At least Brian Darby had earned three in the chest. What a difference twenty-five weeks of intensive firearms training could make.

“So where was Tessa?” D.D. asked.

“After Juliana’s statement, I proceeded to the Leoni residence, where Tessa answered on the first knock. She’d showered—”

“No way!”

“Told you the physical evidence was FUBAR. Then again”—Walthers shrugged his burly shoulders—“she was sixteen years old. By her own admission, she’d been sexually assaulted, before shooting her attacker. Heading straight for the shower—can you blame her?”

D.D. still didn’t like it. “What physical evidence could you recover?”

“The twenty-two. Tessa handed it right over. Her prints were on the handle and ballistics matched the slug that killed Tommy Howe to the gun. We bagged and tagged her discarded clothes. No semen on the underwear—she claimed he didn’t, ahem, get to finish what he’d started. But some blood on her clothing, same type as Tommy Howe.”

“Test her hands for powder?”

“Negative—but then, she’d showered.”

“Rape kit?”

“She declined.”

“She declined?”

“She said she’d been through enough. I tried to convince her to let a nurse examine her for bruising, tried to explain it would be in her own best interest, but she wasn’t buying it. Girl was shaking like a leaf. You could see—she was done.”

“Where’s the father through all this?” Bobby wanted to know.

“He woke up when we entered the home. Apparently figuring out for the first time that his daughter had returned early from her sleepover and that there’d been an incident. He seemed a little … checked out. Stood in the kitchen in his boxers and wife-beater T-shirt, arms crossed over his chest, not saying a word. I mean, here’s his sixteen-year-old daughter talking about being attacked by a boy, and he’s just standing there like a goddamn statue. Donnie,” Walthers snapped his fingers as the name came to him, “Donnie Leoni. Owned his own garage. Never could figure him out. I was guessing drinking, but never confirmed it.”

“Mother?” D.D. asked.

“Dead. Six months earlier, heart failure. Not a happy household, but …” Again, Walthers shrugged. “Most of them aren’t.”

“So,” D.D. replayed the events in her mind, “Tommy Howe is dead from a single GSW in his family room. Tessa confesses to the crime, all cleaned up and unwilling to submit to a physical exam. I don’t get it. The DA simply took her word for it? Poor traumatized sixteen-year-old girl must be telling the truth?”

Walthers shook his head. “Between you and me?”

“By all means,” D.D. assured him. “Between friends.”

“I couldn’t make heads or tails of Tessa Leoni. I mean, on the one hand, she was sitting in her kitchen trembling uncontrollably. On the other hand … she delivered a precise recounting of every minute of the evening. In all my years, never had a victim recount so many details with such clarity, especially a victim of sexual assault. It bothered me, but what could I say: Honey, your memory is too good for me to take you seriously?” Walthers shook his head. “In this day and age, those kinds of statements can cost a detective his shield, and trust me—I got two ex-wives to support—I need my pension.”

“So why let her off with self-defense? Why not press charges?” Bobby asked, clearly as perplexed as D.D.

“Because Tessa Leoni might have been a questionable victim, but Tommy Howe was the perfect perpetrator. Within twenty-four hours, three different girls phoned in with accounts of being sexually assaulted by him. None of them wanted to make a formal statement, mind you, but the more we dug, the more we discovered Tommy had a clear reputation with the ladies: He didn’t take no for an answer. He didn’t necessarily use brute force, which is why so many of the girls were reluctant to testify. Instead, sounded like he would ply them with alcohol, maybe even spike their drinks. But a couple of the girls remembered clearly not being interested in Tommy Howe, and waking up in his bed anyway.”

“Rohypnol,” D.D. said.

“Probably. We never found any trace of it in his dorm room, but even his buddies agreed that what Tommy wanted, Tommy got, and the girl’s feelings on the subject weren’t of much interest to him.”

“Nice guy,” Bobby muttered darkly.

“His parents certainly thought so,” Walthers remarked. “When the DA announced he wasn’t pressing charges, tried to explain the mitigating circumstances … You would’ve thought we were claiming the Pope was an atheist. The father—James, James Howe—hit the roof. Screamed at the DA, called my lieutenant to rant how my shitty police work was allowing a cold-blooded murderer to go free. Jim had contacts, he’d get us all in the end.”