Brock Douglas' week was occupied investigating the alleged crime scene, and running forensic tests on blood, clothing and hair samples; each piece of evidence carefully checked for consistency against the varying stories told by Azairah D'Amici, and Brock's son Cole, and friends. Or, more to the point, rather than the evidence being checked for consistency against the woman's accusations, each piece was forced to fit that of the boy's tale; twisted and turned, moved and replaced, either viewed as important, or ignored.
The hair and blood on the hallway floor and walls was explained away as simply a result of the girl, staggering from the effects of liquor, bouncing off the walls; blood and hair loss itself a consequence of the violent, consensual sex, each of the young men had stated took place, which had also resulted in vaginal tearing, and the 'accidental' shattering of the mirror. With her face.
The dislocations to her shoulders occurred when Zai drunkenly attempted to halt her tumble down the steps; glass embedded in her cheeks, broken nose, and blackened eyes came from landing face-first on the concrete; and the high alcohol reading provided proof she'd been drinking; only confirming what they'd already decided to have taken place.
Witnesses were questioned, then re-questioned, until none could be certain that they'd seen Cole speaking to the girl at all that night, or if in fact - in the face of a man who was an expert in interrogation -, the picture they'd been shown was that of the same woman who'd sat in the corner. The residence had been thoroughly scrubbed after photograph's had been taken. Or not taken, as the case may be. Brock and Edwards alone worked the scene.
That Azairah D'Amici was discovered to be sans panties only added further fuel to the fire, and unfortunately, the semen and blood samples recovered by the Hospital were lost. A pity, but these things happened. Not once did the investigators return to check on the woman, or take a further statement.
Her departing words had been blocked from the memory of Officer Edwards, and hopefully those of Noakes as well. It was Brock's case now, and Noakes was out of the loop, expected to keep his mouth shut. And he would. As would the rest of the officers.
The Police Force, particularly in a town such as Eden, was no different from a clique of High-School Jock's, with the Sheriff as its leader. Each member was aware that, if ever it was required, he'd back his men to the hilt, and in return, they were expected to display the same loyalty. If they refused to toe the line, there'd be only one winner. Brock Douglas.
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"Calm down Edwards, just put the woman in Interview Room 1, and I'll take care of it. Ask Diaz to tell her the Sheriff will be in attend to the mater personally, as soon as he can. You stay clear."
Brock took a deep breath, then sighed. He'd hoped it was over; he'd known Aizarah had been released from the Hospital - they'd kept track - , and wishful thinking had the woman forgetting about the entire incident, and moving on. However, that didn't appear to be the case, and now the bitch was going to need to be set straight.
The Sheriff placed a call, then sat back and listened to the second-hand tick away on his wall clock. Five minutes passed, ten, fifteen, and only when it hit twenty, did he move. Brock collected his utility belt, placed it around his waist, and made his way to Interview Room 1.
The eyes of his staff were all upon him, but Brock spoke to no-one as he halted outside to appraise the woman through one-way glass, and took in her attractive features. No wonder Cole had wanted to fuck her. Had the wait calmed her down as he'd hoped, or only served to increase her agitation? He'd discovered the answer to that question soon enough, not that he intended to provide Azairah D'Amici the opportunity to speak her piece. He wanted her out of there, in no doubt as to where matters stood, as quickly as possible.
"Ms D'Amici, alleged rape victim, I presume?" Not having even introduced himself, Brock leaned against the closed door, folded arms across his chest, and stared at her. "I don't know why you continue to waste valuable police time, and resources. As Officer Edwards advised, without corroborating evidence, there's nothing we can do. Your complaint has been fully investigated, and there's not a shred of evidence to support any of the accusations you've made against Cole Douglas."
Slowly, as he spoke, his arms unfolded, and Brock moved toward her. The man's lips curled up into a smile, though it wasn't one of amusement, as he reached the table, planted his hands either side of it, and leaned forward so that his bulk towered over her, "In fact, the complete opposite. All evidence supports the young man's story to a tee, as do the witnesses who claim to have seen you all over him, downstairs.
That was a fabrication, of course, but Cole Douglas was a High School Football Hero, and it wouldn't be difficult to believe that others would lie to save his skin. "Whatever your motives, I suggest you drop these silly little games, and get on with your life. Best thing for all of us, I think, don't you Miss?" It was a rhetorical question, and Brock didn't wait for an answer. He was on a roll. "Because, even if charges were laid, do you have any concept of how it would pan out?"
The Sheriff pulled back from the desk, and shook his head, gaze still locked on the attractive young woman as he paced in a circle around the desk. "The jury would be told how you were staggering drunk, and attended the party with no other intention but to get laid, where you hooked up with an innocent and popular young man, and were seen entering an upstairs bedroom with him, of your own volition. His friends would testify that's precisely how it occurred, and how, in that bedroom, you begged for him to give it to you rough, and fuck you like a whore."
"Then." Sheriff Douglas ceased his pacing, and came to a stop directly in front of her, his tone one of completely surety. "The defence attorney would drag in every boyfriend you've ever had, every man you've slept with, and question them on how you liked it. Did you enjoy being slapped, possibly choked now and then, ever let yourself be tied up, or had a one-night stand, take it up the ass? And that would just be the start." Brock's lips pursed, then quickly as a snake he moved, and his palms slapped back down onto the table in front of her, the sound of it echoing around the room.
"You think you were raped at that party, honey? If you dare continue on with this charade, or breathe a word of your false accusations to anyone, I will ensure you are raped all over again. By the legal system. Now get the fuck out of here." At the very moment he screamed the words, there was a knock on the door, and a man entered the room, gaze locked on Azairah Douglas. The call the Sheriff had made earlier.
"Hey Dad."
Brock Douglas glanced around to acknowledge his son, then turned back to the woman, a look of pure anger and hatred on his features, and lifted a hand to point to the exit. "Out."
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From his position in the dispatch room, Evan's viewed the entire process through the one-way glass. The man didn't possess the ability to lip-read, but one didn't need to, to be able to know what was occurring in Interview Room 1. Azairah D'Amicic was getting railroaded.
The Station had been abuzz with gossip and rumours about the girl ever since Noakes and Edwards had first returned from the Hospital. How she was some cheap whore, looking for attention, who'd gotten drunk, allowed herself to screwed by the local football hero, and now regretted it. Cole didn't deserve to be accused; all he'd done was take an attractive young woman up on her offer of sex, as any man would. Evan's didn't believe a word of it, and as he watched, he knew for a fact that the woman had been brutally raped and beaten by the Sheriff's son, who was going to get away with it, scot-free, whilst she'd be left to deal with the consequences for the remainder of her time on Earth.
That that she hadn't willingly spread her legs for Cole Douglas - which couldn't be said for many of the girls around town -, and he'd needed resort to raping her, told Evans something about the woman behind the glass. She wasn't a typical slut who'd fuck her way to popularity, and jump on a cock simply because she could use being drunk or stoned as excuse, regardless of the collateral damage it caused. She was innocent; a lamb to the slaughter. Unlike his cheating whore of an ex-wife.
A tear fell from the corner of his eye and rolled down his cheek as Kyle Evans experienced an emotion he hadn't felt in such a long time. Empathy. Azairah D'amici hadn't asked for the pain, and didn't deserve to be made suffer. Not like the others; they did. To be forced to assume responsibility for their actions, and pay the price; to be made beg, scream, grovel, and acknowledge the hurt they caused. To admit their guilt, plead for mercy, and ask for one last chance to set things right.
But why should he demonstrate mercy, when Amy had never shown it to him? He'd begged. He'd screamed. He'd grovelled. He'd pleaded and cried. But what had the bitch done? She'd laughed in his face, and told him she was pregnant to another man. Evans had served his country, gone through hell, almost given his life, and that's the gratitude he received? It wasn't fucking right.
Amy had been murdered five times now, and on each occasion Evans had laughed in her face as the blood drained from her body, and the life from her eyes.
It relieved his pain.
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