“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.”
“Where did he hit you, Officer?”
“Face. Eye. Cheek.” My fingers finding each spot, reliving the pain. Inside my head, I’m stuck in a moment of time. Him, looming above. Me, cowering on the linoleum, genuinely terrified.
“I fell down,” I recite for the district detective. “My husband picked up a chair.”
Silence. The district detective waiting for me to say more. Spin a lie, tell the truth.
“I didn’t hit him,” I whisper. I’ve taken enough of these statements. I know how this story goes. We all do. “If I didn’t fight back,” I state mechanically, “he’d wear out, go away. If I did… It was always worse in the end.”
“Your husband picked up a chair, Trooper Leoni? Where were you when he did this?”
“On the floor.”
“Where in the house?”
“The kitchen.”
“When your husband picked up the chair, what did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“What did he do?”
“Threw it.”
“Where?”
“At me.”
“Did it hit you?”
“I… I don’t remember.”
“Then what happened, Trooper Leoni?” The district detective leaning down, peering at me more closely. His face is a study of concern. Is my eye contact wrong? My story too detailed? Not detailed enough?
All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, my two front teeth, my two front teeth.
The song sounds in my head. I want to giggle. I don’t.
Love you, Mommy. Love you.
“I threw the chair back at him,” I tell the district detective.
“You threw the chair back at him?”
“He got… angrier. So I must have done something, right? Because he became angrier.”
“Were you in full uniform at this time, Trooper Leoni?”
I meet his eye. “Yes.”
“Wearing your duty belt? And your body armor?”
“Yes.”
“Did you reach for anything on your duty belt? Take steps to defend yourself?”
Still looking him in the eye. “No.”
The detective regards me curiously. “What happened next, Trooper Leoni?”
“He grabbed the beer bottle. Smashed it against my forehead. I… I managed to fend him off. He stumbled, toward the table. I fell. Against the wall. My back against the wall. I needed to find the doorway. I needed to get away.”
Silence.
“Trooper Leoni?”
“He had the broken bottle,” I murmur. “I needed to get away. But… trapped. On the floor. Against the wall. Watching him.”
“Trooper Leoni?”
“I feared for my life,” I whisper. “I felt my sidearm. He charged… I feared for my life.”
“Trooper Leoni, what happened?”
“I shot my husband.”
“Trooper Leoni-”
I meet his gaze one last time. “Then I went looking for my daughter.”
By the time D.D. and Bobby finished circling around to the front of the property, the EMTs were retrieving a stretcher from the back of the ambulance. D.D. glanced their way, then identified the Boston uniform standing outside the crime-scene tape with the murder book. She approached him first.
“Hey, Officer Fiske. You’ve logged every single uniform entering this joint?” She gestured to the notebook in his hand, where he was collecting the names of all personnel to cross the crime-scene tape.
“Forty-two officers,” he said, without batting an eyelash.
“Jesus. Is there a single cop left on patrol in the greater Boston area?”
“Doubt it,” Officer Fiske said. Kid was young and serious. Was it just D.D. or were they getting younger and more serious with each passing year?
“Well, here’s the problem, Officer Fiske. While you’re collecting names here, other cops are entering and exiting from the rear of the property, and that’s really pissing me off.”
