“Here. On the floor. On a blanket, the victim said.”
“Where’s the blanket now?”
“Didn’t find one. Perp took it with him, I guess.”
“Has the space been cleaned?”
“Um, yes… ma’am.”
“‘Special Agent’ will do.”
“Yes, Special Agent. We cleaned it.”
“Did you keep any dust, hairs, blood, fabric threads?”
“Put a fresh bag in the vacuum, then Baggie’d that. Special Agent.”
“Okay, good.” She went out in the corridor. Asked how many accesses there were, and made notes. Then went back in, closed the door, and turned the lights off. She took a flashlight from her purse and clicked the infrared LED on. Efflorescence glowed near the workbench, probably from whatever they used to clean the electronics. But nothing that looked like blood. She turned the overheads back on and inspected each sharp corner, where someone might hurt himself. If there was resistance, few assailants came away without some sort of damage. Scrapes, bruises, sprains. Facial scratches were common; women often went for the eyes.
She’d worked rapes before. The victim usually knew the perpetrator. Not surprising on a ship, but it held true even for air squadrons, Marine regiments. It was usually an acquaintance, not some stranger jumping out and dragging her (or, occasionally, him) into a dark passageway.
Most rapists weren’t the knuckle-draggers you saw on television. They kept themselves well groomed. Knew how to present an attractive front. They lacked empathy or remorse, but could fake either. They were either openly or secretly contemptuous of women, viewing them as prey or scores. The profiles of sexual predators and acquaintance rapists overlapped. Some went back and forth, from using minimal force on women too intoxicated with drugs or alcohol to resist, to battery, then to torture, mutilation, and murder. It was a spectrum, and given time and opportunity, a perp tended to push his envelope. There were as many white players as black. Class mattered too: when an officer was involved, it was usually less the threat of physical force than of career intimidation—“Play along, or it’ll impact your next evaluation.”
Hardest of all to get a grip on was the guy who never left a mark, never crossed a line where he couldn’t claim consent. She suspected there were a lot more of these crawling around than ever crossed the door of the criminal justice system. Most of their victims never reported it.
She blinked, running a finger along the edge of a cabinet. Remembering what the Indian lieutenant had said. There’s a lot more going on that nobody knows about. It was true, some ships seemed to be rotten. It didn’t always seep down from the top. Sometimes it seemed to bleed upward, from some mysterious cancer deep in the bowels of the ship, or its history, or some pivotal individual whose evil bore fruit years after he was gone.
But then, how did Singhe know?
A tap from the passageway. “Come in,” she called.
“Need help?” Chief Toan said from the doorway. A slight white woman with blond hair stood behind him.
“I’m done for the moment. But please keep this space locked, in case we need to return.”
“It’s a repair space,” the blonde said. “We may need to give the techs access from time to time. But other than that, we’ll keep it sealed.” She extended a hand. “Cheryl Staurulakis. Executive officer. Sorry we had to meet like this, Special Agent… Aisha?”
“Aisha works.” She nodded to Toan. “The Chief’s been very helpful. Right now, I’m just looking over the scene. Then I’ll want to interview the victim. How is she?”
“The Terror… Petty Officer Terranova… she’s shaken up. It’s a blow.”
“Is she medicated?”
“She had a sedative right after. That Army doc, Schell, gave it to her two days ago. Nothing since. That I know of.” Staurulakis wrapped her arms around herself, peering past Aisha into the compartment. “Has the sheriff here told you this wasn’t the only incident?”
“He said you had two previous. One, a groping up on the hangar deck. Is that an open case?”
“We handled that with our MA force. We never settled on a… specific suspect. Second, a near rape back in the supply spaces. Different woman. But the victim of the first groping was also Miss Terranova.”
Aisha asked her, “Who was the second?”
“Storekeeper Seaman Celestina Colón. She was in the aft passageway, two level, when the lights went out. He shoved her into one of the spaces back there, then pushed her down onto something soft. Undressed her, threatened her with a knife, and used his fingers.”
“They were interrupted? He would have gone on?”
“Doesn’t seem to have been. You can ask, but what she told us was, he didn’t actually attempt penetration. With his penis, I mean.”
“Only with the fingers?” Staurulakis nodded. “This Terranova, Colón. Are they alike, physically? Build, hair color, ethnicity?”
The exec glanced at the chief. Toan shrugged. “I would say not. Terranova’s kind of heavy. New Jersey Italian. Brown hair. Meek. Colón’s Puerto Rican. Thin. Black hair. Built more like a boy. Kind of hard-looking, if you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t,” Aisha said. “Explain it to me.”
“I mean… like not much is gonna make an impression on her. That she’s tougher than the average bear.”
“We had our eyes on a suspect,” Staurulakis said. “He kept trying to get her alone. A castaway we picked up. Claimed to be a religious refugee. Colón didn’t think it was him, but he was on our short list.”
“Where is he now?”
“We offloaded him in Singapore.”
“Before the rape?”
“Correct.”
“So he’s off the board for that, but still a possibility for number two.”
Toan said, “One more thing. Both guys turned off the lights. I mean, in all three incidents.”
Aisha waited. “And?”
“The lights in the helo hangar passageway, in the supply storeroom, and in the radar equipment space.”
“You’re saying that’s an MO? I’m afraid it doesn’t give us much.”
Toan said, “Actually, it might. See, there’s no topside access from the interior passageway on the Supply Department level. So there’s no darken-ship switch there. Somebody had to know how to turn them off back at the lighting panel.”
Staurulakis nodded. “We thought, possibly an electrician. Or a compartment petty officer. The darken-ship switch up on the hangar-deck level was interfered with too. When the Terror was first groped.”
“I see.” Aisha filed this away. “Could we see the corpsman next? Again, except for operational needs, please keep this space locked.”
“All right.” Staurulakis hesitated. “What else can we do? To facilitate your investigation.”
“I’ll need a private space.”
“I’ve set that up. Unit commander’s stateroom. Main deck, starboard side, midships.”
“And an assistant. Someone who knows his way around the ship.”
The exec traded glances with the master-at-arms. “May take a little more doing. We’re stretched pretty thin right now. Let us get back to you on that.”
Savo’s sick bay was well aft, a brightly lit, immaculate space that seemed almost new, in contrast with the rest of the ship, which looked worn at the edges. The deck shook, and the thrum of the screws imposed a constant, loud backdrop of ambient noise. The lead corpsman was named Grissett. “Hudson, Hud… most folks just call me Doc.”
Aisha shook hands, looking around. Chairs, desk, examining table; a sink, a stool, white plastic jugs of saline and other compounds in racks. The containers shifted as the space rolled around them. Through a curtained door lay a dimly lit bunking area, apparently untenanted at the moment. The cool air was welcome after the stifling, close heat in the passageways.