Free Freaky Deaky by Elmore Leonard Page B

neater. There were even artificial flowers on some of the desks, if you could imagine, inside 1300. See, because it wasn’t a twelve-man squad, it was a twelve- person squad, half the investigators were policewomen. Chris said he wasn’t complaining, not at all, it was just different.
    Yesterday he’d walked down to six and stuck his head in at Firearms and Explosives to see what was going on. It reminded him of when he was in the eighth grade his family moved from the West Side to the East Side and all that summer he rode buses back to the old neighborhood to be with his friends. Chris was going to meet Jerry at Galligan’s at five, have a couple before driving out to St. Clair Shores. Working Sex Crimes in his dad’s Cadillac.
    It was almost four thirty. Maureen Downey had the night duty. At the moment she was off somewhere. Maureen had spent a few years in Sex Crimes, then was in Homicide for a while and came back, she said because she didn’t like all the bloodyou found at the scene or going to the morgue to look at bodies and get the Medical Examiner’s report. Chris heard that sharp, clean sound of high heels on the tile floor and looked up expecting to see Maureen.
    It was a young woman with short red hair, very attractive, maybe late twenties. She came in, Chris couldn’t help notice the way her legs moved in her skirt: a short straight tan skirt that went from above her knees into a loose tan sweater. A soft leather handbag hung from her shoulder. She seemed calm, even as she said, “They told me downstairs to come here. . . . I want to report a rape.”
    As though she were telling him she wanted to report an accident, something she had seen, but was not personally involved. Chris said, “Oh.” He stood up, looked around and nodded toward a clean desk with blue flowers in a green ceramic bowl. He said, “I’m Sergeant Mankowski. If you’d like, we’ll sit over there, have more room.” Chris paused to watch the thigh movement in her skirt as she walked to the desk. He sat down again and opened and closed drawers till he found a yellow legal pad and a Preliminary Complaint Report form. Going over to the desk, where the young woman was seated now in a straight metal chair, Chris said, “This happen to someone in your family?”
    She seemed surprised, the way her head raised.“It happened to me . I was forced against my will to have sex. If that isn’t rape I don’t know what is.”
    Chris noticed she had a slight southern accent, not much of one but it was there. She sat straight, looking up at him until he eased into the padded metal swivel chair behind the desk. Now they were looking at each other over the bowl of blue flowers. She had a long thin neck. Or it seemed long the way she was sitting upright or the way her hair ended just below her ears and stuck out on both sides, wavy red hair with a lot of body. Phyllis always had rollers in her pile of dark hair. Chris imagined this girl didn’t have to fool with her hair much. He liked the way it ended and stuck straight out. She was holding herself rigid, showing him she was indignant, but didn’t look as though she’d been beat up. Chris wondered if this was what they called in Sex Crimes a date rape.
    “When did this assault take place?”
    “Sunday morning, about two A.M. ”
    Chris said, “Sunday? That was two days ago. Why’re you just now reporting it?”
    “What’s the difference when it happened? I was raped.”
    Chris had been told eight out of ten rapes weren’t even reported; they hadn’t said anything about the ones that were reported late. “You know the suspect?”
    She said, “ Sus pect? I don’t sus pect he raped me, Iknow he did. I was there. Mr. Woodrow Ricks is his name.”
    There was that accent, soft, unaffected. It made her seem natural but also vulnerable. A guy rapes her, she calls him “Mister.” Chris pictured the guy older. Looking at the PCR form he said, “I don’t have your name and address.”
    She