“Who says?”
“I say.”
“That’s your opinion.”
“Tell me about the attack.”
She squinted with anger, not fear, then began.
“I was about a mile in when something caught my eye.”
“Where?”
“In the woods. To my left.”
“What caught your eye?”
“Someone. Movement.”
“So your attacker came out of the woods?”
“Yes.”
“Which direction were you running?”
“South, a mile from the parking lot at the trailhead.”
I made a mental note to check the area at sun up. “Continue.”
“Thanks. I stopped running and that’s when I was attacked.”
“Why’d you stop running?”
“Because I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.”
It made sense, but went against most people’s instinct. If a jogger thought they saw someone lurking in the woods during an after-dark jog, nine out of ten runners would pick up speed and haul ass back to their car. Not this one. This one stood her ground. This one was willing to get into a physical altercation rather than run scared. Sunny was the one percent and I got the feeling it wasn’t the first time she’d been odd man out.
“So you stopped, then what?”
“He jumped out of the woods and attacked me from behind.”
“Did you see his face?”
“No. Not, initially. It was dark. He attacked me between light posts. The city needs to put up more lights.”
“Agreed. So you didn’t actually see him jump out of the woods?”
“No.”
“What is your first memory of that moment?”
“That it was a man.”
“You knew your attacker was a male?”
“Yes. Based on the size, weight, movement. The smell.”
“The smell?”
“Yes.”
“You can tell if someone is a man or a woman based on smell?”
“You’re clearly not a woman.”
“And you’re clearly not a bloodhound.”
“That’s correct, I do not have three hundred million scent receptors like a bloodhound, but I do have more hormones than men—most, anyway—which gives me a superior sense of smell compared to my male counterparts. Men have a scent, trust me on this.”
I wondered what my own had been when I’d tackled her.
“Okay. Fine. What did your attacker smell like, then?”
“A man.”
“So, tacos and Old Spice?”
She didn’t laugh at this.
“At what point did you see his face?”
“After the attack. After…” She looked down.
“After he was dead on the ground.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t recognize him?”
“No.”
“Not at all? Even a little bit?”
“No.”
“Continue. He grabbed you from behind…”
“I…” She bit her lip, the first show of nerves since she’d started the story. “I fought back. I fought him back.” There was strength behind the words. Pride.
“When did you pull your gun?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Where do you keep it on you?”
“I slide the holster along a hidden pocket at the small of my back.”
“What else did you have in these hidden pockets?”
“My car key and my gun, that’s it.”
“No knife?”
“No.”
“No four-inch switchblade knife?”
“No.”
“Do you recall seeing a switchblade during the attack?”
“No.”
“Okay. So during the tussle you managed to pull out the gun, get your attacker in a bear hug and shoot him through the eye?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I didn’t kill him.”
I paused, squinted, and leaned forward. “You didn’t kill the man you were standing over while holding a gun?”
“No.”
“No?”
“… No.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know.”
10
Jagg
What. The. Fuck?
Did I mention my gut instincts were never wrong? I knew something was off from the get go, but this case already had more curve balls than a urology clinic. I didn’t even know what to call the woman anymore. A suspect? A witness? A victim?
“What do you mean, you don’t know who killed the man that was dead as a doornail, lying at your feet?”
She cringed at my crass choice of words. I didn’t care. I didn’t like curve balls. Or urology clinics for that matter.
“Someone else came up while my attacker and I were fighting. Tried to pull him off me. I was thrown to the ground, two shots rang out, and the next thing I know, my attacker was at my feet. Dead as a doornail as you so eloquently put it. And the other person was gone.”
I stared at her, processing this insane new information.
“You mean to tell me that there is a third person involved in this attack?”
“Yes.”
“And that person is the one who killed your attacker?”
“Yes.”
“Not you. To reiterate, Miss Harper, you are saying that you did not kill your attacker?”
“Yes. That’s correct.”
“You had a gun in your hand, Sunny, pointing at your attacker’s head when our witness walked up. How do you explain that?”
“I dropped the gun sometime during the fight. I picked it up after I was pushed to the ground. I kept the gun down, the aim not intended at his head—or at the old man pointing his at mine, for that matter.”
“Did the mystery person use your gun to shoot your attacker, or do you think he used his own gun?”
“There’s no way mine was used. It was on the ground next to me when I heard the shots.”
So there was also a gun missing from the scene now. I scrubbed my hands over my face. Damn, I needed a drink.
“Okay, so you’re pushed down, your attacker is shot by this mystery third person, the mystery person flees, then you grab your gun from the ground, stand up—”
“And see an old man pointing a pistol to my head, telling me that if I move, he’ll kill me.”
“Did you notice a vehicle pull up while you were being attacked?”
“No.”
“What about headlights on the trees? The sound of a truck? Anything?”
“No.”
A moment slid by while my mind raced with a dozen incoherent possibilities.
“Did you see this third person?”
“No. Nothing. I was engaged with the attacker and I remember seeing something in my peripheral. The third person, I guess. Then, I was shoved to the ground.”
“Do you know if this third person was a man or a woman?”
“No.”
“Didn’t catch the scent?”
“No. Smartass.”