“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—or, the half of his face he still had?”
“No.”
“Not at all? Not 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.”
