Her word choice stands out, causing me to suspect the perps might have a connection to the victim, rather than this being a random act.
I poke around there a bit. “You saidransacking, which typically happens when a suspect is trying to locate something quickly. Yet the police report says nothing was stolen. Any idea what they were hunting?”
“They weren’t searching for anything. They reminded me of kids throwing a tantrum. Smashing things for the hell of it. No rhyme or reason. Didn’t examine anything they destroyed or look in cabinets or whatnot.” She shrugs, then calmly resumes her retelling. “They eventually saw I was awake. The male kneltby my head and pulled my hair to force me to look at him as he threatened me. It’ll haunt me forever.”
She clears the tremor from her throat. “Gun to my chin, he said, ‘If we have to come back, we won’t be as nice.’ Then he stood and fired about five shots at the wall. Right into the framed photos of my girls and me. Obviously, he was threatening our lives. That was it. Then they were gone.”
Her chin wobbles, and tears cascade freely. “The worst part is that I have no idea what he meant about themneeding to come back, and I couldn’t ask. My mouth was taped.”
I narrow my eyes at her, not in suspicion but with confusion. “Think back as carefully as you can about theentiretime they were here. Are you sure they didn’t sayanythingto indicate what prompted this assault or why they might return? Did they ask you to do anything? Ornotdo anything? Can you think of any conditions whatsoever that might give us something to go on?”
“Not knowing is terrifying. If I could recall anything else, I’d tell you. But there was nothing else.”
Silence settles in the room, broken only by the scratching of my pen across my notepad and her quiet sniffles.
With the play-by-play finished, my mind shifts to evidence. After confirming the details in the file, we have virtually nothing in terms of forensics.
No fingerprints were found because they were wearing gloves. Several people have been in the house since the encounter, contaminating the scene. That rules out further evidence collection.
The physical descriptions are vague since they were fully covered. All we know is approximate height and that they were Caucasian. No point in sending in a sketch artist. She didn’t even see a car or know how they were traveling.
Mrs. Ross didn’t have a doorbell cam or any security cameras at the time of the attack—although she’s got a security company coming this afternoon to install a home protection system.
She didn’t see a car and has no clue how they were traveling.
The sheriff’s office canvased the neighborhood and found no eyewitnesses. The houses with external cameras didn’t have a helpful view, but our team will review those records more closely. Maybe we’ll catch something they didn’t.
In a nutshell, we are starting from zero.
Before we leave, I scan my notes once more. “Mrs. Ross, let me circle back about a few things. You said you scratched the female attacker when she was choking you. Did anyone clip your fingernails or scrape under them for DNA? Either the sheriff’s office or at the hospital?”
She fists her hands and draws back. “No. But both attackers wore long sleeves.”
“It’s still possible to break the skin through the fabric,” Andrews assures her.
“Is it too late to check?” she asks, glancing at her hands.
He bunches his mouth to the corner, then says, “Even two days later, there’s a slim chance there might be DNA or fibers. Would you be okay with us collecting a sample?”
“Sure. Th-that’s fine.”
“Thank you.” I offer an appreciative smile. “Would you be willing to search online for images of the type of gloves, clothes, or shoes they had on? Even something small like that can be a big help for us.”
She reaches for her phone. “Absolutely.”
“Take your time and do that after we leave,” Andrews clarifies, setting a business card in front of her. “Send over anything you find.”
Her willingness to cooperate is a good sign. I don’t doubt her story, but I tend to withhold judgment at this stage of aninvestigation. Everyone is a suspect until we clear them—even victims.
Tapping my pen on the table, I pivot to the last topic on my list. “It says the only other people who live here are your daughter, Dana, age twenty-five, and your eight-year-old granddaughter. What about?—”
Her lips thin with a smile at the mention of the little girl, and she interrupts. “Ava. She’s in third grade. My family is my whole world. Do you have kids?”
Did Andrews put her up to that remark?
“No.” I keep my head down, flipping through the scant paperwork. “Nobody else lives here?”
“Just the three of us.”
