“So you were already in the basement when this man attacked you.”
“Yes, I was doing the laundry.”
“You didn’t hear him approaching?”
“No, the washing machine was filling with water. I’d just put in a second load, and I was putting the wet things from the first load into the dryer, so I couldn’t hear over the noise.”
“Do you always leave the basement door open when you’re doing laundry?”
“Yes, to have some fresh air, unless it’s cold and raining or snowing. The ventilation down there isn’t very good, and it was a warm, sunny day.”
“You were loading up the dryer. Then what happened?”
“A hand came over my mouth and he wrapped his other arm around my chest. The knife was in his left hand.”
“Left-handed. Go on.”
“The man said, ‘Don’t try to scream or I’ll cut your throat.’ Then he dragged me away from the washing machine and dryer into the passageway by the storage area. He forced me to the ground and took his hands away. That’s when he saw that I’m pregnant and cursed.”
“What did he say exactly?”
“God damn it. He said it three or four times. I kept saying, ‘Don’t hurt my baby, don’t hurt my baby.’ He took out a piece of rope and cut it with his knife, then turned me onto my left side, facing away from him, and tied my hands behind my back. He told me to shut up and I heard him making sounds.”
“What kinds of sounds?”
“I think he was masturbating.”
“How long did this go on?”
“You mean his masturbating?”
“Yes.”
“It couldn’t have been for very long, maybe a minute or two.”
“You didn’t scream or call for help?”
“He would have stabbed me or cut my throat if I had, I’m sure of it. When he was finished he walked out of the basement, out the back door. He didn’t run. I didn’t try to look at him, I didn’t want to see his face. I stayed on the ground for several minutes before I got to my feet. It was difficult because my balance isn’t good. I’m in my eighth month.”
“It sounds like the same guy who attacked the other women. None of them were pregnant.”
“Did he rape them?”
“Yes, ma’am. He cut one.”
“Did she die?”
“No, she’s recovering.”
“Nobody could recover from that.”
Roy’s mother and two men were seated at the kitchen table when he came home from school. Roy stood and looked at the men, both of whom were wearing coats and ties and hats and were clean shaven. One of them wore glasses and the other had a bluish scar on the right side of his chin.
“Hi, Mom,” he said, “are these guys friends of Dad’s?”
She hugged him and said to the men, “This is my son, Roy. He’s seven.”
“Hello, son,” said the man wearing glasses.
“No, Roy,” said his mother, “they’re detectives. They’re investigating a case, something that happened nearby. They’re asking me if I know anything about it.”
“Do you?” Roy asked.
“The boy wasn’t home when it happened?” said the man with the scar.
“No, he was at school.”
The detectives stood up.
“We’ll get back to you about this. Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”
“No, I’m all right. I’ll call my doctor myself.”
“Thank you for your cooperation, ma’am,” said the man wearing glasses.
“We’ll find our way out,” said the other detective.
The men left and Roy sat down in the chair in which the man with the blue scar had been sitting.
“Mom, are you okay? Why did they ask if you wanted to go to the hospital?”
“They were being kind because I’m pregnant.”
“Can I help you with anything?”
“Not now, sweetheart. I’m going to take a sponge bath and then I’ve got to finish the laundry. You can help me carry the baskets upstairs when it’s dry.”
“What kind of case are they investigating?”
Roy’s mother placed her hands flat on the table and pushed herself up.
“I’ll tell you later,” she said, “How was school today?”