"But you're saying, even though he got it right there, one quick shove away from your *, he still couldn't figure it out, still didn't penetrate you?"
I shook my head, chin to my chest, eyes pointed down, tears falling silently. Not tears of sadness. Tears of terror.
Because I felt terrorized.
"What next?"
"He was grabbing my chest, hard, hurting me."
"Your breasts, you mean?"
"Yes."
"He bruised you up good, I heard. He really did a number on you. How are they healing up? I bet they're sensitive. Big breasts like yours usually are."
I felt exposed, mortified.
I couldn't stop trembling. The tears wouldn't stop leaking out of my eyes, and my hands went up instinctively, covering my breasts.
"They still hurt?"
"I guess," I said. They hurt like hell. I still couldn't put on a bra.
"You know, sweet girl, it's impossible for a busty girl like you to go around without a bra without it showing. They must hurt. How tender are they?"
"T-t-tender."
"Okay, so he was grabbing your big, soft tits and grinding his hard, bare dick against your asshole, over your jeans, and down lower, against your thigh, right into your shorts, just a quick prayer from that tight little *. It's still tight, right? Even after letting your boyfriend put it in there two hundred times?"
"D-d-d-d-do you have to say it all like that? C-c-c-could you please try to be a little more p-p-p-p-professional?"
He didn't answer, and though his eyes were still kind on mine, I was quickly learning not to trust them.
"I was screaming by then, and struggling, trying to fight him, but it was hard, being on my stomach like that."
"Was he saying anything to you? Was his mouth still at your ear?"
"Yes. He was saying all sorts of horrible things into my ear. H-h-he called me names, a c-c-c-cunt, a wh-wh-whore, a b-b-bitch, a s-s-slut, and told me to take my jeans off or he'd k-k-kill me."
"Did he have a weapon?"
"I never saw one."
"Did he say how he'd kill you?"
"No."
"Did you take off your jeans for him?"
"No. I kept struggling until, um, he was done. And then he got up and ran away."
"Do you know what made him leave?"
"He was done, I think."
"He finished on you?"
I nodded jerkily.
"Where did he finish on you? Where did his cum go?"
I shuddered.
"Turn around and show me, as best as you can, where his semen went."
I did it fast, pointing from my rear all the way up my back, where I'd felt it and seen it when I'd taken my clothes off.
"All on your clothing? Or some on your skin?"
"S-s-s-skin t-t-t-t-too."
"And you got a good look at him? I remember you said that. But nothing you just told me indicates that you were looking at anything but the ground."
"When he g-got up and started running, I stood. I was dizzy, but I saw him. I recognized him. He's the homeless guy that always hangs out by the river, at the bridge right by the middle school. I thought he was harmless before, he usually just ignores everyone that passes him, but I guess I'd never encountered him alone. I usually walk to school with a friend of mine."
"Okay. So you got a good look at him running away. Did you see his face?"
"Yes. He looked back at me as he was running. It was definitely the same guy that's usually hanging out there. I've probably seen him on the way home from school, camped out by the river, a hundred times."
"Okay. I think we're done for now. You did a good job today, sweet girl. We're going to find this guy. I promise."
I was so relieved I started crying harder.
He seemed to take that as an invitation to pull me into his chest, embracing me.
It was almost comforting. The size and shape of him, so big and hard, reminded me of Dante.
But this was not Dante. This was a middle-aged cop who I knew I couldn't trust.
Was he going to leave soon? Please, please leave soon.
I tried to pull away, but he held me fast. I started to struggle, and he let me know how strong he was by bear-hugging so hard that I couldn't move.
If only I could stop crying, maybe he'd leave.
"Hey now," he murmured into my hair. "You're safe here, sweet girl. I'm just trying to help you. Just cooperate, okay? And know this: You can tell me anything. I know you're a good girl, right? I can see that, and I want you to know that if you have any questions about what happened to you, you can always come to me, with anything, okay?"
"I just want to be alone," I gasped into his chest.
"Okay. Okay, I get it. But you call me if you need anything, okay?"
I agreed to, just to get him to leave.
When he was finally gone I stood shaking at the door, twisting the bolt, again and again, to be sure it was locked.
I may have been in shock. I didn't feel right. I wasn't sure what to do.
I felt dirtier, more raw than I had even after the attack. Somehow, this had felt like even more of a violation.
I took a shower and rubbed my skin until it burned.
What had just happened hadn't been normal procedure. I knew that, of course, but what could I do about it?