Disclaimer: Alas! I shall never own them...
A/N: Sorry, I meant to post this this afternoon, but I had internet complications. :) Please review, it makes me excited to progress the story, which is helpful... I only just finished chapter 24 last night, and I'm trying to keep ahead of my posts, but then you're all so nice, and I'm excited to hear what you'll think about the next part, so I proof-read instead of writing and... it's a twisted cycle. hehe.
Also, I didn't warn last time, and someone reviewed that it was too much, so fair warning this time, this chapter references rape and is somewhat graphic. Just so everyone knows... :)
Chapter 22: Melanie Rice
She was eighteen years old, raped on a beach from behind, and she believed he was a guy she knew, whose advances she had rejected. I tried to keep perspective, when I was assigned to the case, but I couldn't. I couldn't and I didn't. I would have preferred to process the scene—which probably held nothing anyway, but needed to be looked at—but I was assigned to the case with a man, and so I had to process the girl. I was never one to turn away from something, even if a part of me knew that I probably should…
So I braced myself, before entering the hospital room. Carrie, the CSI from Miami, had given me strength during my experience… I would do that for Melanie. I would be strong, and compassionate, and I would give her justice, like I had never gotten. DNA had come a long way since 1993.
I push the door open slowly, and feel like I'm walking back in time. Her hair is messy, her eyes wide and scared, her face black and blue. I draw in a deep breath, steeling myself.
"Hi, I'm Sara Sidle… I'm with the crime lab. I'm… I'm here to collect evidence, so we can catch this guy…"
She nods, but the fear is there in her eyes. I move slowly, resting my kit on a chair next to her bed, walking her through everything I do before I do it, my eyes soft. She has bruising, on her wrists—very similar to the markings I had had and deep bite marks on her shoulders. I flinch when I see them, but I make sure I take extra photos—maybe we could match it to someone's dental records.
And then, when I've finished processing her, I sit down where my kit had rested, and I begin the hardest part—making her relive the event.
"Can you tell me what happened? …Anything you remember. Sometimes the smallest of details help…"
She draws in a deep breath. "We were at my friend Chelsey's parents' beach house, for the weekend… But her boyfriend's friend, John something or other… he always flirts with me, but he was really coming on strong this weekend, and so I… I had to be pretty firm, to get him to back off. And then… there were a lot of people, and they were drinking—I don't drink—and it was hot and… crowded. I went for a walk on the beach, to get away from the noise…
"I… I heard someone coming up behind me, after I'd sat down, but I couldn't turn around fast enough, to see him… and he pushed me down in the sand. He tried to cover my mouth, because I screamed, and I bit his hand… so he punched me and pushed my face into the sand. He pulled my pants down, but left my underwear on… he, uh… he just worked around them. It… it felt like he wore a condom, but I… I guess I'm not sure."
She looks up, blinking rapidly, and I can't believe she isn't sobbing. I want to sob. I want to grab her in my arms and promise her that it's going to be okay—that we're going to nail the bastard who did this to her—but instead I simply take another deep breath.
"He… finished, and then got up… zipped up his pants, and… laughed. When he walked away, he kicked up sand on me."
She meets my eyes, and I continue to draw deep breaths, to keep from hyperventilating. "Do you… remember any identifying characteristics?" She shakes her head.
"His hands were all I could see… they were white, that's all I know… but it… it sounded like John. I swear I'm not just imagining that."
I nod, tears brimming my eyes. I wonder how it is that I'm closer to tears than she is. "I know… we're going to talk to him, okay? If… if he was the one who did this to you, Melanie, we're going to get him."
She nods, a small smile gracing her lips. Something in the fervency of my voice must have given me away, because her next words are far too accurate. "…Has… Someone has… you've… you know… what this is like."
I blink heavily, forcing myself to keep control. "Yes."
She nods, slowly, and keeps her eyes on me. "Then I'm glad you're the one helping me. …You know."
I nod. I did know. And now I had a desire to give this woman justice for more than my own sake, or the nameless, faceless victim's sake, or even for justice itself's sake… I wanted to get him for Melanie's sake.
I had never been more thorough in processing evidence. I found a black hair in her underwear—she was a blonde. I make a mold of the bite marks. I measured the hand size of her bruises. I got a warrant for his DNA, his hand prints, his dental impressions, and the clothes he'd worn that night. There were long blond hairs caught in the weave of his sweater. Trace evidence of lubricant from a condom on his underwear, along with blood. Blood matching Melanie Rice.
My supervisor was impressed with me, but I hardly noticed. As soon as I was certain we had him locked up, and the evidence was processed perfectly to protocol, I went and found Melanie, in person. I told her we had him, and I held her through her subsequent tears, crying with her, for the loss of power such an act causes. I cried for the fear that would stick with her like a second skin and the fear of intimacy that was sure to sneak up on her when she least expected it. I cried for the weakness she would feel, and the pain she'd already endured. And she understood.
When I left her home that day, I felt different. Lighter, somehow. I could think about my night on the beach—about Ken—without mentally cringing. I wasn't afraid of my memories anymore, and I wasn't hurt by him… Somehow, in giving Melanie justice, I had found a little for myself as well. Justice and peace of mind.
And so I decided to spend the summer empowering myself further. I had let this go on too long.
I signed up for weaponless defense classes—I'd done some basic training before becoming a CSI, but it was minimal—mostly they had been concerned with firearms and an understanding of which levels of force were appropriate for which situations.
I even went to see a counselor—I was tired of hiding myself. I was tired of losing everyone I'd ever loved because I had never fixed myself when I was broken as a child. I wanted to turn some things around.
Mostly I talked about the rape—and she thought it was good that I was taking classes, and working through it by helping others. So I invited Melanie to the classes with me—maybe she wasn't ready for it, but I had to ask—and though she said no, she came about half-way through the third one, and we went through it together.
I didn't see her again, after the classes ended, but that was okay… we had needed each other, and leaned on each other, and we walked away from each other stronger and more whole than when we had met. That was a good thing.
I didn't struggle with rape cases anymore, I didn't feel afraid in dark parking lots, and I lost a certain sense of shame that had followed me, despite my knowing better—knowing it wasn't really my fault. Because I had felt like if I hadn't been drinking… if I hadn't wandered from the group… if I hadn't shot my mouth off… if I had only been stronger… Those thoughts, those doubts… they didn't swim around in my head every time I thought about Miami and Ken Fuller.
I felt like I finally had a sense of control and power back.
And I started volunteering at the local rape crisis center, on my days off—it wasn't like I had Gil to talk to, to fill up my time anymore—listening to girls who needed to talk and sharing my own experience when the occasion called for it. I felt like I was really doing a lot of good…
Feeling strong and empowered and so much more complete a person than I could remember feeling in years and years… I decided that facing my demons had been nothing but positive, so far. So I made the decision to visit my mother.
