Butterfly Kills. Brenda Chapman
“You don’t really know much about her, do you, Detective?”
She was right, he didn’t. It was his turn to hesitate. “I know she’s a good cop and maybe could use a break,” he said at last.
“Kala’s not one who likes to owe anybody or have any favours done. She never gets attached. I wouldn’t hold my breath about her taking that job. I’ll let her know though, next time I hear from her.”
“I’d appreciate it.” He heard the clunk of the receiver and then the dial tone humming in his ear.
He walked away from his desk and stood in front of his office window on the second floor of the Kingston police detachment, thinking about the enigma that was Kala Stonechild. He couldn’t shake the worried feeling he got every time he thought of her. She’d seemed desperate, more alone than anyone he’d ever known. He’d scoured her personnel file for clues and knew she’d been in foster care as a kid, from the age of three. She’d all but disappeared after leaving high school until she turned twenty-two. He wondered what she’d done in those five years before she started college.
The view from his office window was Division Street and a farmer’s field beyond. He studied the limestone farmhouse with the purple door and the John Deere tractor parked in front of the well-maintained barn. The farm, now subdivided into treed lots with houses set back from the road, had seen more prosperous days. The owners at some point had sold off most of the property, likely staving off foreclosure. Still, he had to admire the current landlord for stubbornly clinging on to a dying way of life.
There was a knock at the door and Rouleau turned. Paul Gundersund’s lanky six-foot-two-inch frame filled the doorway. He crossed to Rouleau’s desk and set two mugs on the only clear surface between two stacks of folders. As he stepped back, he pushed blond hair out of his eyes. A muscle jumped where a scar marked his left cheek.
“We’ve got a call. Your line was busy so they put it through to me. A woman named Della Munroe says her husband raped her last night.”
“Where is she now?”
“Hospital with a counsellor. The beat cop took her statement and we’re to follow up.”
“Is she pressing charges?”
“Not sure. They’ve sent someone to pick up the husband, Brian.”
“Spousal rape is a bugger to prosecute.”
“Yeah. He hurt her though, so we might get lucky.”
Rouleau picked up his coffee and started toward the door. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his set of car keys, tossing them to Gundersund.
“You can drive.”
Rouleau and Gundersund sat across from Della Munroe in one of the small waiting rooms. They’d been given the go-ahead from the doctor to question Della about the rape. She’d decided to press charges.
Della’s eyes were luminous blue, red-rimmed from crying, still glistening with tears. She was taller than Rouleau had first thought, nearly matching his five-foot-ten when she stood to shake hands with him, but slender, with long, black hair and a heart-shaped face. She wore a green hospital gown and incongruously pink flip-flops with diamond sequins. Rouleau took a seat across from her. Gundersund remained standing near the door.
“Where’s your husband now, Mrs. Munroe?” he asked.
“Brian’s at his bakery. It’s the Sunshine Bakery on Brock Street, a few blocks from the university campus. I want to apply for a restraining order this morning.”
“We can get that started.”
Della pressed a tissue to her right eye and inhaled a shuddering breath. “I knew it wasn’t good between Brian and me for a long time, but this…. I never thought he’d do something like this. We should never have gotten married.”
“Your husband was abusive before?”
Her head barely inclined in response, her eyes avoiding his. “He was … obsessive about me. He insisted we move here and now I think it was so that I was away from my family and friends … that he wanted me isolated. I was just so stupid. But I made one friend, at least for a while. Celia Paules. She lives next door.” Della raised her eyes. “He made me stop visiting her last month. I’ve been such an idiot to let him do this to me.”
Rouleau nodded in Gundersund’s direction for him to jot down the information.
Della bit her lip. “I just want my marriage to be over with and I want to go back to Toronto. I should never have left. Never.” She’d begun rocking gently back and forth on the couch, her hands folded across her chest and wrapped around her elbows.
“You have a four-year-old son,” Rouleau looked at his notes. “Tommy.”
Della’s eyes snapped onto his. “Tommy is coming with me. I won’t let Brian near him after this.” Her voice had risen to just shy of hysterical. “They’ve kept him in the playroom down the hall.” She started to get up from her chair. “I should go see him.”
Rouleau raised a hand. “He’s fine, Mrs. Munroe. We’ve got someone watching. You’ll both be protected.”
Her body eased back into the chair. Her shoulders hunched in like an old woman’s and she resumed rocking back and forth.
Rouleau gave her a moment, then asked, “Has he ever hurt Tommy that you know of?”
“Brian … he’s been working long hours. Sometimes his patience wears thin. Tommy’s active and, well, I suppose Brian has lifted a hand from time to time. I tried to prevent it by putting Tommy to bed before Brian came home or taking him to the park. Brian shouldn’t be around kids when he’s tired … or drinking.”
“Last night you said that he’d been drinking, that you’d both been drinking.”
“Yes. I made a nice dinner — lamb and potatoes, his favourites — and we shared a bottle of red wine. I had a glass and he had the rest. I thought he needed to unwind and I was prepared to have, you know, sex, until he got angry with me. He said I was dressing too provocatively when I went to class. We started arguing and he grabbed me. I told him that I wanted him to leave me the hell alone.”
“Take your time.”
“He … he pushed me into the bedroom and ripped off my shirt. I struggled but he held me down. I kept telling him to stop.” Her voice broke. “He was rougher than he’s ever been. He pulled off my pants and raped me.” Tears started rolling down her cheeks. She whispered, “He hurt me. I have bruises all down the inside of my thighs. It hurts to go to the bathroom.”
Rouleau paused for a moment to give her time. “In your original statement you said that you took a shower when he left, is this correct?”
“Yes. I felt so dirty. He made me feel like a slut. I curled up on the bed and must have fallen asleep. This morning, I just … I couldn’t let him get away with it. I was scared to leave Tommy alone so I drove us both here. I need this to stop.”
Rouleau looked at Gundersund. “I think we have enough for now. The doctor was able to get a specimen of Brian’s semen. Can you follow up on that lab report?”
“Certainly.” Gundersund packed up his notepad and went in search of the doctor.
Rouleau leaned forward. “Try to get some rest, Mrs. Munroe. Other officers are picking up your husband now. We’re heading back to the station when we leave here to question him.”
“Then, you’ll be keeping him in jail?”
“It all depends on the judge and bail. With the restraining order, he won’t be coming near you or he’ll be arrested.”
She nodded. Her eyes and mouth relaxed for the first time. “I’m going to start making arrangements to leave Kingston. Would that be alright?”
“Yes,