Chapter 12
JAGG
“Miss Harper I’ve got a lot of questions for you, but first, I’d like to know how you overpowered a man double your size.”
She blinked, the only indication that I’d thrown her off with an unexpected question. My specialty.
“Krav Maga,” she responded, simply. With that voice. Deep, sultry. Sinful.
“And where did you learn martial arts?” I forced myself to keep my eyes from sliding down to her cleavage.
“I taught myself,” she said, pulling me out of my pubescent thoughts. I was beginning to understand the lack of traffic tickets.
“Online classes?”
“A few.”
“Well, Miss Harper, I hope those classes offer a full refund because you apparently missed the most important part of Krav Maga. Rule number one is that the best way to win a fight is not to get into a fight, at all. De-escalate the situation and win through avoidance of conflict.”
“Some conflict is unavoidable.”
“That’s correct, but in your case, with me, it was avoidable. I asked you to put down the gun. Instead you tried to flee, causing me to tackle you, where you proceeded to fight me like a rabid raccoon, making me disable and cuff you.”
Her nostrils flared, her wrists twitching against the cuff.
“Why did you try to flee?”
“I had three guns pulled on me in under five minutes, Detective. When I heard the old man call me a murderer…” Her voice trailed off.
“Are you a murderer?”
“No.”
“So you ran because…”
She looked away.
“You panicked?”
Her eyes drifted closed as if embarrassed. Or annoyed, I wasn’t totally sure which.
“Okay, we’ll call it panic. Well, Miss Harper, are you going to panic and attempt to flee and kick my ass again right now?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry?”
“No.” She said, louder.
“Fantastic.” I pulled the keys from my pocket, unlocked her cuffs and tossed them across the room, sending them clattering against the chipped tile.
She didn’t flinch.
I turned my back to her and walked to the chair on the opposite end of the conference table.
“Would you like some coffee?” I settled into the chair. “Water? Cigarette?”
A quick shake of her head told me no, so I hit the call button on the phone and asked for two waters, two coffees, and a pack of cigarettes.
Her eyelids fluttered in the closest thing to an eye roll without actually being an eye roll.
I let the minute linger like lead weight while we waited for the drinks and pack of COPD.
The door opened. I kept my eyes on her as Officer Darby set two coffees, a pack of Virginia Slims—Virginia Slims—followed by two waters on the table.
Based on the way mine tumbled to the floor, the rookie also had his eyes only on hers.
This woman.
“Whoops. Sorry.” He grabbed the water from the floor and set it in front of me. “Uh, you know you can’t smoke in—”
“Thanks.”
“… Anything else?”
“Get some ibuprofen from Tanya.”
“Okay.”
Sunny lifted her hands onto the table. Composed, controlled. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. I watched every flicker of her eye, every move of muscle as we sat silently in the room.
The door clicked open again and a small bottle was placed on the table—carefully this time.
“Anything else?” Darby asked.
“Go get that donut Colson just heated up.”
He retreated.
I leaned forward on my elbows, closing a few of the inches between us. Sunny looked away and began rubbing her thumb over her clasped hands as we waited for Darby to return. It was a tick. Sunny didn’t like people in her space. Good to know, and it was a weakness I could definitely exploit.
The door opened and a glistening, pink iced donut with rainbow sprinkles was placed at the center of the table. I made a mental note to chastise Colson on the way out.
“That it?” Darby asked.
“Yep.”
I waited until the door clicked closed, then picked up the bottle of pills, shook out two, and pushed them in front of her.
“Take the ibuprofen.”
“No. Thank you.” The last two words an obvious effort.
“Take it. It will help with the swelling.”
“My arm’s fine.”
“Agreed. I’m talking about your ribs. Have you ever had bruised ribs before?”
Something flickered behind her eyes. It was my first red flag.
“Take the pills and eat the donut if you’d like. I’ll wait.”
“I’m gluten free.”
I paused, leaned back. “What’s the thing about gluten, Miss Harper?”
Her lips parted, considering her answer. Then, with a heaved breath, she rolled her eyes and grabbed the two pills on the table. “Fine. I’ll take the pills.”
“You’ll thank me in the morning. Now, let’s get down to business. It’s my understanding you’ve waived your right to have an attorney present, correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“It’s not smart.”
She deadpanned.
“Why? Why waive the right?”
“Because I have the utmost faith in Berry Springs PD’s ability to determine innocence.” Another deadpan.
I grunted. “Let’s begin, then.” I hit the red button on the recorder and recited all the mandatory stuff, reminding her of her rights, then got into the questions.
“Can you please state your full name for the record?”
“Sunny Anise Harper.” Her voice still held that controlled confidence but less of the punch. A rasp that I hadn’t heard earlier suggested the beginning of an adrenaline crash from killing someone. I knew that feeling all too well myself.
“Age?”
“Twenty-eight.”
I cringed. A baby. Compared to me, anyway.
“Tell me what happened tonight, Miss Harper.”
“I was attacked.”
“Are you saying what happened was done in self-defense?” I needed that one on the record. A hundred bucks would buy my beer for the month.
“Yes,” she said.
“Do you know your attacker?”
“No.”
“Not a friend? An acquaintance? A boyfriend?”
“I’ve never seen the guy before in my life.”
“Okay. Tell me exactly what happened.”
Her shoulders squared and she licked her lips, drawing my attention to the swollen split at the end. Again, did I do that?
I forced the thought aside.
She began. “I was out for a jog—”
“At midnight?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why jog at midnight?”
“Why not?”
“Security. Safety. … Common sense.”
“Would you say the same to a man?”
“I’d say it to Imi Lichtenfeld himself. Answer the question. Why were you jogging in the city park at midnight?”
“I’d just gotten off work.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a dog trainer.”
I blinked. Of all the jobs I expected Sunny Harper to have, a dog trainer was not one of them. Supermodel, actress, WWE ring girl, jazzercise instructor, Playboy bunny, mime…
“You train dogs for a living?”
“Yes.” Her tone thick with attitude. This told me two things: Sunny took pride in her job, and also, it wasn’t the first time she’d defended her choice in occupation.
“What kind of dogs?”
“The furry ones.”
“Ah. So for comedy acts, then?”
Her lip twitched. “I train security dogs.”
Now that made sense. That fit her personality.
“How’d you get into that line of work?”
Her shoulder lifted, gaze shifted.
“Why didn’t you have one of these security dogs with you on your midnight jog?”
“Because I don’t like to take them on long trips in the car.”
“So you’d left town today?”
“Yes.”
“Where to?”
“A kennel in Missouri.”
“You breed?”
Her brow cocked.
“Dogs.” I said quickly. “You breed the dogs?”
“No.”
“Why were you going to a kennel then?”
“To purchase a few to train. I’m a dog trainer,” she reminded me, impatiently. “I get dogs, train them, then sell them.”
“This still doesn’t explain why you decided to go on a jog in the park at midnight.”
“Have you ever been in a car for eleven hours in one day?”
“I’ve been in a car for twenty-four hours in one day.”
“Then you understand the need to stretch your legs.”
My gaze dropped to her legs before quickly shifting back up.
“I prefer the public trails,” she continued. “I’ve jogged that trail more times than I can count, day and night. The concrete’s easier on me. And then there are the lights.”
“The security the light provides?”
She nodded.
“Your gun isn’t enough?”
She sat up straighter, her chin lifting. “I carry it when I don’t have one of my dogs with me.”
“Do you have a license?”
“Yes and also—a hell of an aim.”
I envisioned the victim’s face.
“Do you carry it all the time?”
“Mostly.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Meaty gun. Where’d you get it?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Who taught you to use it?”
“Why do you assume I need to be taught?”
“Meaty gun.”
“A gun is a gun. I’m not the only one who carries one on their hip.”
“Not when they’re jogging.”
She didn’t respond to this.
“A can of mace, a shiv, coin knife, zip blade knife. Those are normal self-defense jogging weapons. I’ve been in this business a long time, Sunny Harper, and I’ve never met someone who jogs with a loaded gun—especially not one with that kind of firepower.
A 380 is the most common type of concealed carry weapon.
Not good enough for you, though. A nine millimeter pistol suggests more thought. More reasons behind the carry.”
“Who says?”
“I say.”
“That’s your opinion.”
“Tell me about the attack.”
She squinted, considered, then began.
“I was about a mile in when something caught my eye.”
“Where?”
“In the woods. To my left.”
“What caught your eye?”
“Someone. Movement.”
“So your attacker came out of the woods?”
“Yes.”
“Which direction were you running?”
“South, a mile from the parking lot at the trailhead.”
I made a mental note to check the area at sun up. “Continue.”
“Thanks. I stopped running and that’s when I was attacked.”
“Why’d you stop running?”
“Because I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.”
It made sense, but went against most people’s instinct.
If a jogger thought they saw someone lurking in the woods during an after-dark jog, nine out of ten runners would pick up speed and haul ass back to their car.
Not this one. This one stood her ground.
This one was willing to get into a physical altercation rather than run scared.
Sunny was the one percent and I got the feeling it wasn’t the first time she’d been odd man out.
“So you stopped, then what?”
“He jumped out of the woods and attacked me from behind.”
“Did you see his face?”
“No. Not initially. It was dark. He attacked me between light posts. The city needs to put up more lights.”
“Agreed. So you didn’t actually see him jump out of the woods?”
“No.”
“What is your first memory of that moment?”
“That it was a man.”
“You knew your attacker was a male?”
“Yes. Based on the size, weight, movement. The smell.”
“The smell?”
“Yes.”
“You can tell if someone is a man or a woman based on smell?”
“You’re clearly not a woman.”
“And you’re clearly not a bloodhound.”
“That’s correct, I do not have three hundred million scent receptors like a bloodhound, but I do have more hormones than men—most, anyway—which gives me a superior sense of smell compared to my male counterparts. Men have a scent, trust me on this.”
I wondered what my own had been when I’d tackled her.
“Okay. Fine. What did your attacker smell like, then?”
“A man.”
“So, tacos and Old Spice?”
She didn’t laugh at this.
“At what point did you see his face?”
“After the attack. After…” She looked down.
“After he was dead on the ground.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t recognize him—or, the half of his face he still had?”
“No.”
“Not at all? Not even a little bit?”
“No.”
“Continue. He grabbed you from behind…”
“I…” She bit her lip, the first show of nerves since she’d started the story. “I fought back. I fought him back.” There was strength behind the words. Pride.
“When did you pull your gun?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Where do you keep it on you?”
“I slide the holster along a hidden pocket at the small of my back.”
“What else did you have in these hidden pockets?”
“My car key and my gun, that’s it.”
“No knife?”
“No.”
“No four-inch switchblade knife?”
“No.”
“Do you recall seeing a switchblade during the attack?”
“No.”
“Okay. So during the tussle you managed to pull out the gun, get your attacker in a bear hug and shoot him through the eye?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I didn’t kill him.”
I paused, squinted, and leaned forward. “You didn’t kill the man you were standing over while holding a gun?”
“No.”
“No?”
“… No.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know.”