Claude sat at the card table in the deacon’s room, his hands laid out on in front of him, palms down. The young woman with green-and-red braces on her teeth and dull brown eyes that looked like flying saucers sat across from him.
“Tell me how the attack happened, miss,” Claude said, “and we’ll discuss your options before you see the bishop.”
She cast her eyes down and puffed her cheeks out. “I was walking down Market Street, sometime after midnight. This man grabbed my elbow from behind and pulled me into the alley between Haight and Octavia. He began to –“
“Describe him as well as you can. It might help the police identify him.”
“Short and muscular, black hair and a beard, hairy forearms. I remember all the hair, even when he dropped his pants,” she said, her voice wavering to the falsetto that precedes a crying fit. “I can still feel his hair on my crotch.”
Claude found himself transfixed by the image. “Can you describe his face?”
“Piercing eyes, don’t remember the color. Probably brown, given all the dark hair. Wide jaw line, square chin, high-bridged nose. When he was thrusting, he grunted in a deep voice.”
She broken down and covered her face in her hands. Claude reached over and put his hand on her head, so small and soft, so tender and yet so broken. A wave of sympathy rolled over him. But he couldn’t get the image of the man’s thrusting out of his mind, and he felt a strong pulsation in his crotch, and the rising of a bulge in his pants.
“I’m so sorry, miss, let’s pray to God for your soul.”
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