“You bet I am,” says Mrs. Oppenheimer. “She was like a wild animal. Charged at me. Kicked me in the shin.”
She rubs her leg so I know which one got whacked.
“I grabbed her by the neck to keep her at bay. But she kept swinging and trying to kick at me. I had to exert a great deal of effort to protect myself. I wouldn’t be surprised if I bruised her neck something fierce.”
I rub my face a little. “You know, Mrs. Oppenheimer, Ms. Lemonopolous told me a very different story …”
“Oh, I’m sure she did. But don’t let those big brown eyes fool you, officer. That woman is a crazed monster.”
So, basically, we’re in a “she said/she said” situation.
Both sides give completely different versions of what happened and the one semi-independent witness, Mrs. Oppenheimer’s son, can only tell us that he saw the two women whaling on each other in his living room.
So I ask all three parties to write up their statements-in separate rooms. Santucci and I will head back to the house (that’s what we call the SHPD headquarters) and fill out a “review only” Case Report. In other words, there isn’t enough evidence to request an arrest warrant or to charge anybody with anything. Just enough for me to hunt and peck through the paperwork.
Fortunately, Christine agrees to leave the Oppenheimer residence.
“Permanently,” sneers Mrs. Oppenheimer before I separate the parties again.
“Do you have someplace safe you can go?” I ask Christine when her former employer is out of the room.
“Yes. I also work for Dr. Rosen. I’ll be fine.”
Santucci and I head back to the house and do our duty.
I type up our report with one finger on the computer. If I could text it with my thumbs, it would take a lot less time.
A little after eleven, I climb into my Jeep and head for home. On the way, I stop at Pizza My Heart and pick up a slice. With sausage and peppers.
I blame my heartburn on Santucci.
I’m sacked out and dreaming about driving a jumbo jet down the New Jersey Turnpike, looking for a rest stop with a parking lot big enough for a 747, when my cell starts singing Bruce Springsteen’s “Land Of Hope And Dreams.” That’s not part of the dream. That’s my ringtone for John Ceepak.
“Hey,” I mumble.
“Sorry to wake you.”
I squint. The blurry red digits tell me it’s 2:57 A.M.
“That’s okay. I had to get up to answer the phone anyway.”
“We have a situation.”