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Each ring of the phone seemed to announce another friendship, lost. He gripped a silver and black gun. He tied her hands loosely behind her. Her foster family was going to adopt her. She doubted herself, wondering if there was something in her that needed to be fixed.
An year-old said she was attacked at knifepoint. then she said she made it up. that’s where our story begins.
They were both cops, after all. ProPublica is a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. About two of those and probably 10 or 11 foster homes. It had cost her sense of worth. She had gotten all the classes she wanted. His guess was, the police felt used. She would need to keep straight, breaking no more laws.
The attacker had been cunning, attempting to erase any traces of DNA from the scene. Galbraith suggested that she and the victim escape the icy gusts in a nearby unmarked patrol car. Her lawyer was surprised she had been charged. But something. Over the next four hours, he raped her repeatedly.
They were tough for cops and prosecutors. Police technicians were swarming the apartment. Galbraith listened to the woman with a sense of alarm. At home, her husband David had done the dishes and put the kids to bed.
She would need to go on supervised probation.
An unbelievable story of rape
Rarely do misdemeanors draw notice. She had been alone in her apartment the evening. A little after 1 p. Then, confronted by police with inconsistencies in her story, she had conceded it might have been a dream. She reports not knowing much about her biological mother, who she said would often leave her in the care of boyfriends.
Galbraith introduced herself. Snow covered the ground in patches. The woman underwent a special forensic examination to collect more DNA evidence.
She was good at empathizing with the victims, who were overwhelmingly women. The credibility of the victim was often on trial as much as the guilt of the accused. She clearly remembered one physical detail about him: a dark mark on his left calf the size of an egg.
Galbraith returned to the crime scene. From a large black bag, he took out thigh-high stockings, clear plastic high heels with pink ribbons, lubrication, a box of moist towelettes and bottled water. An investigating officer had to figure out if the victim was telling the truth. Or fabricating a ruse to cover a sexual encounter gone wrong?
There was no time to waste. It was blustery, and biting cold. Was she telling the truth? They spraypainted the prints fluorescent orange to make them stand out, then took pictures. He told his wife to call his department first thing in the morning. At around 8 a. Even her foster parents now doubted her. Galbraith spotted the victim standing in the thin sunlight outside her ground floor apartment. By the time she exited the bathroom, he had gone. Sometimes she was placed in foster homes with her siblings.
After Marie became a teenager, her years of upheaval appeared at an end. It was not much. More often they were separated.
In that way, rape cases were unlike most other crimes. Most had been assaulted by a boyfriend, an old flame, or someone they had met at a club. He documented the assault with a digital camera and threatened to post the pictures online if she contacted the police.
Before he left, he showed the student how he broke in through a sliding glass door. In the snow, they found a trail of footprints leading to and from the back of the apartment through an empty field. He worked in Westminster, some 15 miles to the northeast.
He wore a black mask that seemed more like a scarf fastened tight around his face. And on the long, fraught trail between crime and conviction, the first triers of fact were the cops. Then she admitted making the story up.
The woman told Galbraith she was 26 years old, an engineering student on winter break from a nearby college. Galbraith had a simple rule: listen and verify.
They sank down on separate couches in their living room. But her misdemeanor had made the news, and made her an object of curiosity or, worse, scorn.
She was there to investigate a report of rape. It had cost her the newfound independence she was savoring after a life in foster homes. She looked calm, unflustered. A friend from 10th grade called to ask: How could you lie about something like that? He suggested she put a dowel into the bottom track to keep out future intruders. David Galbraith was used to such bleak stories. She was a wife, a mother. He had taken her sheets and bedding. She had reported being raped in her apartment by a man who had bound and gagged her. She had a social circle.
And then corroborate or refute based on how things go. She was young, dressed in a brown, full-length coat. Those investigations often boiled down to an issue of consent. Afterward, he ordered her to brush her teeth and wash herself in the shower.
A half-dozen officers and technicians were now at work. Then she drove her to St. Anthony North Hospital. As David listened, he realized that the details of the case were unsettlingly familiar. This time, though, there was something different. She clutched a bag of her belongings in one hand. One officer suggested a bathroom break. Rapes by strangers were uncommon — about 13 percent of cases. He moved deliberately.
She would need to get mental health counseling for her lying. The attack was so heinous; the attacker so practiced. She just listened, then hung up. The first day of the first year of high school fills many students with anxiety.