Sunday, August 15, 2004; 11:42 p.m.
It was a hot, muggy night when I stumbled up to the front door of the Riverside Drive house. I was fairly new to the area and still easily turned around. It was nearly midnight, and the residents of this affluent neighborhood weren’t accustomed to drunken late-night visitors. I’d lost track of time and to this day don’t know how I made it up the hill from the river to the Hudson residence.
Dispatcher: “911. What’s your emergency?”
Caller: “My name is Jack Hudson. I live on Riverside Drive. There’s a young woman on my front porch. She’s banging on the door and begging for help.”
Dispatcher: “Have you spoken to her?”
Caller: “Just for a second. She appears drunk. She’s incoherent. Hysterical . . . Oh, shit! She just threw up in the flower bed.”
Dispatcher: “Do you know why she’s upset?”
Caller: “She claims she and her friend were attacked on Riverside Drive. Her friend was then kidnapped.”
Dispatcher: “Did you ask the woman her name?”
Caller: “Her name is Kaitlin. I didn’t catch her last name. She lives down the street with the Mason family. They have a daughter, Gina.”
Dispatcher: “I’ve dispatched officers. What is the woman doing?”
Caller: “She’s pacing in my driveway.”
Dispatcher: “Is she bleeding or hurt in any way?”
Caller: “I can’t tell. Let me flip on the porch lights.” Feet shuffle. A switch clicks. “She has blood on her arms. Jesus, she looks insane.”