Postmortem(110)

I folded back sheet after sheet of continuous paper until I found the corresponding printout. Lori’s address appeared on the 911 screen, her residence listed in the name of L. A. Petersen. Giving the call a priority four, the operator shipped it out to the dispatcher behind the wall of glass. Thirty-nine minutes later patrol unit 211 finally got the call. Six minutes after this he cruised past her house, then sped off on a domestic call.

The Petersen address came up again exactly sixty-eight minutes after the aborted 911 call, at 1:57 A.M., when Matt Petersen found his wife’s body. If only he hadn’t had dress rehearsal that night, I thought. If only he’d gotten home an hour, an hour and a half earlier . . .

The tape clicked.

“911.”

Heavy breathing. “My wife!” In panic. “Somebody killed my wife! Please hurry!” Screaming. “Oh, God! Somebody killed her! Please hurry!”

I was paralyzed by the hysterical voice. Petersen couldn’t speak in coherent sentences or remember his address when the operator asked if the address on his screen was correct.

I stopped the tape and did some quick calculations. Petersen arrived home twenty-nine minutes after the first responding officer shone his light over the front of the house and reported everything looked “secure.” The aborted 911 call came in at 12:49 A.M. The officer finally arrived at 1:34 A.M.

Forty-five minutes had elapsed. The killer was with Lori no longer than that.

By 1:34 A.M., the killer was gone. The bedroom light was out. Had he still been inside the bedroom, the light would have been on. I was sure of it. I couldn’t believe he could see well enough to find electrical cords and tie elaborate knots in the dark.

He was a sadist. He would want the victim to see his face, especially if it were masked. He would want his victim to see everything he did. He would want her to anticipate in unthinkable terror every horrendous thing he planned to do . . . as he looked around, as he cut the cords, as he began to bind her . . .

When it was over, he calmly flicked off the bedroom light and climbed back out the bathroom window, probably minutes before the patrol car cruised by and less than half an hour before Petersen walked in. The peculiar body odor lingered like the stench of garbage.

So far I’d found no common patrol unit that had responded to Brenda, Lori and Henna’s scenes. My disappointment was robbing me of the energy to go on.

I took a break when I heard the front door open. Bertha and Lucy were back. They gave me a full account and I did my best to smile and listen. Lucy was exhausted.

“My stomach hurts,” she complained.

“It’s no wonder,” Bertha started in. “I told you not to eat all that trash. Cotton candy, corn dogs . . .” Shaking her head.

I fixed Lucy chicken broth and put her to bed.

Returning to my office, I reluctantly slipped the headphones on again.

I lost track of the time as though I were in suspended animation.

“911.” “911.”

Over and over again it played in my head.

Shortly after ten I was so weary I could barely think. I dully rewound a tape trying to find the call made when Patty Lewis’s body was discovered. As I listened, my eyes drifted over pages of the computer printout unfolded in my lap.

What I saw didn’t make sense.

Cecile Tyler’s address was printed halfway down the page and dated May 12, at 21:23 hours, or 9:23 P.M.

That couldn’t be right.

She wasn’t murdered until May 31.

Her address shouldn’t have been listed on this portion of the printout. It shouldn’t be on this tape!

I fast-forwarded, stopping every few seconds. It took me twenty minutes to find it. I played the segment three times trying to figure out what it meant.

At exactly 9:23 a male voice answered, “911.”

A soft, cultured female voice said in surprise, after a pause, “Oh, dear. I’m sorry.”

“Is there a problem, ma’am?”

An embarrassed laugh. “I meant to dial Information. I’m sorry.” Another laugh. “I guess I hit a nine instead of a four.”

“Hey, no problem, that’s good, always glad when there’s no problem.” Adding jauntily, “You have a nice evening.”

Silence. A click, and the tape went on.

On the printout the slain black woman’s address was listed, simply, under her name: Cecile Tyler.

Suddenly I knew. “Jesus. Dear Jesus,” I muttered, momentarily sick to my stomach.

Brenda Steppe had called the police when she had her automobile accident. Lori Petersen had called the police, according to her husband, when she thought she heard a prowler that turned out to be a cat getting into the garbage cans. Abby Turnbull had called the police when the man in the black Cougar followed her. Cecile Tyler had called the police by mistake—it was a wrong number.