Postmortem

Bertha was an angel and took Lucy on an all-day outing.

I was avoiding my downtown office, where I was sure to be interrupted every five minutes. I was racing against time, praying I came up with something before Friday dissolved into the first few hours of Saturday morning. I was convinced he would be out there again.

I'd already checked in with Rose twice. She said Amburgey's office had tried to get me four times since I drove off with Marino. The commissioner was demanding I come see him immediately, demanding I provide him with an explanation of yesterday morning's front-page story, of "this latest and most outrageous leak," in his words. He wanted the DNA report. He wanted the report on this "latest evidence" turned in. He was so furious he actually got on the phone himself threatening Rose, who had plenty of thorns.

"What did you say to him?" I asked her in amazement.

"I told him I'd leave the message on your desk. When he threatened to have me fired if I didn't hook him up with you immediately, I told him that was fine. I've never sued anybody before…"

"You didn't."

"I most certainly did. If the little jerk had another brain it would rattle."

My answering machine was on. If Amburgey tried to call me at home he was only going to get my mechanical ear.

It was the stuff of nightmares. Each tape covered seven twenty four-hour days. Of course, the tapes weren't that many hours long because often there were only three or four two-minute calls per hour. It simply depended on how busy the 911 room was on any given shift. My problem was finding the exact time period when I thought one of the homicides was called in. If I got impatient, I might whiz right on by and have to back up. Then I lost my place. It was awful.

Also, it was as depressing as hell. Emergency calls ranged from the mentally disenfranchised whose bodies were being invaded by aliens, to people roaring drunk, to poor men and women whose spouses had just keeled over from a heart attack or a stroke. There were a lot of automobile accidents, suicide threats, prowlers, barking dogs, stereos up too loud and firecrackers and car backfires that came in as shootings.

I was skipping around. So far I had managed to find three of the calls I was looking for. Brenda's, He

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 pla

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 He

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.

She dialed 911 instead of 411.

A wrong number! Four of the five women. All of the calls were made from their homes. Each address immediately flashed on the 911 computer screen. If the residences were in the women's names, the operator knew they probably lived alone.