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.
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.
I ran into the kitchen. I don’t know why. There was a telephone in my office.
I frantically stabbed out the number for the detective division.
Marino wasn’t in.
“I need his home number.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, we’re not allowed to give those out.”
“Goddam it! This is Dr. Scarpetta, the chief medical examiner! Give me his goddam home phone number!”
A startled pause. The officer, whoever he was, began apologizing profusely. He gave me the number.
I dialed again.
“Thank God,” I gushed when Marino answered.
“No shit?” he said after my breathless explanation. “Sure, I’ll look into it, Doc.”
“Don’t you think you’d better get down to the radio room to see if the bastard’s there?” I practically screamed.
“So, what’d the guy say? You recognize the voice?”
“Of course I didn’t recognize the voice.”
“Like what exactly did he say to this Tyler lady?”
“I’ll let you hear it.”
I ran back into the office and picked up that extension. Rewinding the tape, I unplugged the headphones and turned the volume up high.
“You recognize it?”
I was back on the line.
Marino didn’t reply.
“Are you there?”
I exclaimed.
“Hey. Chill out for a while, Doc. It’s been a rough day, right? Just leave it to yours truly here. I promise I’ll look into it.”