Patricia Cornwell - Postmortem

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."

He hung up.

I sat staring at the receiver in my hand. I sat without moving until the loud dial tone went dead and a mechanical voice began to complain, "If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again…"

I checked the front door, made sure the burglar alarm was set and went upstairs. My bedroom was at the end of the hall and overlooked the woods in back. Fireflies winked in the inky blackness beyond the glass, and I nervously yanked the blinds shut.

Bertha had this irrational idea sunlight ought to stream into rooms whether anyone was inside them or not. "Kills germs, Dr. Kay," she would say.

"Fades the rugs and the upholstery," I would counter.

But she was set in her ways. I hated it when I came upstairs after dark and found the blinds open. I'd shut them before turning on the light to make sure nobody could see me, if there was anybody out there. But I'd forgotten tonight. I didn't bother to take off my warm-up suit. It would do for pajamas.

Stepping up on a footstool I kept inside the closet, I slid out the Rockport shoe box and opened the lid. I tucked the.38 under my pillow.

I was sick with the worry the telephone would ring and I'd be summoned out into the black morning and have to say to Marino, "I told you so, you stupid bastard! I told you so!"

What was the big lug doing right now, anyway? I flicked off the lamp and pulled the covers up to my ears. He was probably drinking beer and watching television.

I sat up and flicked the lamp back on. The telephone on the bedside table taunted me. There was no one else I could call. If I called Wesley, he would call Marino. If I called the detective division, whoever listened to what I had to sayprovided he took me seriously-would call Marino.

Marino. He was in charge of this damn investigation. All roads led to Rome.

Switching off the lamp again, I stared up into the darkness.

"911." "911."

I kept hearing the voice as I tossed on my bed.

It was past midnight when I crept back down the stairs and found the bottle of cognac in the bar. Lucy hadn't stirred since I had tucked her in hours ago. She was out cold. I wished I could say the same for me. Downing two shots like cough medicine, I miserably returned to my bedroom and switched off the lamp again. I could hear the minutes go by on the digital clock.

Click.

Click.

Seeping in and out of consciousness, I fitfully tossed.

"… So what exactly did he say to this Tyler woman?"

Click. The tape went on.

"I'm sorry."

An embarrassed laugh. "I guess I hit a nine instead of a four…"

"Hey, no problem,… You have a nice evening."

Click.

"… I hit a nine instead of a four…

"911."

"Hey… He's a good-looking guy. He don't need to slip a lady a mickey to get her to give u? the goods "He's scum!"

"… Because he's out of town right now, Lucy. Mr. Boltz went on vacation."

"Oh."

Eyes filled with infinite sadness. "When's he coming back?"

"Not until July."

"Oh. Why couldn't we go with him, Auntie Kay? Did he go to the beach?"

"… You routinely lie by omission about us."

His face shimmered behind the veil of rising heat and smoke, his hair gold in the sun.

"911."

I was inside my mother's house and she was saying something to me.

A bird was circling lazily overhead as I rode in a van with someone I neither knew nor could see. Palm trees flowed by. Long-necked white egrets were sticking up like porcelain periscopes in the Everglades. The white heads turned as we passed. Watching us. Watching me.

Turning over, I tried to get more comfortable by resting on my back.

My father sat up in bed and watched me as I told him about my day at school. His face was ashen. His eyes didn't blink and I couldn't hear what I was saying to him. He didn't respond but continued to stare. Fear was constricting my heart. His white face stared. The empty eyes stared.

He was dead.

"Daddddyyyyy!"

My nostrils were filled with a sick, stale sweatiness as I buried my face in his neck…

The inside of my brain went black.

I surfaced into consciousness like a bubble floating up from the deep. I was aware. I could feel my heart beating.

The smell.

Was it real or was I dreaming? The putrid smell! Was I dreaming? An alarm was going off inside my head and slamming my heart against my ribs.

As the foul air stirred and something brushed against the bed.

The distance between my right hand and the.38 beneath my pillow was twelve inches, no more.

It was the longest distance I'd ever known. It was forever. It was impossible. I wasn't thinking, just feeling that distance, as my heart went crazy, flailing against my ribs like a bird against the bars of its cage. Blood was roaring in my ears. My body was rigid, every muscle and tendon straining, stiff and quivering with fear. It was pitch-black inside my bedroom.