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Oh, my God, she’s dead!
He turned. Mrs. McGrory was coming into the bedroom.
“I think you’d better get out of here,” he said.
“Well, excuse me. I’m just trying to be neighborly.”
“Get the fuck out of here, goddamn it!” Jack said, waited until she had fled, and then looked for Cheryl’s telephone.
It wasn’t on her bedside table. It was on the floor, and he could see the cord had been broken.
Jesus, I’ll have to use the cell phone in the car.
What the hell am I going to tell Mother?
As he went through the living room, he remembered that Cheryl had a second phone, mounted on the kitchen wall. He went to it, then stopped.
Maybe it’s got fingerprints on it.
I better use my cell phone in the car.
Fuck it!
He took the handset from its cradle with his handkerchief and, using his ballpoint pen, punched in 911.
“Police department, operator 178,” a male voice answered on the second ring.
“Jesus!”
“May I help you, sir?”
“I’m… my sister’s apparently been murdered,” Jack Williamson said.
“And where are you, sir?”
“In her apartment. Second floor, right, 600 Independence Street. I let myself in, and found her-”
“And your name, sir?”
“Williamson, Jack Williamson.”
“You just stay where you are, please, Mr. Williamson. I’ll get police officers over there right away.”
“Jesus Christ, she’s tied to the goddamn bed!”
“Help will be there very shortly, Mr. Williamson.”
Officer Roland Stone was twelve blocks from Cheryl’s apartment-near the intersection of Godfrey Avenue and Howard Street-when his radio went off.
“3514.”
“3514,” Stone replied.
“3514, take 600 Independence Street, second-floor apartment, right. Meet the complainant, report of a 5292. Use caution-the complainant is on the scene and states it is a possible homicide.”
“3514, I have it,” Stone said, and flipped on the light bar on the roof and the siren as he turned left onto Water Street.
“35A-Andy,” Police Radio called next, to alert the supervisor-a sergeant-in the area.
