He put the memory card into the transfer device, then copied the JPG images from it to the laptop’s hard disk.
“There’s eight images,” Matt said. “Let’s see what they are.”
The first picture was obviously evidentiary. It showed Cheryl tied to the bed, staring with horror at the camera.
D’Amata went to the door and called Harry Slayberg.
Matt waited until Slayberg came, then displayed the other seven pictures.
“This critter is a real psychopath,” Slayberg said, softly.
“You can see, in the first one,” D’Amata said, “that the phone’s still on the bedside table.”
“And both of her wrists-run the last couple back again, please, Matt, so I’m sure-are still tied to the headboard,” Slayberg said.
Matt displayed the entire series of pictures again.
“So what might have happened was that she got one wrist free… ” Slayberg said.
“And he struggled with her… ” D’Amata picked up. “And that’s when the camera got knocked under the bed.”
“Or,” Matt offered, “he went into the bathroom to take a leak, or clean himself up, and while he was in there, she got the hand loose, and tried to call 911…”
“And Dudley Do-Right came out and caught her,” Slayberg picked up, “hit her-probably harder than he intended-and jerked the phone out of the wall and threw it at the mirror.”
“He was probably scared or in a rage or both,” D’Amata said, “and didn’t think that throwing the phone at the mirror was going to make a lot of noise.”
Matt picked up the camera.
“It’s an expensive camera,” he said. “Kodak. I gave one almost like it to my sister for her birthday. Which triggers a couple of thoughts.”
“Dudley Do-Right is either well-heeled or he stole the camera,” Slayberg said.
“They are serially numbered,” Matt said. “And come with a program that if it won’t work, or you break it, you call them and they FedEx you a new one overnight. I think we should be able to find out who bought this. With a lot of luck, it will be the doer. But even if he stole it, he might have stolen it while doing another rape. That might tell us something.”
“I don’t think so, Matt,” D’Amata said. “Dudley’s a very careful guy, and, I suspect, smart. Smart enough not to take anything that could tie him to one of his escapades.”
“And the second thought is that I’d like to show these pictures to my sister.”
“Did you just say what I thought I heard you say?” Slayberg asked. “The sister at Dave Pekach’s party?”
D’Amata laughed.
“One and the same,” he said. “She’s a shrink, Harry, a very good one.”
“I didn’t know,” Slayberg said. “That’s a thought, but the book says a department shrink and/or Special Victims, not a civilian.”
“Maybe that rule could be bent,” D’Amata said, smiling. “I heard Dr. Payne call Commissioner Coughlin ‘Uncle Denny,’ and Inspector Wohl ‘Honey.’ ”
“That was at the party,” Matt said, chuckling. “And subject to change. But she’s worked with us before, Harry. I don’t think there would be a problem.”
“What I think we should do now,” D’Amata said, “is seek the wise guidance of the Black Buddha. He’s a white shirt- they get paid to make decisions.”
Matt caused the screen of his laptop to go blank, then took out his cell phone and held down the number that caused the phone to automatically dial the cell phone of Lieutenant Jason Washington.
“Washington.”
“Payne, sir.”
“I was just about to call you, Sergeant Payne.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Where are you, Matthew?”
“At the scene, sir.”
“Stay there, and make sure D’Amata and Slayberg stay there. Commissioner Coughlin, Chief Lowenstein, Captain Quaire, and I will be there shortly, to exhort you vis-a-vis the rapid solution of that case.”
“Yes, sir.”
Washington turned off his cell phone.
NINE
Matt pushed the End button on his cellular. 'Washington’s on his way here,” he announced. 'And so are Coughlin, Lowenstein, and Quaire.”
'What’s that all about?” D’Amata asked.
Matt shrugged. “He wants the three of us here.”
“Was he in the office?” D’Amata asked.
“He didn’t say.”
“Then we have to go on the premise that he-they-may be two minutes away,” D’Amata said. “ ‘Jesus is coming, look busy.’ How can we best do that?”
“I don’t know about you two, but I’m going back to doing the scene,” Slayberg said, and walked out of the kitchen.
“Emperors and people like that like to be welcomed when they go someplace,” D’Amata said. “Matt, why don’t you and I go outside and wait?”
They left the apartment by the rear door. There was a uniform standing at the foot of the stairway, and other uniforms were standing just inside the POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape. On the other side of the tape there were not only more spectators than Matt expected-Cheryl Williamson’s body had been taken away; the show was over- but more than a dozen representatives of the print, radio, and television press.
He didn’t see Mickey O’Hara, and wondered where he was. Mickey was usually the first press guy at the scene of a murder.
The answer to that came when-ignoring questions several of the journalists called out-they walked around the end of the building to the front. There, behind the yellow-and — black POLICE LINE tape were even more spectators and representatives of the press, and Mickey O’Hara was among them. To make sure they didn’t cross the tape, two uniforms stood directly in front of the press, one male, one female, both looking as if they had left the Academy as long as two weeks ago.
On the inside of the tape, there were a number of police officers, in uniform, and others with badges visible on their civilian clothing. Captain Alex Smith, the Thirty-fifth District commander, and Lieutenant Lew Sawyer were talking to a woman with a badge on her dress, whom Matt remembered after a moment to be Captain Helene Durwinsky, the commanding officer of the Special Victims Unit, and a man with a lieutenant’s badge hanging on his suit jacket. He saw Detectives Domenico and Ellis, of Special Victims, standing a few feet from the white shirts, with several other detectives Matt didn’t recognize.
“You got the word?” Captain Smith said.
There was no question what “the word” was, but Matt didn’t know if Smith was speaking to him or Joe D’Amata.
“With no explanation, sir,” D’Amata replied.
“It may have something to do with Phil’s Philly,” Captain Smith said dryly. “On which-according to my wife, one of Phil’s most devoted listeners-about forty-five minutes ago, Mrs. McGrory spoke at some length about Miss Williamson being raped and tortured while the police stood not caring outside her door.”
“Oh, shit!” D’Amata said.
“I just talked to her,” Matt said. “I used her kitchen to talk to the brother. She didn’t say anything about
