Final Justice Part 25

Four of them had been arrested, tried, and convicted.

"Good morning, Doctor," Captain Smith said from the bedroom door.

"Hey, Smitty," Dr. Mitch.e.l.l said, and then spotted Matt. "Hey, Payne. I saw your picture in the paper."

"Good morning, Doctor," Matt said. "The search warrant's en route."

Dr. Mitch.e.l.l winked at D'Amata and Slayberg, then walked to the bedroom door, pulling on rubber gloves as he did so. The photographer followed him. Mitch.e.l.l gestured with his hand for the photographer to stop at the door, then went inside.

The medical examiner needed no one's permission to enter the crime scene. It belonged to him until he released it to Homicide.

Matt walked to the bedroom door.

Dr. Mitch.e.l.l bent over Cheryl Williamson's body, took a quick look, put his fingers on her carotid artery, looked at his watch, and announced, "I p.r.o.nounce her dead as of ten fifty-five. "

He looked over his shoulder at Matt.

"Unofficially, it looks like her neck is broken, and to judge from the lividity of the body, I'd guess she's been dead eight, nine hours or so."

He signaled to the photographer that it was all right for him to enter the room, and started for the bedroom door.

Matt got his first look at the victim.

She was naked, with her legs spread apart by plastic ties tied to the footboard. Her upper body was twisted to the left. Her left hand was tied to the headboard, and Matt could see another tie hanging loose from her right wrist.

She looked at him out of sightless eyes, and his mind was instantly filled with Susan Reynolds's sightless eyes looking at him in the parking lot of the Crossroads Diner.

He felt the knot in his stomach and the cold sweat forming on his back, and stepped quickly away from the door.

Jesus, not now! Dear G.o.d, don't let me get sick to my stomach and make an a.s.s of myself on my first Homicide job!

He b.u.mped into something, somebody, and saw that it was Detective Olivia La.s.siter, and that he had almost knocked her over.

She looked at him with what he thought was annoyance.

He started to say "Sorry," but was interrupted by Jack Williamson, bitterly asking, "You got a good look, I hope?"

He turned his back to Williamson and touched Detective La.s.siter's arm.

"You get anything out of him?" and then, before she could reply, asked, "Why didn't you get him out of here?"

"I was just getting him calmed down enough to talk when you walked in," she said. "He doesn't want to leave, and I didn't want to push him."

"Come with me," Matt said.

"That sounds like an order," she said.

"Okay," Matt said. "It was a request, a suggestion, but I want you to come with me."

She met his eyes defiantly for a moment, then shrugged and turned away from the open door.

Matt walked to the couch. Jack Williamson looked up at him with cold contempt.

"Mr. Williamson, I'm Sergeant Payne. I'm the Homicide supervisor, and I need to talk to you, and we can't do that in here. In just a few minutes, there will be technicians all over the place, and we can't be in their way. I want you to come with Detective La.s.siter and me to someplace where we can talk. Okay?"

"The lady next door offered anything we need," Olivia said. "What about her kitchen? She had said she would put a pot of coffee on."

"We'll just sit around and have a friendly cup of coffee, right? And maybe a Big Mac? With my sister like that in there?"

"We have to talk someplace, Mr. Williamson, and we have to get out of the way of the technicians, and sitting down over a cup of coffee seems a better idea to me than standing on the sidewalk," Matt said. "What do you say?"

Williamson shrugged, a gesture of surrender, and stood up.

"Mrs. McGrory, this is Sergeant Payne of Homicide. We have to talk, privately, to Mr. Williamson," Olivia said when Mrs. McGrory answered her knock. "Could we use your kitchen?"

"Certainly."

"Thank you very much," Matt said, as she led them in her kitchen.

"Anything I can do to help. There's a fresh pot in the Mr. Coffee. Just help yourself."

"That's very kind of you," Matt said.

"I feel just terrible about this, especially with the cops being outside while it was happening."

"We don't know for sure that's what happened, Mrs. McGrory," Matt said.

"Of course, that's what happened. I was here, wasn't I?"

"Thank you very much, Mrs. McGrory," Olivia said, easing her out of the kitchen and then closing the door.

"Why don't you sit down?" Matt suggested to Williamson. "I'll get the coffee. How do you take yours, Mr. Williamson?"

"Black," Williamson said.

"Black," Olivia said.

Olivia and Williamson sat down at the kitchen table while Matt took the gla.s.s decanter and poured coffee into ceramic mugs. He walked to the table and set the mugs on it.

"Okay," Matt said. "Let's get a couple of things understood between us, Mr. Williamson. I don't know what happened last night, when Mrs. McGrory called the police, and I don't care."

"You don't f.u.c.king care?" Williamson asked, disgusted and incredulous.

"My job is to find the person, or persons, who killed your sister, and see that when they're brought to trial they won't walk out of the courtroom because some legal 't' wasn't crossed or some legal 'i' didn't have a dot. I understand that you're unhappy with what you think happened last night."

"What happened last night was that the f.u.c.king cops didn't do a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing to help my sister."

"If you believe the police did something they shouldn't have, or didn't do something they should have, you have every right to make an official complaint-"

"f.u.c.king-A right, I do. And I will."

"But I think you'll agree, Mr. Williamson, that right now the priority is to find out who did this thing, and the sooner the better. Would you agree with that?"

"Jesus, of course I 'agree with that.' All I'm saying is that if those f.u.c.king cops had done what they were supposed to do last night, my sister would still be alive."

"There's one more thing, Mr. Williamson," Matt said. "Your language is beginning to offend me. I hope you'll watch your mouth. I would really rather not have you transported to Homicide and placed in an interview room until you get your emotions under control."

Williamson glared at him but didn't say anything.

Matt opened his briefcase and took out his laptop.

"What's that for?"

"I'm one of those guys who can't read his own writing," Matt said. "I take notes this way. Are you objecting to it?"

"If I did?"

"Then I'll take out a notebook and ballpoint, and waste a lot of time trying to make sense of my notes when I finally have to type them up. All right?"

Williamson shrugged. Matt turned the laptop on and began to type.

"Is it 'Jack,' Mr. Williamson?"

"John J. For Joseph."

"What's your first name and badge number, La.s.siter?"

"Olivia, 582," she furnished.

"Okay, Mr. Williamson, let's start with your personal data," Matt said. "Residence?"

Twenty minutes later, Matt said, "I think that'll be enough for the time being, Mr. Williamson."

"Okay."

"You know how to work a laptop?"

Williamson nodded.

Matt slid the laptop in front of him.

"Would you take a look at that, please, and see if I've got it right?"

Williamson read the several pages Matt had typed and then nodded his head, "okay."

Matt turned the laptop off, closed the cover, and put it back in his briefcase.

"When I get that printed, Mr. Williamson, I'll have a detective-most likely Detective La.s.siter-bring it to you for your signature."

"When?" Williamson asked.

"It'll wait until tomorrow," Matt said. "I know that you're going to be busy today. I'll call you tomorrow to see when it will be convenient."

"I have to tell you this," Williamson said. "When my mother hears about what happened last night, this morning, with the cops . . . G.o.d!"

"I'm not trying to talk you out of filing a formal complaint," Matt said, "honestly, I'm not. But for what it's worth, from what I've heard, the officers who responded to the 'Disturbance, House' call were just going by the book. If they had any any indication that something-anything-was going wrong, had gone wrong, in the apartment, they indication that something-anything-was going wrong, had gone wrong, in the apartment, they would would have taken action." have taken action."

Williamson looked at him but didn't respond directly.

"What am I supposed to do if my mother wants to come here?"

"Well, right now she can't have access to the apartment. Not today, and probably not tomorrow, either. Tell her that."

"Jesus Christ!" Williamson said.

"I'd be happy to go with you, Mr. Williamson," Detective La.s.siter said. "If you think it would make things any easier. And I'd like to talk to her, too. That doesn't have to be right now. Your call."

"It couldn't do any harm," Williamson said. "And maybe, if you were there . . ."

"If you'll give me your cellular number, Sergeant, I'll call and let you know how things went," Detective La.s.siter said.

Matt wrote the number on a small sheet of notepaper and handed it to her. She tore it in half and wrote two numbers on it.

"I guess you have the Northwest number, right?" she asked. Matt nodded. "My cellular and apartment," she said.

"Thank you," Matt said.

Under other circ.u.mstances, Olivia, my lovely, I would be overjoyed that you shared your telephone numbers with me.

Come to think of it, Olivia, despite the circ.u.mstances, I am overjoyed that you have shared your telephone numbers with me.

Mrs. McGrory was not in her living room as they pa.s.sed through, but Matt could hear her voice in the next room. Only her voice, which suggested she was on the telephone.

He decided he had already thanked her and it would be better not to disturb her when she was on the phone.

When they went downstairs and through the front door, he saw that the press was gathered behind the POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape, and that the moment they saw them- two detectives, with badges showing, escorting a so-far-unidentified white male-video cameras rose with their red RECORDING lights glowing, and still camera flashbulbs went off.

"Where's your car?" Matt asked.

"Halfway down the street," she said, and pointed.

Matt touched the arm of one of the uniforms.

"I want to get Detective La.s.siter and this gentleman to her car, down the street, and I don't want the press to get in the way."

"No problem," the uniform said, raised his voice, and called, "d.i.c.k!"

d.i.c.k was a very large police officer of African-American heritage.