Final Justice Part 20

She turned her head and whimpered.

As fast as the camera would permit, Homer took three pictures of that, and then had an artistic inspiration. He took the Jim Bowie replica and carefully sc.r.a.ped some of the s.e.m.e.n from Cheryl's breast on it, and then laid it between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, with the tip just under her chin. And he took two pictures of that, looked at them in the camera's built-in viewer, and then put the camera on the bedside table.

"I'll be right back," Homer said. "We're just getting started."

He went into the bathroom, and first urinated, and then, standing over the washbasin, washed his genitals, toying with them, thinking that when he went back in the bedroom, he would be able to get a shot of his sperm on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and face.

That was an exciting thought, so exciting that he felt himself begin to grow hard again, and he thought that's what he would do, get it up again, so that when he went back in the bedroom, she would see it and get a hint of what was in store for her.

When he went back in the bedroom, the G.o.dd.a.m.n b.i.t.c.h had somehow got her right hand free from the plastic tie. That had given her enough movement to twist onto her side, and to pull her telephone from the bedside table. She was punching in a number.

"You G.o.dd.a.m.n f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h!" Homer said, angrily. "What the f.u.c.k do you think you're doing?"

He moved quickly to the bed, made a fist, and punched her as hard as he could in the face. He turned her on her back again and punched her again. He reached for the telephone, to pull the line free from the socket. It wouldn't come at first and he pulled harder, and then the line snapped, and the phone came out of his hand and flew across the room and smashed into the mirror mounted on the wall. The mirror broke into three large pieces, and two of them fell to the floor, where they shattered into small pieces.

Jesus Christ, that made enough noise to wake the f.u.c.king dead!

"That's going to cost you, b.i.t.c.h!" he said, menacingly.

He realized he was breathing heavily and took a moment to calm down.

Then he looked down at Cheryl.

There was a little blood on her face, running down over her lips, and she was looking at something on the ceiling.

He looked up to see what she was looking at. There was nothing but the ceiling and the light fixture. He looked back down at her, and she was still looking at the ceiling.

He waved his hand in front of her eyes. There was no reaction.

"Jesus Christ!" Homer said, softly.

He reached down and slapped Cheryl on both cheeks.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n you, wake up!" he said.

There was no reaction.

"Oh, s.h.i.t," Homer said, softly, and waved his hand in front of her open eyes again.

"s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t," Homer said.

Then he went to the door, turned the lights in the bedroom off, and made his way back through the apartment to the kitchen, and let himself out, taking care to make sure the screen door's latch had automatically locked after he pushed it shut.

He went quickly to the De Ville, and was halfway down the block before he remembered to take the black ski mask off.

And then Homer had an at first chilling thought.

I don't have the f.u.c.king camera!

He patted his pockets to make sure.

s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t!

Oh, f.u.c.k it! I never took the rubber gloves off, so there won't be any fingerprints, and they can't trace it to me. I bought it in that store with the Arabs in Times Square in New York, the time I picked up the silver-gray Bentley. I paid cash. I'll just have to get another one. It was getting pretty old, anyway.

SEVEN.

[ONE].

On the other side of Cheryl Anne Williamson's bedroom wall in her second-floor apartment on Independence Street was the bedroom wall of the apartment occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Herbert McGrory.

There was a mirror on that wall, too-the apartments were roughly mirror images of each other-and when Cheryl's bedside telephone slipped out of Homer C. Daniels's hand and flew with sufficient velocity into her mirror to cause it to shatter, it also struck the plasterboard behind the mirror.

At that point on the wall, behind the plasterboard, was one of the two-by-four-inch vertical studs, arranged at sixteen-inch intervals along the wall. Between each stud, insulation material had been installed, more to deaden sounds between the two apartments than for thermal purposes.

Technically, this was a violation of the Philadelphia building code, which requires that living areas be separated by a firewall, either of concrete or cement blocks. The building inspector somehow missed this violation. Over the years, a number of Philadelphia building inspectors have been found guilty of accepting donations from building contractors for overlooking violations of the building code.

Many-perhaps most-of these corrupt civil servants have been found guilty and fined or sentenced to prison, or both, but it was obviously difficult for the city to reinspect every structure examined and pa.s.sed by the inspector caught not looking, and it wasn't done.

The stud moved, not far, but far enough to strike the back of the mirror on the McGrorys' wall. The mirror bent, then cracked, and then a large, roughly triangular piece of it slid out of the frame and crashed onto the floor.

The noise woke Mrs. Joanne McGrory, a short, rather plump thirty-six-year-old, who was in bed with her husband, who was tall, rather plump, and thirty-eight years old.

She sat up in the bed and exclaimed, "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!"

She looked around the dark room, and then down at Mr. McGrory, who was asleep on his stomach.

"Herb!"

After a moment, without moving, Herb replied, "What?"

"Get up, for G.o.d's sake!"

"Why? What's happened?"

"Get up, Herb, d.a.m.n you!"

Mrs. McGrory turned on the lamp on her bedside table as Mr. McGrory sat up.

The first thing Mr. McGrory noticed was the shattered mirror.

"Jesus, what happened to the mirror?"

"How would I know?"

"It's busted."

"I can see that. What happened?"

Mr. McGrory ran over the possibilities.

"It could have been a sonic boom," he theorized.

"Sonic boom?"

"You know, when an airplane goes faster than sound."

"Oh, G.o.d, Herb! Sometimes . . ."

"Well, you tell me," he said.

"Get up and see if anything else is wrong," she said. "Don't cut your feet on the broken gla.s.s."

"Jesus!"

"Do it now, Herb!"

Two minutes later, after taking a cautious tour of their apartment, Mr. McGrory returned to announce that the only thing that seemed to be wrong was the mirror.

"You didn't hear anything?" Joanne asked, significantly, nodding toward the wall with the broken mirror.

Several times, the McGrorys had heard the sounds of Cheryl Williamson entertaining gentleman callers in her bedroom. Once they had had to bang on the wall to request less enthusiasm.

Mr. McGrory smiled and said, "Could be . . ." and then made a circle with the thumb and index finger of his left hand, into which he then inserted, with a pumping motion, the index finger of his right hand.

"You're disgusting," Joanne said, and then added: "This time, it's too much. The mirror is busted. I'm going to go over there and read the riot act to her."

"No, you're not," he said.

"Yes, I am."

"No, you're not."

"Then I'm going to call the cops. I won't have this!"

"Call the cops? What are you going to say, 'The lady next door's boyfriend screwed her so hard the mirror fell off our wall'?"

"Unless we do something about it, we're going to have to pay for that mirror," Joanne argued.

"Okay," Herb said after a moment's thought. "Go tell her what happened."

"If I go over there, what she's going to say is that she doesn't have any idea what I'm talking about. Would you?"

"Would I what?"

"Say, 'Gee, I'm sorry my scre . . . lovemaking broke your mirror, and I'll write you a check'?"

"And what good do you think calling the cops is going to do?"

"It can't do any harm, can it?" Joanne asked reasonably. "Maybe something is wrong next door-with her. And I don't want us to have to pay for the mirror."

Joanne went to the telephone on the bedside table and punched 911.

At 1:57 A.M., a call went out from Police Radio: "Disturbance, house, 600 Independence Street, second-floor left apartment."

Officer James Hyde, a tall, thin, dark-haired young man of twenty-four, reached for his microphone in his patrol car, pushed the b.u.t.ton, and replied: "Thirty-five twelve, got it."

A moment later, there was another response, this one from Officer Haywood L. Cubellis, a 210-pound, six-foot-seven, twenty-five-year-old African-American from his patrol car: "Thirty-five seventeen, I'll back him up."

Whenever possible-in other words, usually-two cars will respond to a "Disturbance, House" call. Such calls usually involve a difference of opinion between two people of opposite-or the same-s.e.x sharing living accommodations. By the time the cops are called, tempers are at-or over-the boiling point.

If two officers are present, each can listen sympathetically to the complaints of one abused party vis-a-vis the other, which also serves to keep the parties separated. One lonely police officer can be overwhelmed.

Both cars arrived at 600 Independence Street a few minutes after 2 A.M., although neither-there was little traffic- had used either siren or flashing lights.

While it might be argued that neither Officer Hyde nor Officer Cubellis was a highly experienced police officer-Hyde had been on the job three years and Cubellis four-they had enough experience to know that it was better for officers responding to a "Disturbance, House" call to bring with them calm, reason, and order, rather than the heightened excitement that howling sirens, flashing lights, and screaming tires produce.

"Hey, Wood," Jim Hyde called as both got out of their cars and started into the apartment complex.

Officer Haywood Cubellis waved but did not respond.

He followed Hyde to the second-floor door of apartment 12B, and stood to one side as Hyde both knocked with his nightstick and pushed the doorbell.

Mrs. McGrory answered the door, in her bathrobe, with Herb standing behind her in trousers and a sleeveless undershirt, looking a little uncomfortable.

Both Hyde and Cubellis made a quick a.n.a.lysis.

Nice people. Looked sober. No bruises or signs of anything having been thrown or overturned in the apartment.

"You called the police, ma'am?" Hyde asked.

"Yes, I did."

"What seems to be the trouble?"

"I like to think of myself as a reasonable person," Joanne said. "Live and let live, as they say. But this is just too much."

"What is it, ma'am?"

"Come in and I'll show you," Joanne said, and motioned the two policemen into the apartment. Both nodded at Herb, and Herb nodded back.

Officer Hyde looked at the broken mirror.