buried and the man who killed her is dead, so if we want to start proving what actually happened, it’ll get pretty messy.
“Frankly, son, I’m not a big city cop, I’m just a small town peace officer. From my perspective, whether or not you killed Mr. Jeffries, justice was done. He paid the price for something terrible that he did. And I don’t think you’re any danger to society. You’re a hero to the people of this town and I’m not interested in tarnishing your name.” I see where this is heading as Buddy speaks and I wait patiently for him to pull the hook he’s baited.
“The Kingston police haven’t tied you to Mr. Jeffries’ death. They don’t know you were the one who attacked George on Saturday night,” Buddy says as he spits a stream of yellow tobacco juice into an old-fashioned spittoon next to his wastebasket. I refrain from pointing out that George attacked me, not the other way around. “And like us, they have enough crime in their town that they might think this was a random break-in. So I’m willing to let this rest and keep my mouth shut. But it won’t work if your reporter friend starts stirring things up by writing a story. That can only lead folks to you. It probably wouldn’t hurt either if you got the hell out of town to let things die down for a while. Do you catch my drift?”
I nod. “I read you five by five.”
* * *
I have the midnight black GTO spooled up to 80 miles an hour on the New York State Thruway heading south when my cell phone rings. I’ve ignored the five increasingly urgent text and voice messages from Veronica that started coming through last night because I need time to think. But this call is not from her. It’s Sammie.
“Dude, I think you gave me the wrong phone number for that 9-1-1 call,” he says.
“Come again?”
“I don’t know what I was expecting to hear, but it sure wasn’t this,” he says and plays the recording to me.
“9-1-1 – what is the nature of your emergency?” a female voice asks.
“Hello? Hello?” a male voice with a Slavic accent: Russian or possibly Ukrainian. “Very sorry I am trying to reach information for pizza delivery – Dominos.” The voice pauses and the 9-1-1 operator interjects, “Sir, this is 9-1-1 – the number for emergencies. Please hang up and dial 4-1-1 for information.” The Russian voice laughs and replies, “Please excuse, I am very sorry.” The 9-1-1 operator says, “That’s alright, sir, have a good day.” Then the phone disconnects.
“That’s not the voice I was expecting to hear either. Can you read back the number you checked?” I ask and Sammie does. It is the same number I’d given him. “Can you check to see who the phone is listed under?”
“I did – the number is registered to Melissa Harris on Orchard Road in Conestoga, New York,” he replies.
“That’s the right one. Can they have mixed up the call logs?”
“Yeah, that was my first thought, too, but there’s no mistake. The systems are routinely audited and double-checked. They have to be able to send the police or fire department to the address of anyone who calls in, even if the caller doesn’t know their own address, so accuracy is a big deal for them. I think you can be 99.9% certain that the call came from that house,” Sammy concludes briskly. “Anyway, is this at all helpful?”
“In a way,” I reply and ponder for a second. “Is there any way of finding out if anyone else has pulled this recording?”
“Hold on the line and let me check,” Sammy says. I wait a few minutes before he returns. “It looks like a Sheriff Peterson from Conestoga requested it on Thursday, the day after the call,” Sammy confirms.
I exhale a whistle. “That’s very helpful. I’ll be in touch, Sammie.”
I run through the sequence of events again in my mind before dialing information in New York City, asking for the business number for the bank where George worked. When the receptionist answers I ask for George
“Frankly, son, I’m not a big city cop, I’m just a small town peace officer. From my perspective, whether or not you killed Mr. Jeffries, justice was done. He paid the price for something terrible that he did. And I don’t think you’re any danger to society. You’re a hero to the people of this town and I’m not interested in tarnishing your name.” I see where this is heading as Buddy speaks and I wait patiently for him to pull the hook he’s baited.
“The Kingston police haven’t tied you to Mr. Jeffries’ death. They don’t know you were the one who attacked George on Saturday night,” Buddy says as he spits a stream of yellow tobacco juice into an old-fashioned spittoon next to his wastebasket. I refrain from pointing out that George attacked me, not the other way around. “And like us, they have enough crime in their town that they might think this was a random break-in. So I’m willing to let this rest and keep my mouth shut. But it won’t work if your reporter friend starts stirring things up by writing a story. That can only lead folks to you. It probably wouldn’t hurt either if you got the hell out of town to let things die down for a while. Do you catch my drift?”
I nod. “I read you five by five.”
* * *
I have the midnight black GTO spooled up to 80 miles an hour on the New York State Thruway heading south when my cell phone rings. I’ve ignored the five increasingly urgent text and voice messages from Veronica that started coming through last night because I need time to think. But this call is not from her. It’s Sammie.
“Dude, I think you gave me the wrong phone number for that 9-1-1 call,” he says.
“Come again?”
“I don’t know what I was expecting to hear, but it sure wasn’t this,” he says and plays the recording to me.
“9-1-1 – what is the nature of your emergency?” a female voice asks.
“Hello? Hello?” a male voice with a Slavic accent: Russian or possibly Ukrainian. “Very sorry I am trying to reach information for pizza delivery – Dominos.” The voice pauses and the 9-1-1 operator interjects, “Sir, this is 9-1-1 – the number for emergencies. Please hang up and dial 4-1-1 for information.” The Russian voice laughs and replies, “Please excuse, I am very sorry.” The 9-1-1 operator says, “That’s alright, sir, have a good day.” Then the phone disconnects.
“That’s not the voice I was expecting to hear either. Can you read back the number you checked?” I ask and Sammie does. It is the same number I’d given him. “Can you check to see who the phone is listed under?”
“I did – the number is registered to Melissa Harris on Orchard Road in Conestoga, New York,” he replies.
“That’s the right one. Can they have mixed up the call logs?”
“Yeah, that was my first thought, too, but there’s no mistake. The systems are routinely audited and double-checked. They have to be able to send the police or fire department to the address of anyone who calls in, even if the caller doesn’t know their own address, so accuracy is a big deal for them. I think you can be 99.9% certain that the call came from that house,” Sammy concludes briskly. “Anyway, is this at all helpful?”
“In a way,” I reply and ponder for a second. “Is there any way of finding out if anyone else has pulled this recording?”
“Hold on the line and let me check,” Sammy says. I wait a few minutes before he returns. “It looks like a Sheriff Peterson from Conestoga requested it on Thursday, the day after the call,” Sammy confirms.
I exhale a whistle. “That’s very helpful. I’ll be in touch, Sammie.”
I run through the sequence of events again in my mind before dialing information in New York City, asking for the business number for the bank where George worked. When the receptionist answers I ask for George
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