Chapter 4 - The 911 Call
Morning broke over the estate in shades of watery gray.
A pale dawn light filtered through the dining room windows, illuminating the grim reality of what had transpired overnight. The blood beneath my head had fully oxidized into a dark, rusty brown. Rigor mortis had begun to stiffen my limbs, my fingers locked into the half-curled position they had held when they shielded Maisie from the fall.
Maisie woke with a start, her eyelashes crusty with dried salt, her small cheeks flushed with a mild fever from sleeping on the bare floor.
“Mommy?” she croaked, her throat dry.
She reached out, patting my cheek. When she felt the icy, stone-like stiffness of my flesh, she gasped and pulled her hand back as if burned.
She stood up, her little legs trembling. She knew now. In her pure, intuitive child’s heart, she knew that the shell lying on the floor was no longer her mother.
She picked up the cordless phone from where she had dropped it hours earlier. She remembered the fire-safety assembly her preschool had held two weeks ago. The friendly firefighter with the yellow hat had shown them a giant cardboard phone and pointed to three numbers.
In an emergency, when someone won't wake up, push the red one, the one, and the one.
Maisie stared at the keypad. Her tiny index finger hovered over the glowing buttons.
Nine.
One.
One.
She pressed the green call button and lifted the receiver to her ear.
I hovered right over her shoulder, willing every ounce of my energy into the electronic signal, praying the call wouldn't drop, praying that the operator would listen to the fragile voice of a three-year-old.
“Greenwich Emergency Dispatch, what is your emergency?” a calm, authoritative female voice answered almost immediately.
Maisie began to cry, the tears streaming down her nose. “My mommy is broken.”
A brief pause on the line. The dispatcher’s tone shifted instantly from routine to heightened alertness. “Hello, sweetheart. Who am I speaking to?”
“Maisie,” she sobbed. “Mommy is broken on the floor. Her barrette cracked. There’s bad red juice on the wood and she’s cold like the refrigerator.”
“Maisie, honey, how old are you?” the dispatcher asked, her typing clacking rapidly in the background.
“I’m three. I have three fingers.”
“Good girl, Maisie. You are doing so good. Can you tell me your mommy’s name?”
“Mommy. Her name is Mara.”
“Okay, Maisie. Is there anyone else in the house with you? Is your daddy there?”
“No. Daddy went away with Brooke in the black car. He told me to go to bed because Mommy is faking, but Mommy isn't faking! She won't wake up! I pulled her shoe on and she won't wake up!”
“Maisie, listen to me very carefully,” the dispatcher’s voice was firm, urgent, and soothing all at once. “I have your address on my screen. 42 Willow Creek Lane. Is that your house with the big black gates?”
“Yes,” Maisie sniffled. “With the stone lions.”
“Help is on the way, Maisie. The police and the ambulance are driving to your house right now with the sirens on. I need you to stay on the phone with me, okay? Can you go sit by the front door?”
“I can’t leave Mommy,” Maisie wept, clutching the phone with both hands. “Mommy gets lonely in the dark.”
“You are such a brave girl,” the dispatcher said, her voice catching with emotion. “Stay right next to her. Don't touch the red juice, okay? Just hold her blanket.”
Ten minutes later, the distant, rising wail of sirens pierced the quiet morning air of the gated community.
I drifted toward the front windows. Two police cruisers and an ambulance turned sharply into the long, winding driveway, their tires crunching over the crushed gravel, red and blue lights painting the manicured boxwood hedges in alarming hues.
They didn't have the gate code. An officer jumped out of the lead cruiser, ran to the side pedestrian gate, and used a bolt cutter to snip the security chain. Within seconds, heavy footsteps were pounding up the stone front steps.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Police department! Open the door!”
Inside, Maisie scrambled to her feet, running toward the foyer. She couldn't reach the high brass deadbolt. She stood on her tiptoes, stretching her fingers, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I can’t reach! I’m too little!”
A burly officer looked through the decorative glass panel beside the door. He saw the tiny child weeping on the other side, and through the archway into the dining room, he saw the bare, motionless legs of a woman lying beneath a pink blanket on the floor.
“Stand back, sweetie! Step back from the door!” the officer shouted.
Maisie backed away.
The officer took two steps back, lifted his heavy tactical boot, and kicked the lock with explosive force. The wood splintered with a thunderous crack, and the front door burst open.
Paramedics flooded into the house, their heavy boots thudding across the foyer.
The first paramedic knelt beside my body, two fingers pressing against my carotid artery. He paused, looked up at his partner, and slowly shook his head.
“Code Black,” the paramedic announced grimly. “Traumatic head injury. Massive blood loss. Pupils fixed and dilated. Rigor mortis is fully established. She’s been gone at least eight to ten hours.”
A female police officer immediately scooped Maisie into her arms, wrapping a jacket around the shivering child, shielding her eyes from the gruesome scene.
“It’s okay, baby,” the officer whispered, her own eyes welling with tears as she carried Maisie out into the sunlight. “You’re safe now. You did so good.”
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As Maisie was carried out the front door, the male officer knelt by my head, observing the broken chair, the half-eaten birthday cake on the table, and the smear of blood. He keyed his shoulder radio.
“Dispatch, notify Homicide and the Medical Examiner. We have a suspicious death at 42 Willow Creek Lane. Secure the perimeter.”
