Читать книгу Because You Loved Me - M. William Phelps - Страница 19

No sooner had the 911 operator picked up the line did Chris McGowan explain what he found inside Jeanne’s Dumaine Avenue home. He sounded disoriented, panicky and confused.

“My…my…girlfriend is here. She’s in a pool of blood in her kitchen.”

The operator confirmed the address. Then, “OK, do you know what happened?”

“No, I just walked in the door.”

After being asked to do so, Chris placed his trembling hand on Jeanne’s back, but he couldn’t feel any movement.

“I was just too shaken,” he recalled later. “There was no way I could have felt for a pulse.”

“How old is she?” asked 911.

“She’s forty-three…. There’s blood all over the place.”

“Is she conscious?”

“I…no. I just walked in.”

The 911 operator was composed, trying to keep Chris focused on details. Chris was crying. All sorts of scenarios were running through his mind. It was starting to sink in that something horribly violent had taken place inside Jeanne’s home and Jeanne was badly hurt. More than that, was there an intruder in the house? Something told Chris that whatever happened to Jeanne had just occurred. He wasn’t sure: Had she fallen or had someone hurt her? He couldn’t tell for certain.

“Can you just lean down and see if she’s still conscious and breathing?” 911 asked again.

“OK, hold on one second.”

As the 911 operator waited, she could hear Chris yelling as he walked away from the telephone line. “Hold on. Jeannie…oh, Jeannie…she’s not moving.”

“Is she breathing?” 911 asked when Chris picked up the line again. “Did you put your ear next to her mouth and see if she’s breathing?”

“All right. Hold on. Oh. My. God. Hold on.”

There was a few seconds of silence.

“No!” said Chris. “I don’t believe. No, I don’t hear anything.”

Chris told the operator his full name and who he was in relation to Jeanne. He gave the operator a few details about Jeanne: age and full name.

“OK, we’re going to get you some help, Chris.”

“Thank you.”

Chris asked if he could turn off the television set in Jeanne’s living room. It was too loud. He couldn’t concentrate.

“I don’t know what she hit her head on,” Chris continued after returning, “I don’t know what she hit her head on, but there’s, there’s stuff all over.”

The operator said, “Hold on, Chris,” then dialed a police officer in the immediate area of the house.

“911, agent 161, requesting an ambulance in Nashua at Dumaine Avenue…. That’s going to be for a Bravo 1, forty-three-year-old female, she’s not conscious, not breathing. It looks like a nonrecent death.”

“OK, we’re on our way,” the officer responded.

“Chris? You still there?”

The operator asked Chris if he could pick up another “portable phone” in the house so he could walk out of the house, but still stay on the line.

Chris switched phones.

“I wanted you to just back away from the room and try not to touch anything.”

“OK. She’s not moving. She’s in a pool of blood.”

“You don’t know how long she’s been there?”

“No, I don’t.”

“And you think she hit her head?”

“I…I don’t know, I really…”

For about one minute, Chris and the operator discussed the last time Chris saw Jeanne: what time it was and where.

“Would you rather wait outside, Chris, or would you rather wait on the phone with me?”

“Wait until now,” Chris said. He made no sense. He was having trouble registering what the woman was asking.

“Why don’t you stay on the phone with me.”

“Are they on their way?” wondered Chris.

“Yes.”

“Oh. My. God.”

Putting the telephone down for a moment, Chris went back to Jeanne, knelt beside her, placed his right hand behind her back and picked her neck and head up off the ground.

She’s so cold, he thought.

“I love you, honey…,” Chris whispered in Jeanne’s ear. It was at that moment, he remembered later, as he told Jeanne, “I love you,” that he heard sirens…but what he didn’t see then, and wouldn’t find out until much later, was that Jeanne’s shoulder and head, neck, chest and back of her head were riddled with stab wounds. On her hands, Jeanne had defensive wounds. Several. She had fought tirelessly with her assailant.

“Wait until you hear the sirens, OK, Chris?” the operator said as Chris picked up the telephone again. “Was she around any tables or counters that she could have struck her head on?”

“Well, the kitchen…”

“OK, as soon as the police and ambulance arrive, they will—”

“I can’t see, but I hear them outside. Should I go?”

“Yes.”

While kneeling there beside Jeanne, just looking at her one last time, Chris noticed something else—an image he knew would be with him for the remainder of his life: bending down to kiss Jeanne on the cheek one final time, brushing her hair away from her face, Chris realized she was staring at him, her eyes open, glossy and “blank.”

“That’s when I knew she was gone.”