The Chalk Girl (20 page)

He took no notice of her.

Rude bastard
.

Rolland Mann was fixated on the front page, wholly engrossed in a story, his fingers curling tight around the edges of the newspaper. His face was even paler than the usual cadaver countenance.

The elderly woman looked down at her own copy of the
Times
to see a familiar title in bold headline type. It was something she had read in her school days. The earliest memories were strongest now. Yes, this was the title of a short story by one of the Russians – or maybe a German. In any case, it was a classic. She read on to learn that this was a sequel to a story in yesterday’s stolen newspaper, and
the police had identified one of the Hunger Artist’s victims as Humphrey Bledsoe.

Across the hall, the neighbor crept backwards into his apartment, softly closing the door behind him – quiet as a thief.

Though pathologists were not in short supply today, neither were dead bodies. And so the chief medical examiner donned a plastic visor and a pair of latex gloves.

Detective Mallory looked down at the corpse on the dissection table. The dead man was naked and washed, all prepped for the first cut of the morning. ‘This one can wait.’

Dr Edward Slope nodded in perfect understanding. Of course. This middle-aged victim of a bullet wound was not
her
corpse, was he? No, this one belonged to a completely different precinct. ‘Go away, Kathy.’

She had been on best behavior today, allowing his use of her given name to slide, but now both hands were on her hips, a prelude to bringing out all the knives and guns. ‘Cut Humphrey Bledsoe first.’

‘This is
my
shop. I get to pick the – Hey!’ The doctor managed to grab a scalpel before she rolled aside the table holding his instruments. ‘There’s no rush on the Bledsoe autopsy. I’m waiting for identification by a family member.’

‘It’s done,’ she said. ‘Mrs Driscol-Bledsoe identified her son at the hospital.’

‘That’s not
quite
the story I heard from Grace. She relied on the police ID when she—’

‘
Grace?
You
know
that woman?’

‘Yes.’ And what new crime had he committed now? ‘Of course I know her. The Driscol Institute funds half the costs of running my rehab clinic – thanks to Grace.’

Many doctors had country homes; Edward Slope had a country
clinic for drug addicts. Kathy Mallory had never understood his penchant for working on live patients after hours – and worse – free of charge. In her world, the only good junkie was a dead one.

‘Next time you come up to my clinic, read the patron plaque in the lobby. You’ll find Grace Driscol-Bledsoe’s name engraved at the top. Very generous woman. She presides over the board of trustees for the—’

‘How much money does she control?’

‘At least a billion dollars, probably more.’ He laid his scalpel down on the dissection table – too tempting. ‘Please tell me you’re not looking for a money motive in the Ramble murders.’

‘That woman recognized her son at the hospital –
no
hesitation. That’s a
fact
. So I have to wonder why she’d come all the way down here for another ID.’ The young detective folded her arms, regarding him with grave suspicion. ‘And how many
other
city officials does she own?’

‘That was hardly subtle, Kathy. Here’s a thought. Why don’t you ask her?’

‘We can’t get past her lawyers – and the mayor.’ She glared at the corpse on the table, the one in line ahead of
her
corpse. ‘So you’re giving a friend special privileges.’

And did he rise to this bait? He did not. ‘Grace is only getting what she’s entitled to. She said she’d drop by sometime today. I’ll personally do her son’s autopsy, all right?
Tomorrow
.’

‘I need it done right now.’ She stood, firmly planted between the doctor and his table of instruments. ‘I arranged for the funeral home to pick up the body in three hours. That’s all the time you’ve got.’

‘
You
arranged it?’ Edward Slope removed his plastic face guard. Was he getting too old for these sparring matches?
Hell, no
. ‘You don’t give a damn about that autopsy. It won’t tell you anything you don’t already know.’ Did he sound sufficiently indignant? He
hoped so. ‘It’s all about the funeral, right? I understand the interest in victim funerals, but since when do the police
schedule
them? Did you even
tell
the family about your arrangements?’

‘No, Edward, she did not.’ The voice of Grace Driscol-Bledsoe echoed off the tiled walls. In the company of a morgue attendant, the elegant redhead strode across the wide room with the tap of high heels. Another woman, drab and dressed in black, lagged a few steps behind on rubber-soled shoes, and this person was not introduced.

The socialite took both the doctor’s hands in hers, drew close to him and kissed the air between them so as not to smudge her lipstick. ‘The funeral director gave me the news twenty minutes ago. His people have been burying my people for a very long time. My son’s funeral was arranged on the day he was born.’ She turned a disingenuous smile on Kathy Mallory. ‘But the
family
usually sets the date. So imagine my surprise when the director called – out of the blue – to ask my preferences for music and flowers . . . for
tomorrow’s
services.’

When the detective approached her, Grace Driscol-Bledsoe handed over a business card, saying, ‘Call my lawyer.’

Translation?
Kiss off
.

The chief medical examiner so enjoyed that. He extended one arm to the lady and personally escorted her to the viewing room where Humphrey Bledsoe’s remains awaited her formal identification. And the young detective was left behind to reflect on what she had done wrong.

Right
.

When the chief medical examiner and his most generous patron stood before the viewer’s window, the blinds were opened to display a corpse laid out on the other side of the glass. ‘That’s my son,’ said Grace.
No
hesitation. And that brought on the doctor’s first vague feeling of something a bit –
off
.

‘Not surprising that my daughter didn’t recognize him. Edward, dear, please try not to mess him up too badly. I’m told that Detective Mallory ordered an open-casket ceremony.’

The woman handed him a small, square envelope engraved with her name and return address. His own name was penned in an elegant script – like a party invitation. He opened it. Yes – a party, a purely social occasion. His eyes traveled from smiling mother to murdered son. Evidently, the rich
were
different.

The cork walls of the incident room were newly bloodied with more cadaver photographs recently delivered by the Medical Examiner’s Office. Dr Slope, in an unexplained change of heart, had put a rush on the autopsy of Humphrey Bledsoe.

Sixteen detectives sat on metal folding chairs arranged in audience formation. In advance of today’s briefing, a long table had been moved to the front of the room, where a crime-scene investigator laid out evidence and props to simulate the Hunger Artist’s murder kit. Lieutenant Coffey stared at the array of duct tape, a rope and a sack followed by a pulley, a drill, long screws and a metal plate.
Make it stop
. Next came a winch and a remote control – every damn thing but the trees.
Oh, crap
. The CSI had brought the trees, too. A circular chunk of barked wood was laid down alongside a section of branch.

The lecture had not yet begun and the squad was already bored witless. Jack Coffey leaned against the door, cutting off their only avenue of escape.

‘I’m guessing you guys never went through our carton.’ CSI John Pollard smiled at his own lame joke about the box of useless leads.

None of the detectives laughed, but neither did they draw weapons. They were all game to end the war with Crime Scene Unit.
‘Your perp’s been stockpiling his murder kit for a long time.’ John Pollard held up an evidence bag containing a coil of rope. ‘This brand was discontinued five years ago. It was sold in hundred-and-twenty-foot lengths. Forty feet of rope was found at each crime scene.’ And now, as if cops could not do simple math, he said, ‘The perp used up the whole coil.’ He moved on down the table to pick up a burlap sack. ‘The bags were made in only one batch and field-tested all over the city – docks, warehouses. That was four years ago. They were never sold to the public. So the Hunger Artist found them or stole them.’ Pollard looked down at the more common paraphernalia spread across the table. ‘Nothing here would cost more than a few hundred bucks. The perp paid cash. Count on it,’ he said, assuming that a roomful of seasoned detectives might need his help with this deduction.

They all looked at him with eyes that said,
Drop dead
.

The CSI rolled out the dolly that Mallory had found in the park. ‘No prints. It was wiped clean, but I traced the serial number. It was sold to a landscaper out in Queens. The guy died a few years back. I interviewed his widow. She says her husband got these inflatable tires from their kid’s go-cart.’

All around the room, heads lifted.
Now
Pollard had their attention. This CSI had crossed a line when he interviewed that woman. Unlike some of Heller’s staff, this one was a civilian – not a cop – not one of them.

Pollard slapped the black car battery attached to the dolly’s long handle. ‘This powered a joist for lifting heavy loads up to roofs and terraces. Cheaper than hiring a crane. The landscaper worked off the books – no payroll names, no client list. This dolly was stolen off a jobsite seven years ago. The widow doesn’t know which one. She only remembers her husband was working in Manhattan that day.’

And what might the widow have remembered if a real detective
had done that interview? Jack Coffey bit back the first obscenity that came to mind.

Pollard returned to the table, and the wave of his hand encompassed everything on it. ‘We figured out every detail.’ And now, item by item, he told them the mind-numbing story of working up all of his evidence from screw holes in the bark of trees. And finally –
finally
– the little guy raised both hands to say his magic act was over – and maybe he was expecting applause.

Fat chance
.

‘You missed a few things,’ said Mallory from the back row of chairs. And CSI Pollard pretended not to hear this.

Jack Coffey shook his head to warn her off – as if that ever worked. Mallory left her seat and moved toward the front of the room.
Damn it
! Just when things were going so well – when they were having all this nice make-up sex with CSU – she had to mess with this man.

Mallory set a small bottle on the table. ‘That’s chloroform. It belongs in the murder kit.’

‘No, I don’t think so.’ John Pollard gave her a patronizing smile. ‘I can show you the ME’s X-rays of skull fractures. The victims were subdued by a blow to—’

‘Two of them were
stunned
,’ said Mallory. ‘Only Willy Fallon was hit hard enough to knock her out. The perp needed to keep his victims quiet.’ She picked up the duct tape. ‘And this won’t do the job.’ She ripped off a piece and covered the CSI’s mouth. ‘If you want to make noise, you can still be heard. Try it.’

And now he
was
heard. The sound he made resembled the amplified buzz of a startled mosquito. When he raised his hands to pull off the tape, she slapped his wrists. ‘No, that’s cheating.’ She used more tape to bind his hands behind his back.

The lieutenant knew this was the time to step in, but one glance around the room told him that his whole squad was solidly behind
Mallory’s bad behavior. They
loved
this. She was one of them again, and all for the minor price of a twit’s dignity.

Jack Coffey smiled. He could live with that.

Mallory owned the room. ‘We have a witness who puts our perp in coveralls, posing as a delivery guy. That’s how he gets them to open the door. Then he drops the victim with a blow to the back of the head.’ She glanced at the cluttered table and then turned to the CSI. ‘You got so carried away with your little screw holes, you never developed evidence for the assaults.’

Now Pollard was making quite a lot of noise – despite the tape on his mouth. He might be the best show-and-tell exhibit ever presented for a briefing.

‘Even if the perp
had
knocked out all three victims – would he count on them staying that way? No,’ said Mallory. ‘Not his style. He
over
thinks everything – mark of an amateur. No injection sites on the bodies – so I know he sedated them with this.’ She lifted her bottle in one hand and a small cloth in the other as she continued the education of the CSI. ‘You can buy chloroform on the Internet. You can even make it at home. This is what he used to keep them quiet while he wheeled them through the streets and the park – because
that’s
the risky part. And this bottle is the only item on the table that can break our case.’ She turned to face her happy audience. ‘The ME’s broad scan for chloroform will take another three days to confirm. Pollard didn’t even request it.
I
did. And he didn’t use a mass spectrometer on the sacks to check them for chemicals. That’s two mistakes. Three . . . if we count his interview with the landscaper’s widow.’

There were get-even smiles throughout the room.

‘And then the perp does this.’ It was definitely in the spirit of payback when Mallory, with a trip and a shove, laid out CSI Pollard on the floor and hog-tied him. After covering his body with the sack, she rolled him over to close the opening with rope. Next, she
dipped the dolly’s wide step underneath him. Braced against a wall, the squirming man was neatly loaded onto the metal platform, ready for transport.