The Chalk Girl

TWENTY

Today I discover the terrible importance of surviving till class picture day.

They keep the yearbooks at the back of the school library. I take down the one for the year a girl jumped off the roof, and I look through the pages of students posed for headshots, looking for Poor Allison. No one remembers the family name. The only lasting impression of her is the yearly chalk outline on the garden flagstones.

Phoebe says I won’t find the chalk girl in that section. ‘It was her first year, and she didn’t live long enough for class picture day – so they tried to erase her.’ Turning ahead to the section of sporting events and other group pictures taken throughout the year, she stops near the end. ‘Here she is. They missed this one.’ Phoebe points to a photograph of a little red-haired girl standing with other kids. She’s the shortest member of the chess club. ‘Count them,’ says Phoebe. ‘Ten kids in the picture, only nine names in the caption.’

—Ernest Nadler

Riker sat in the passenger seat, staring at the rearview mirror, averting his gaze from the traffic violations of his tailgating partner. He could feel the shift of hard lane changes, but preferred not to meet the eyes of terrified motorists sharing this crowded patch of road with Mallory. Every car up ahead was threatened with a rearend collision. He touched his seat-belt clasp to be sure it was fastened. Oh, what the hell. The air bag would save him. He checked the side mirror one more time. ‘You were right. Goddard’s got nobody tailing us.’

‘This was always a closed game,’ said Mallory, ‘just the chief of D’s and Rocket Mann – and us.’

The car stopped for a red light, and Riker loosened his death grip on the rolled-up ViCAP questionnaire. ‘So the guy wipes out every trace of the kid’s assault – and then he makes a permanent record of the whole damn thing in the FBI database.’

‘It’s original,’ said Mallory. ‘Not your garden-variety blackmailer. And Rocket Mann was patient. He waited a solid month for the victim to die. Murder’s worth a lot more than an assault charge.’

‘Yeah,’ said Riker. If not for Mallory’s raid on ViCAP, the old FBI questionnaire would have stayed buried in the system. Mann’s blackmail victim only needed to know that it was there, and that it could be retrieved at will. Better than a bank vault. ‘So that poor kid who got sent to Juvie – he was just a scapegoat.’

‘He had other uses,’ said Mallory. ‘If the dead boy’s family asked for their pound of flesh, Mann only had to show them the interview tape – and maybe a booking sheet for Toby Wilder.’

The sealed records of Family Court resolved the problem of convicting Toby for a different crime. And Ernest Nadler’s parents would never know their son’s murder had been covered up for profit – the meteoric rise of a mediocre man, Rocket Mann.

Calling up CSI Pollard’s line on the Hunger Artist, Riker said, ‘The guy thought of everything.’ He removed the small microphone that passed for a tie clip. ‘Almost everything.’ Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out the recorder, the damning voice record of Mann’s interview.

‘We’re not sharing that with the chief of D’s,’ said his partner. ‘Not till our case is wrapped.’

‘If we hold out on him—’ The car lurched forward. Then it stopped short, foiled by gridlock, and Riker blessed his seat belt, else he would have lost his teeth on the dashboard.

‘Joe Goddard’s a fool for chess,’ said Mallory to the man who had taught her that game when she was eleven years old. ‘He’s a regular player in Washington Square Park. And he’s not bad.’

‘Good to know. So the chief looks six moves ahead. So?’ Oh, Christ! Now he understood why she wanted to hold something back – a bargaining chip. Joe Goddard had already made a move that gave two detectives power over him; he had bluntly spelled out a plan of conspiracy, a career ender for the chief of D’s if things went sour.

Mallory finished his thought. ‘You have to wonder how Goddard plans to keep us in line – and quiet.’ The car moved forward, but her head was turned to one side, facing her partner and not the windshield, a little act of terror that she saved for special occasions. ‘Here’s the problem. If the chief had some dirt on me, he would’ve spelled it out before our meeting with Rocket Mann. He’d never risk us changing sides. So I have to figure he’s got something on you.’

‘Well, he doesn’t.’ Riker had the cleanest badge in the NYPD, and the brat knew that.

Still driving blind, Mallory rounded a corner and then decided that she believed him. She turned her eyes back to the road and what lay ahead of them – two pedestrians in the crosswalk.

The hairy roundabout in traffic was over; they had come full circle and pulled to the curb. On foot, they entered a giant archway that tunneled through a Centre Street building, and they emerged on the next street to stand at the foot of a public promenade paved with brick and lined with trees, lamp posts and benches. At the far end of One Police Plaza was a small gatehouse for the courtyard of NYPD Headquarters, a fourteen-story fortress built to withstand a siege of nonexistent enemies. Riker’s other name for this place was Paranoia in Spades, and so he knew they would not have to wait long.

Mallory checked her cell phone to read a text message. ‘It’s the gatehouse cop.’ He was their spy, their eye on the revolving door.

The detectives took cover behind a large sculpture, a frozen collision of gigantic red disks fused at odd angles. A few minutes later, Rolland Mann walked past them without his bodyguard, heading for the arch.

‘Nice timing, kid.’ Riker kept his position behind the sculpture – against his better judgment – waiting for another high-ranking official to walk by.

‘He’s coming,’ said Mallory. ‘Pay me.’

The man with the bullet-shaped head, Chief of Detectives Joe Goddard, was moving fast on the promenade, and then he slowed his steps to maintain a covert distance behind the acting police commissioner.

Riker handed his partner a twenty-dollar bill for a lost bet. He had not believed that Goddard would risk doing a shadow detail. And now they had solid proof that there was no official investigation into police corruption; the chief of D’s was running an under-the-table game.

The two detectives strolled through the arch and along the sidewalk of Centre Street. Riker insisted that his partner walk behind him. She had the strange idea that she could become invisible with only a pair of sunglasses to hide her, deluded that men would not stare at her.

Mallory really believed she was good at this.

But today she deferred to her partner. On shadow detail, Riker was the best of the best, though he would admit that Goddard was not all that bad. Fortunately, the chief had not anticipated being tailed, and there was never a backwards glance; the man was so focussed on his own quarry. And so they traveled, turning corners and walking down side streets, four ducks in a row.

The parade came to a halt when Rolland Mann stopped at the spread blanket of a sidewalk hawker and paid cash for a slightly used, certainly stolen, cell phone – a convoluted precaution in an age of anonymous calling cards and disposable phones.

How paranoid could he be?

Transaction done, onward they marched. Riker saw the action of a number punched into the cell phone that was then held to Rolland Mann’s ear to hear the rings. The time between this call and the next one suggested that no connections were made, but the third number resulted in a conversation of several minutes.

Calling concluded, Mann stopped by a vendor’s cart and purchased a bagel in a white sack. He looked around in all directions. His three followers had already stepped into shop doorways and out of sight. While Mann pulled out his bagel, Riker looked down at his side to see Mallory using the camera function of her phone. Click – a picture of Mann unfurling a handkerchief and wiping his prints from the cell phone – click – slipping the phone into the paper sack and – click – after crumpling the sack, he tossed it into a city trash container. Now, bagel in hand, he strolled back toward One Police Plaza.

A moment later, Chief Goddard stepped out on the sidewalk to retrieve the thrown-away phone from the rubbish. Riker followed Mallory’s cue and used his camera phone to snap a picture of the chief of detectives rutting around in the trash. Why not? In addition to proving chain of evidence for the ditched cell phone, this snapshot would make a great Christmas card.

Goddard never saw the two detectives, side by side, melding into foot traffic and turning a corner.

Coffey looked up when his senior detective broke with tradition to make a courtesy knock on the door to his private office. ‘Where’s your partner?’

‘She’s badgering another TV station to announce Humphrey Bledsoe’s funeral.’ Riker flopped down in the chair before the desk. ‘I might need to do some damage control.’

‘Something to do with God?’ And by that, the lieutenant could only mean Chief of Detectives Joe Goddard, every squad’s higher power. Coffey threw up his hands. ‘You’re too late. I just talked to him on the phone. He asked me if I told Mallory she failed her psych evaluation. When he talked to you guys, he had the impression that she didn’t know yet. I guess he’s sending a message . . . maybe a threat?’

‘But you submitted Charles Butler’s psych rebuttal, right?’

‘No, Riker, you really don’t want me to do that.’

‘She’s got a right to challenge Dr Kane’s evaluation. I know her lawyer gave you the—’

‘You mean this?’ The lieutenant held up the wadded ball of a legal document and tossed it over his shoulder. ‘All gone. Mallory’s still in limbo.’

‘What the—’ Riker was silenced when the lieutenant raised the flat of his hand.

‘I went to see Charles Butler today.’ Jack Coffey unlocked the top drawer of his desk. ‘I had a problem with his rebuttal. Small detail – thought it might be a typo. So he showed me his calendar dates for Mallory’s sessions and a draft of his report – a damn carbon copy from a typewriter. Will somebody please get that man a computer?’ The lieutenant pulled two sheaves of paper from the drawer and laid them on the blotter, side by side. ‘Here’s Dr Kane’s original evaluation, the one she failed. And this is Charles Butler’s rebuttal. Read the dates.’ He sat back and laced his fingers behind his head.

When the detective looked up from his reading and said, ‘Shit,’ the lieutenant smiled.

Charles Butler’s four-page defense of Mallory’s sanity mentioned the department psychologist’s evaluation, but Charles’s rebuttal had been written – and dated – a full week before Dr Kane’s findings were submitted to the NYPD. Riker stared at one document and then the other, uncomprehending. ‘How could this—’

‘You know what happened. She couldn’t wait for the official psych report. It was taking too long. So she hacked into the shrink’s personal computer. She knew what was in Dr Kane’s report long before it landed on the chief’s desk – and mine.’

Riker shook his head. ‘Mallory doesn’t make mistakes like this.’

‘Kane’s evaluation might’ve had a different date on it – when Mallory broke into his computer. His report should’ve gone out weeks ago. Your partner probably thought I was sitting on it all this time – just to torture her with more desk duty. Computer hacking couldn’t tell her that Dr Kane had the flu. I got that from his secretary. And that’s why his report was delayed.’ The lieutenant slipped the two evaluations back into his drawer – and slammed it. ‘It’s like Mallory took out a billboard ad to say she broke the law.’

‘What’re you gonna do?’

‘Me? Nothing. She doesn’t need my help to crash and burn. But it’s gonna take her a while to shop for another shrink . . . so she can make a legal challenge.’ The lieutenant’s meaning was clear. Charles Butler was officially out of the loop; the man could not simply alter the date of his rebuttal. ‘So, Riker . . . here’s your other problem. I think Chief Goddard likes Dr Kane’s report. He didn’t even reprimand me for putting a psycho cop on the street. He wants Mallory on this case. The chief might sit on that lousy psych report for years – or take her badge tomorrow if she gets out of line. That’s his style.’

Riker nodded his understanding of style. Joe Goddard’s motives were pure – and delusional. The chief of D’s wanted to reshape the NYPD in his own image. Toward that end, he collected dirt on people from ranks above and below his own. If they could not be remolded to his liking, he removed them. If Mallory failed to bring in the goods on Rolland Mann, she was gone. That was the message in Goddard’s phone call to the lieutenant.

‘Give the chief what he wants,’ said Coffey. ‘And for God’s sake – don’t give Mallory a heads-up. That’s your only real shot at damage control.’

By the time she saw Goddard coming for her, it would be way too late. But Jack Coffey was right. Riker knew his partner would never go quietly. And if she had advance warning? He summoned up the biblical passage of the Pale Rider, placing Mallory in the saddle of Death’s horse – and hell followed after. ‘I won’t tell her.’

Coco reached under her pillow to pull out the one-button cell phone so she could say good night to Mallory. The connection was made, and now she covered the mouthpiece and looked up at Charles Butler. ‘She wants to know if you got the package.’

‘Yes, tell her it just arrived.’

This was conveyed to the detective on the cell phone. And then, in response to some question of Mallory’s, Coco said, ‘I don’t remember.’ The little girl’s eyes shut tight, and her head turtled into her pajama top. ‘I don’t think he said any—’

And, on this note of stress, the interrogation was ended. Charles took the phone and said, ‘Good night, Mallory.’

He remained with the little girl, distracting her from anxiety with a chapter from Dickens’s The Old Curiosity Shop, evidently not a thriller among youngsters. After only a few pages, Coco drifted off to sleep.

On his way down the hall, he rehearsed his next conversation with Mallory, a hard lecture on rules for dealing with fragile children. Stopping by the glove table, he picked up the box from the NYPD and opened it to find a videocassette. This would explain the earlier delivery of an old-model television set with a slot below the screen that would neatly fit this tape. The mechanism was so simple that this gift failed to include Mallory’s standard operating instructions for Luddites.

He sat down with a glass of red wine and played the fifteen-year-old film of schoolboy Toby Wilder and former detective Rolland Mann. He saw all the signs of trauma in the bone-weary child, whose head moved slowly, side to side – not in a gesture of defiance but one of bafflement. The boy never spoke, never voiced his only question, but asked with glassy eyes, How could this be happening?

A heightened sense of empathy had kept Charles Butler out of private practice, working one-on-one with patients. There were limits to what he could endure via other people’s pain, and now he felt helpless and hopeless, free-floating in a child’s angst. The psychologist had no trouble lip-reading Toby’s silent punctuation to every utterance by the detective in the final minutes of the tape. Over and over, Charles, in perfect unison with the boy, mouthed the word Mom.

And then the tape ended – too soon.

The telephone rang, and that would be Mallory. He picked up the receiver. There were no salutations. Before she could utter a single word to startle and amaze him with her prescient timing, he said, ‘You’re right, and you’re wrong. The tape wasn’t edited, but the interview did end abruptly . . . at a very odd moment. Rolland Mann was taking his cue from someone off-camera. You can see it in the lift of his head, a sudden break in eye contact with the boy. And you’re right about the time factor. The interrogation probably went on for hours before they started taping. The boy shows signs of fatigue to the point of exhaustion. But this is the odd part.’ Charles had no doubt that the child, heart and mind, was at the point of giving up and giving in. ‘Toby was broken. He was about to confess.’