The Chalk Girl

THIRTY

Phoebe wants no part of this. Okay with me. But she won’t come back to school. She won’t even come to the phone when I call her house.

I need to talk to somebody.

I think about that dead wino all the time. Twenty times a day, I can hear him screaming. It took that poor crazy man a long time to die. I remember counting off the minutes from the hiding place in the Ramble. That’s what I tell the police. But Detective Mann doesn’t believe me.

—Ernest Nadler

By early-morning light, Detective Mallory scrutinized the alley gate for the Driscol School. ‘A ten-year-old kid could pick that lock. It’s an antique.’

‘I’m sure Miss Fallon used a key,’ said the white shield, Arthur Chu. ‘She got something out of her purse, and then it only took her a few seconds to open this gate.’

Riker finished reading the prowler report filed by Mr Polanski, the night watchman. ‘No mention of Willy’s name, no description.’ He pocketed his bifocals and turned to his partner. ‘But the time works with Arty’s sighting of Willy Fallon on the run. Mr Polanski thought Phoebe must’ve left the gate open. Maybe that’s how Willy got in so fast.’

Officer Chu shook his head. ‘She pulled something from her purse to—’

‘But you didn’t see a key,’ said Mallory. ‘You were across the street. It was dark.’ She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a velvet pouch that contained her kit of picks for breaking and entering. Inspector Louis Markowitz had confiscated it on the night of her arrest at age ten – nearly ten. She had lied her age up to twelve years old, and, failing at that, they had later agreed that she might be eleven. After his death, she had found the pouch among the contents of her foster father’s safe-deposit box. Sentimental old bastard, he had been unable to part with baby’s first lock picks. She showed them to Arthur Chu. ‘Maybe this is what Willy got from her purse.’ She restored the pouch to her back pocket and then held up a pair of bobby pins. ‘Or these.’ The detective turned her back on the white shield for a few seconds’ work – and the gate swung open. ‘A kid could do it.’

The somewhat dejected Officer Chu was dispatched to Willy Fallon’s hotel to continue his shadow detail. And when the young cop was out of sight, Riker said, ‘Poor guy. If he’d been right about that key—’

‘I think he was.’ Mallory faced the narrow alley beyond the gate. She could go no farther. The police had been barred from getting within two hundred feet of Phoebe Bledsoe’s residence behind the school. ‘This lock is at least a hundred years old. Who knows how many keys are floating around?’ She looked up at the lintel above the school’s door, where the Driscol name was engraved. ‘I bet Phoebe’s mother has a key to this gate – or had one.’

Chief Medical Examiner Edward Slope was a man of ramrod posture – but not this morning. He slouched in the chair behind his desk, one hand covering his tired eyes. His sleep had been fitful, and the caffeine jolt from his coffee had not yet kicked in when his secretary announced that there were detectives on the other side of his office door. Had Kathy come to gloat?

Last night’s affair had been his first visit to Grace Driscol-Bledsoe’s mansion, and he would never go back there again. A party invitation extended on the occasion of identifying her dead son – well, that should have given him pause.

He had left the mansion within ten minutes of his arrival. That was all the time needed to identify a number of politicians and other nefarious characters who belonged in jail, men and women he would never shake hands with in public or in private. It would sully a pope’s reputation just to be seen with such people. But a chief medical examiner, like Caesar’s wife, must take even more care with appearances. If not, his reputation and his word would be worthless in or out of court.

Kathy Mallory was the first one to enter, followed by Riker.

‘Let’s make this quick.’ Edward Slope was not up for another round of her war games. ‘I’ve got a busy day ahead. Contrary to the mayor’s last press conference, violent death appears to be an ongoing thing in New York City. I’m stacking up bodies as we speak.’

Both detectives sat down in the chairs facing his desk to let him know that this might take a while, and the doctor sipped another dose of coffee.

‘One got past you, Doc.’ Riker slapped a death certificate down on the desk. ‘You’ve been robbed. This kid’s autopsy was done in a hospital.’

Edward Slope read the old hospital-issued certificate for Ernest Nadler, age eleven. ‘Cardiac arrest? I gather it wasn’t a congenital defect, or you two wouldn’t be here.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘So . . . you have the boy’s medical history, hospital records, some kind of evidence?’

‘No,’ said Riker. ‘We were hoping you could help with that.’

Dr Slope trained his gaze on the other detective, the computer witch. She had certainly hacked her way into the hospital files. And so, on a sarcastic note, he asked, ‘Seriously, Kathy? You have no clue?’

She glared at him, not appreciating the innuendo, but she did not correct his use of her given name. And that could only mean that she wanted something. ‘Let’s assume the boy was never treated for a heart defect the whole time he was in the hospital.’

The doctor smiled. ‘Yes, let’s assume that.’ He held up the death certificate. ‘So you think this is a major screwup by the—’

‘A cover-up,’ she said. ‘The boy was a crime victim. He died a month after an assault. That means his body should’ve come here, right?’

The doctor nodded. ‘Every time. I don’t even care what ultimately killed him. It’s still a suspicious death.’

‘So the hospital conspired to bury a murder,’ said Riker.

‘Not necessarily.’ Dr Slope folded the certificate into his breast pocket. ‘When a hospital is involved, I always begin with the presumption of gross incompetence. But we’ll see.’

The detectives’ badges were on display, shining brightly from breast pockets.

‘I know this man.’ Edward Slope paused in the hospital corridor to inspect his little gang of two. ‘If you want to scare him, we’ll do this my way. Don’t speak. You’re only here for window dressing.’ He marched his troops into the reception room, passing by a secretary, deaf to her attempt to stop them.

They entered the private office of the hospital administrator, a man with a very large desk and a small moustache, a man who amazed one and all by the act of walking upright in the absence of a spine. Dr Kemper was stunned and quick to stand. ‘Dr Slope, what a surprise.’ His worried eyes darted to the badges of the police escorts. Voice lost, Dr Kemper reached out to shake hands with the more important visitor, who had celebrity status in the world of medicine.

Edward Slope ignored the proffered hand. He crossed over to the far side of the room, where chairs were gathered around a small table. When he sat down, he forced the administrator to leave the safety of his desk – to be exposed. The detectives took up their posts, standing behind the chief medical examiner. They were silent but watchful, clearly distrustful of Dr Kemper, who came toward them with mincing steps.

Dr Slope laid the death certificate on the table. ‘Ernest Nadler. It was a long time ago, but I know you’ll remember the boy. After being assaulted, he lingered for a month and died in your hospital. With only those details, I’d make a call of murder. But then I was told that the boy was dehydrated when he was admitted – and starved – for three days. Oh, and then there were bondage wounds on both wrists. That was a clue. So you can imagine how surprised I was when the police informed me that the autopsy was done here. Every crime victim’s body comes to me. That’s the law.’

‘Quite right.’ Dr Kemper wormed one hand around the other in a rather good impression of Dickens’s Uriah Heap. ‘I do apologize if one of my people bungled a protocol.’

‘I also have a problem with the cause of death.’

Dr Kemper picked up the certificate, and when he had read it, he raised his eyes, mystified. ‘Cardiac arrest. I don’t see the problem. It’s signed by the attending physician.’

‘Who’s conveniently dead of old age,’ said Slope. ‘I’m going to exhume the body.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir. The remains were cremated.’

‘Interesting that you would know that detail off the top of your head. You still have the same pathologist on staff. I’ll talk to her. And I want to see the boy’s records, all of them. No computer spitouts.’ That would be a waste of his time; he had that much faith in Kathy Mallory’s hacking skills. She had, no doubt, found the electronic files sketchy and useless. ‘I want the actual charts, the patient’s medical history, autopsy findings and photographs . . . everything.’

‘Sir, this boy died fifteen years ago.’ And now the administrator turned his lame smile on the detectives – the law – while he explained the law to them. ‘We’re only required to keep the original records for four years.’

‘But you kept these records.’ Dr Slope folded his arms and smiled at Kemper’s guilty reaction, the swipe of clammy hands on pant legs. ‘You put the originals in permanent storage. I’m guessing the hospital’s legal counsel didn’t give you any choice. That lawyer wouldn’t risk his license by allowing the destruction of evidence . . . just on the off chance that I might drop by. And now I want all that paperwork in my hands so fast it takes my breath away.’

The meeting was moved to a hospital conference room. This larger space was needed to spread out the records on the short life and long death of Ernest Nadler. When the chief medical examiner stepped back from the table, Riker and Mallory began to work their way through the manila envelopes and file holders, beginning with the emergency-room procedures on the day the child was admitted. The detectives had yet to speak a word to anyone.

It was Edward Slope who conducted the interrogation of Dr Emily Woods, a thin, graying woman in her late fifties – too old to be looking for a new job as a hospital pathologist. She looked down the length of the table, seeking out the eyes of the hospital administrator, desperate for reassurance.

‘Don’t look at him,’ said the chief medical examiner. ‘I make the call on what happens to you.’ He held up the death certificate of the eleven-year-old boy. ‘Cardiac arrest? Not likely. There was no congenital defect.’ The wave of his hand included all the records spread along the tabletop. ‘Not one mention of a pre-existing heart condition. But you went along with this – this nonsense about heart failure.’ He sat on the edge of the table and leaned down to her. ‘Tell me if I’ve got this right. The boy’s heart was simply the last organ to fail him. Ultimately that’s how we all die, isn’t it? The heart . . . stops.’

‘I didn’t want to do the autopsy.’ Dr Woods would not meet his eyes. ‘I refused. But then I was told that the police had no problem with it.’

‘And who told you that? Oh – shot in the dark – your boss, Dr Kemper?’ Edward Slope picked up the pathologist’s photographs of a dead child, and he sifted through them. ‘The boy’s eyes are closed in every shot. Did you even bother to pull back the lids and check for—’

‘Oh, Christ!’ Midway down the long table, Riker looked up from his reading. ‘You guys chopped off the kid’s hands? Doctors did this?’

‘I can explain that,’ said the hospital administrator.

‘I bet you can.’ Mallory bent Dr Kemper over the table and handcuffed him while her partner did the honors for Dr Woods. ‘We’re all going downtown.’

In the watchers’ room, the rows of raised seats held five detectives and their commander. Lieutenant Coffey was flanked by the chief medical examiner and an assistant district attorney with a yellow bowtie. In the lighted room on the other side of the one-way glass, Mallory and Riker sat at the table with Dr Emily Woods, and the detectives were playing a brand-new game: Bad Cop, Bad Cop – Abandon All Hope.

‘Kiss your medical license goodbye,’ said Mallory to the hospital pathologist. ‘The best you can do is turn state’s evidence. That might keep you out of jail.’

Jack Coffey stared at the glass as he spoke to ADA Cedrick Carlyle. ‘Dr Woods told us you gave her a green light to do the autopsy at the hospital.’

‘Well, I didn’t.’ The man straightened his bowtie and then fussed with imaginary lint on his suit. ‘I never—’

‘Oh, yeah?’ All heads turned to Detective Gonzales, the dubious voice in the dark at the back of the room. ‘I sat in on Dr Kemper’s interview. He backs up the lady doc. He says the word came down from you.’

‘Clearly a misunderstanding.’ Ignoring the minion in the back row, ADA Carlyle addressed the lieutenant beside him. ‘But no real harm done. I told the hospital administrator there wouldn’t be a homicide investigation for Ernest Nadler. The case was solved – closed. As you know, the prime suspect confessed.’

‘For killing the wino,’ said Coffey, ‘not the kid.’

‘We only needed one charge to put Toby Wilder away. His plea agreement stipulated that the assault on the child would be dropped, and he wouldn’t be charged with a second murder if the Nadler boy died. The judge had no problem with it.’

‘Well, I got problems with it,’ said Coffey. ‘I got ten autopsy pictures of a kid with no hands – but no crime-scene photos. Whose call was that?’

‘When the police found the boy, he was all in one piece. I believe the assault was originally written up as some sort of prank.’

‘A prank?’ Incredulous Detective Janos sat directly behind the ADA, and now he leaned forward to breathe in Carlyle’s ear. ‘The kid was left hanging in a tree for three goddamn days – no food, no water.’

In the back row, another detective said, ‘Ernie was strung up with wire around his wrists. No circulation. We know his hands were already turning black when they cut him down.’

‘Necrotic tissue,’ said Dr Slope. ‘The boy’s hands were amputated in the hospital. So even if Dr Woods was dead drunk on the job – and that’s probably true – she had to notice that Ernie Nadler was a crime victim. Her idiot boss couldn’t have missed that detail, either. Apparently it was your idea to do the autopsy in the hospital.’

‘Looking back,’ said ADA Carlyle, ‘I can see where they might’ve gotten the wrong idea from our conversation. Of course the boy’s body should’ve gone to the Medical Examiner’s Office. No question. That was a huge screwup by the hospital. But Dr Kemper and Dr Woods hardly fit the description of criminal conspirators. It’s just an act of gross stupidity.’

‘Well, thank you for clearing that up,’ said Jack Coffey.

Chief Medical Examiner Edward Slope leaned back in his front-row seat. ‘That won’t get Woods and Kemper off the hook. The little boy was showing signs of improvement in the week before he died. He was on the mend. The prognosis was good . . . and his heart was sound. According to the bloodwork, he managed to beat off the infection from the necrotic tissue. So that didn’t kill him, either.’

The lieutenant reached out to knock on the glass, alerting his detectives to get on with the good part. On cue, in that other room under the bright fluorescent lights, Mallory made a rolling motion with one hand, a signal for Dr Emily Woods to repeat the highlights of her earlier rehearsal interview.

‘There was another autopsy report,’ said the pathologist. ‘What you read – that was the amended version. I found hemorrhaging in the boy’s eyes. The attending physician told me it was caused by medication. Dr Kemper agreed. He made me redact that line. Why complicate things, he said.’

‘And you just went along with that?’

‘No. I knew medication didn’t cause the hemorrhaging. Sometimes these clowns forget that I’m a doctor, too. A doctor – not a lawyer. That assistant DA – I forget his name – a little jerk with a yellow tie. He said the case was settled.’ She splayed her hands. ‘Settled? Well, I knew that was wrong. This wasn’t a damn traffic violation.’

‘You thought it was murder – but not from the injuries,’ said Riker. ‘The kid’s eyes were bloodshot.’

‘Hemorrhaging,’ said Mallory. ‘A sign of suffocation. Any pillow would do the job, right? So you were ordered to cover up a murder. And that didn’t bother you?’

This was pure theater. In real life, this pathologist was a drunk and a hack who lacked even the store of forensic details that might have been gleaned by watching television. When Jack Coffey had sat in on the woman’s earlier, uncoached interview, Dr Woods had only found it odd that the administrator would ask her to redact the words petechial hemorrhaging. Unfortunately, she had not found the requested alterations odd enough to save her original report.

‘Lucky she kept the original report,’ said Lieutenant Coffey. On any other day, it would be worth his job to deceive an assistant district attorney, but he was allowed to lie to a suspect all day long. ‘Kemper and Woods are looking at conspiracy charges. The kid was definitely killed in the hospital.’ He unfolded a sheet of paper. ‘We’re gonna exhume the body.’

A neat trick, since the boy’s corpse had been cremated.

Carlyle’s hands tightened on the armrests of his chair. Apparently he had not been privy to this detail. And that was predictable. The disposal of victim remains would not even make a footnote in a prosecutor’s records. By the dim lights of the watchers’ room, the lawyer strained to read the exhumation order signed by the chief medical examiner. It was all there in black and white – so it must be true.

Coffey smiled. Oh, yeah. This man was a believer. The ADA had that Oh-shit look on his face. Perhaps it had finally dawned on the lawyer that he was the real interrogation subject, but the lieutenant would not leave this to chance. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. ‘Carlyle? Is there something you’d like to tell me?’

The lawyer looked up. On the other side of the glass, the interrogation room was empty. The show was over. He did not argue when the lieutenant took him by the arm and led him to a chair in that room. Four detectives leaned against the walls. And then they were joined by the rest of the squad. Riker and Mallory were the last to walk in the door. The detectives all moved in unison to surround the lieutenant and the lawyer. The shoe shuffling ended abruptly, and all that could be heard was the tick of an old-fashioned pocket watch borrowed from Mallory.

Ten seconds. Twelve. Thirteen, fourteen.

Interrogator and suspect faced one another across the table in a contest. Jack Coffey would not be the first one to speak.

‘Things seem to have gotten out of hand,’ said the lawyer.

‘Somebody got away with murdering Ernest Nadler,’ said Coffey. ‘And you helped with the cover-up.’

‘Nobody got away with anything. The killer was locked up in Spofford.’

‘For killing a wino, not a little boy.’

‘It started with the wino! Don’t you get it? It was always about the wino. You should talk to Rocket—’ Carlyle shook his head and waved one hand to erase that nickname from the air. ‘Rolland Mann will back me on this. The Nadler boy was strung up and left to die because he saw Toby Wilder murder that wino. There’s no chance he identified the wrong kid. They went to the same school. And there were three other witnesses. They all named Toby as the wino’s killer – and fifteen years later, all three of ’em get strung up in the Ramble. Toby is the Hunger Artist. He was getting even for—’

‘Screw the Hunger Artist,’ said Jack Coffey. ‘We’re not working that case today. Toby was locked up when the Nadler kid was murdered in his hospital bed. Care to spin that one for us, Counselor?’

‘All right,’ said Carlyle, as if this might be a reasonable invitation. ‘What if those other witnesses lied about Toby and the wino? My theory works even better that way. Suppose Ernest Nadler knew they lied? Maybe he threatened to lay the blame on those three kids. Now let’s say Ernie’s little classmates came to visit him in the hospital.’

Coffey pushed back from the table. ‘So you’re telling us kids murdered Ernie Nadler?’

‘The police guard at the door wouldn’t find children suspicious,’ said the ADA. ‘Maybe that was the cover-up.’

‘But not the cover-up you bargained for,’ said Coffey.

‘Not the one you got paid for,’ said Mallory from the back of the room.

Good shot. Carlyle was frozen for a moment. And then one stiff hand tugged at his tie, as if it might be a tight fit today.

Mallory stepped up to the table with her first lie. ‘We know what you said to the parents.’ She leaned down to the ADA’s ear to bring this bluff home. ‘You told the Nadlers a student from the Driscol School was arrested for Ernie’s assault. But you never said it was Toby Wilder. That wouldn’t have made any sense to them. They knew their son never blamed that kid for the wino’s murder . . . And you knew it, too.’

Every little twitch of Carlyle’s mouth was a confession. ‘I couldn’t give the Nadlers any details,’ said Carlyle. ‘Juvenile records are sealed.’

‘And they bought that?’ Jack Coffey smiled. He could still be surprised when Mallory’s lies came true. ‘Well, I guess the parents were a little distracted at the time. Maybe they were wondering what to do when their little boy woke up – how to explain his amputated hands.’

‘But then,’ said Mallory, ‘after Ernie was murdered in the hospital – that solved all your problems with the bogus case against Toby Wilder.’

‘I want a lawyer,’ said the lawyer.