The Chalk Girl

This time the skin’s broken, and I bleed through my sock.

At lunchtime, Phoebe looks at my bloody ankle and says it’s too bad Aggy’s a legacy student. Otherwise, they’d put her down for biting humans.

—Ernest Nadler

Elderly Mrs Buford paced the floor in her fuzzy pink slippers, awaiting the newspaper delivery. Yesterday’s Times had been stolen, and she had her suspects. Chief among them was the man across the hall, the one least likely to care about the terrible importance she placed on her morning paper. The crossword puzzle helped her to chart the inroads of Alzheimer’s by the boxes she could not fill with her diminishing inventory of words and names. Getting old was such a pain in the ass.

She consulted the clock on the wall. Where was that damn paperboy?

Her pacing stopped. She held her breath. Ah, there it was, the soft ploff of the Times hitting the carpet in the outer hallway. Mrs Buford opened the door to the sound of more ploffs as newspapers were dropped at other doors. She waited for the woman across the way to retrieve her own paper. Their neighborly exchange of good mornings was another high point of the day’s routine.

Oh, no. This time the door was opened by the husband, a most unsettling person. Rolland Mann made her feel like bugs crawled beneath her skin. He was a civil servant, if she remembered correctly, though this hardly squared with an apartment in a luxury high-rise building. Well, he must be far up the ladder of city politicians, but he was certainly not an elected official, not with that weak chin, that pasty flesh. And his hair was rather sparse in places. This put her in mind of a nervous cousin who pulled it out by the roots. When he bent down to collect his Times, she focused on the long, spidery fingers. And now for an uncomfortable shift in metaphor, he glanced up at her with reptilian eyes.

Cold-blooded snake.

No, wait – nothing so grand as that.

Cold-blooded worm.

She called out to him, ‘Good morning!’ Always cordial, Mrs Buford refrained from asking if he had yet murdered his wife. It had long been her impression that the poor woman only stayed with her husband under duress, and such marriages could only end badly.

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.