The Chalk Girl

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.