“But he did, Doc.”
“Forget it, sergeant, carry on with the interview,” Archer instructs.
Officer Dent shifts back in his seat and nods, casting one more glance at me before looking down at his interview notes. “So at first, he suggested it might be too early to tell. Then, once he’d been informed of her prior surgery, he said and I quote, ‘If that is indeed the case, Mrs. Day, I advise that you see a surgical physician immediately. This cannot be right.’”
“Whew. Okay, but Mr. Day said Varga was his wife’s physician, not that he’d paid one house call. Subsequent visits would have revealed more.”
“I did ask him to clarify that point, Doc. And Dr. Varga said he did, in fact, pay the Days multiple visits as they were convinced the missus was indeed with child. But despite his initial examination, she was exhibiting all the signs … including, um, expansion, nausea, back pain, and a depraved appetite.”
“A what?” Archer asks stoically.
“An appetite for unusual foods, sir.”
“Ah.”
“And, they weren’t certain of the precise date the baby was conceived, but the missus had reportedly suffered like symptoms for approximately the first three months, and the whole ordeal lasted just over eight. The doctor was mystified, he said and thought perhaps the Days had been mistaken, and the surgeon had not performed a hysteria treatment after all. The surgery in question was supposedly performed a few years ago, so he did not think it had any bearing on her current condition.”
“Just so we know the doctor isn’t totally inept or a really good liar, did he happen to confirm or deny the presence of a heartbeat or note any movement?”
“Eh, well, as to that, he said he noticed naught like that. He, therefore, warned the Days to prepare themselves for a stillbirth outcome. And after this, Mrs. Day refused to let the doctor physically examine her. The Days felt his advice was unnecessarily worrisome, and that couldn’t be the way of it is as the missus was still experiencing several symptoms as well as increasing.”
“Hm. Reid? What do you make of it?”
“The resilience of the involved anatomical structures is always compromised after a surgical procedure, but I could see her incisions hadn’t healed well. I can only think that there must have been some inciting incident, an injury that might have aggravated the wound from her previous surgery, causing it to reopen. It would have had to have been quite an accident, though. A hard fall, maybe.”
“And the doctor would have been called Sunday, the day she supposedly gave birth. How did he explain that away, Dent?”
“Oh, I didn’t think to ask that question, sir. But Tanner did mention the Days occupied separate chambers since about midway through the missus’s ordeal. And that Jedidiah Day simply found the baby lying beside his wife the following morning.”
“Ah! She never actually went into labor,” I say.
“And therefore the doctor would not have been called,” Archer says.
“That’d be my guess, sirs.”
“That’s using your head, Theo,” my brother praises.
The young sergeant turns a blotchy red and dips his chin. Both sergeants worship their chief, looking up to him as their boss, mentor, and sometime father. The latter bothers Archer, but he handles it better now than he did a year ago. His fuse was much shorter then and his expectations higher.
After a minute, Archer asks, “Was that all? You didn’t question the doctor about the Lynchs, did you?”
“No, I made no mention them. I understood we were going to wait a day or two to work that side of the case, sir.”
“Good. I’ll need you to keep an eye on Olive Marsh. Follow her and tell me if you see her talking to anyone from the Lynch household. Tanner spotted her meeting with Hester Robinson yesterday, the Lynchs’ charwoman. Those two know something they are not telling. But not a word to the Robinson woman, okay?”
“Right, sir, Doc.” Theo bows his boy-sized head and leaves.
“It’s not looking good for Dr. Ennis,” I remark.
“I wasn’t all that sure Varga was involved, to begin with. That’s why I didn’t ask Vale … Henry. Hell!” he says, pounding a fist on the edge of his desk. “I was finally getting the hang of River/Reid,” he adds quietly, a muscle at the side of his mouth working. Standing abruptly, he combs his fingers through his hair and then rubs his jaw, cursing a few more times.
It entertains me when my brother loses his cool. I stifle a smile as he walks around his desk and drops into his chair.
“I wonder if Olive Marsh and Hester Robinson are in cahoots,” he suggests. “They seem more invested in the goings-on at the Lynchs’ residence than of the fact that Mrs. Marsh’s husband just died.”
“True. And she didn’t look too aggrieved when I saw her. It could have been shock or—”
“You think so? Were there signs?”
“No, there weren’t. I’d say, she wasn’t too broken up about it and still doesn’t seem to be. We are talking about Reggie Marsh. Martin said he was abusive in addition to everything else.”
“I remember. But his death will be a hardship even if the children start contributing. Maybe she and Robinson have cooked up a plan. Maybe they are our blackmailers.”
“It’s possible, but Marsh’s wife wouldn’t have known her husband was at death’s door, though it could be she did. We may never know. The fact remains, she didn’t kill him; so it doesn’t matter, even if she thought about it now and again. I would have.”
“We don’t have much to go on, right now. I’ll let you know of any developments.” I take this as my cue to leave and get to my feet, but Archer continues, “Will Riley and John Stewart have requested transfers, which I’m granting, but I’d rather Cochran move on over Stewart.”
“And how would you say the new officer is working out?”
“Otis has his faults, but he’s experienced in his area, which is more than I can say for some others. He used to manage the Harrison precinct, a much larger station.”
“At least he doesn’t bellow like Officer Farrell.”
“But you don’t like Harlan.”
“He makes me uncomfortable is all, not all that uncommon in these parts. Tanner and Theo were strange with me at first too. But the constable is different. I don’t think he’ll get used to me or me him.”
“Why not?”
“The sergeants never looked at me the way Otis does. My effeminacy either arouses him or repulses him, I can’t tell. He’s either a lover or hater of my kind.”
“You know, it has crossed my mind that some men know how to behave better around women than they do other men.”
“Around other men like me, you mean.”
“Correct,” Archer agrees stoically.
“That’s my impression too. Almost every man I’ve met has had to deal with some sort of internal struggle in that regard. As if they have to ask their base selves, ‘Am I okay with this?’ And then they can move on. All I wanted were the rights of a man. I didn’t foresee other men as a problem. Owen—”
“I thought you were only trying to annoy Vale before, with your newfound familiarity with Owen Carr,” Archer says.
I raise my brows. “How familiar does one have to be exactly to be on a first-name basis? And please, also enlighten me what it is about time travel that makes using a person’s first name so inappropriate all of a sudden? I do believe Vale was introduced to me as, uh, Vale.”
With a steely set to his jaw, he asks, “So what about him?”
“He suggested my chin is too delicate and that I should upgrade to a beard.”
“I told you that.”
I nod. “Indeed you did, my good man. But a second opinion is always advisable.” I stroke the long-winged, black butterfly atop my upper lip, and Archer shakes his head.
“Mm. I’ll make sure to tell Allen you said so, that his doesn’t count for some reason.” He cracks open a brown paper folder on top of several others before him.
“Oh, I noticed Reggi
e Marsh is still in my storage.”
Scanning the page and without glancing up, he says, “Marsh’s widow can’t afford burial services. She’s given us permission to contact the teaching hospital. They’ll be by to pick him up within the next few days.”
A light knock on a glass panel of the door draws our attention.
“Couple of the men’ve just brought in someone for you, Doc, a child,” Abe Farrell says blankly. “Found thereabouts the tracks at the Michigan Central Rail Road Depot.”
“By or on, Abe?” Archer inquires for me.
“What’s that, sir?” the officer asks, cupping a hand around his ear.
“Where precisely are you referring to when you say thereabouts? By the tracks or on them?”
“Ah … by, sir, by.”
I release my breath.
“O’course he could have been on them at some point, for all we know, but that’s not where he was found.”
Preparing myself to see to the mangled child’s corpse, I inhale and warily look off toward the doors to the morgue, which are just visible from Archer’s office. I release my breath in a huff and mutter my thanks.
“He looks peaceful like he’s sleeping,” Abe says seemingly from far away.
A sudden gush of relief hits me, and I thank the constable again with more sincerity, as though he had himself pulled the child off the tracks just in time.
“A watch, a gent’s scarf pin, a silk pocket square, a handkerchief, and a book were found on his person, chief,” he says, placing a small paper bag and a half-page form on Archer’s desk.
I tap on the frame of the door, and my brother nods grimly at me.
For the next few hours, I take my time examining the body on my table, perhaps more carefully than I would usually perform my coroner duties. The untimely death of someone so young is that much more heart wrenching even if the only experience I’ve had with innocent and untainted humans amounts to playing aunt to Everly—a bio-engineered child.
My subject is roughly eight or nine years old judging from his teeth, though it is hard to tell. The boy’s dentistry shows marked signs of stunted development, probably from malnourishment or prolonged hunger. Another indicator of an insufficient diet is poor finger- and toe-nail health. The distal edge of all his fingernails and toenails are ragged, severely discolored, and crusted with dirt, as are the bed folds all the way around each nail. The nails themselves, however, are all intact.
After removing his well-worn shoes and socks, I cut away his dark brown tweed trousers and jacket and his dingy cotton shirt. I then begin to make a note of each cut and scrape on his thin but childishly muscular form. A dull film of old dirt covers his whole body, but several long and broad bruises on his arms, thighs, and back are visible. Several bruises have surface abrasions as well. His knees and palms are pebbled with deep indentations, and some are bloody. All the recent injuries correspond to scuffs on the clothes.
Gingerly probing the long bones of his arms and legs, I discover both ankles and the femur of the right leg are broken. But so far, there is nothing specific to indicate foul play, and I’m glad of it. I don’t want to have to cut him open.
I step backward and drop onto my stool, my sight boring into the small figure, trying to extract his story. I believe he jumped off a train. It’s possible he was pushed, but evidence supporting that idea will be impossible to find. Like Mr. Gunn, it is likely the boy broke his neck along with his ankles.
“What was your name, hm?” I ask gently, not caring that if anyone were to come in and see me cajoling a corpse, it would look decidedly bad. “You shouldn’t go where you’re going without a name. … You have one, of course. You just can’t tell me what it is. You look like a, uh, Nick, yes. No, a Mick.”
He had dull wavy hair the color of a very old penny covered in eight years of grime. Washed, I was sure it would gleam like aged bronze. His eyes were an earthy green and somewhat sunken in. He had a rounded forehead, chin, and nose, but his cheeks were like small flat plains flanking a hilly landscape.
Swiveling in my seat, I mentally prepare myself to bathe him, which I would have to do to complete my assessment. His guardians might never come for him, but I had to formulate a more definitive conclusion. “I believe” doesn’t work on paper.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
COMPARED TO THE rest of the week, and except for the few short hours I spent in the company of the unnamed dead boy, Thursday was dull. Today has been even less eventful. So uneventful, in fact, that since I arrived at the office, I have been unable to stop myself from dwelling on vain details. How my outfit might fit without the usual padding. How I will style my hair. If anyone will be surprised to see what I look like without my disguise.
I allowed the reverie until midafternoon simply to keep my thoughts from drifting to Vale instead. He looked wonderful—more at peace inside than I’d ever seen him.
It is such a sad attempt because the two sidetracks intertwine (a fact I’ve been avoiding as well): he would be there this evening. When my brain finally stopped skirting around this fact, my stomach began to roil. My palms became clammy. My panicked heart started thumping unforgivingly in my chest and fluttering in my belly. And I felt downright heated and lightheaded. I skipped lunch in hopes of bringing my anxiety to bay. But as I circled back over and over in my mind the horrible realization that I’d not made my preferences known, I could no longer hold back the crashing waves. What if he was seated beside me? Across from me? Next to me would be so much worse than across from me, I decided. Or was it? I chided myself to snap out of it but was only able to tame my ridiculous preoccupations.
I have been thus deliberating for far too long, and there is now a tightness in my upper body that I can’t shake. I glance up at the austere wall clock and scrub the counter with new vigor, reviving silent prayers that something would happen to help me out of this siphoning pit.
The whisper-soft whoosh of the doors, which had been repaired in earnest this time, has me spinning around on my heels in hopeful anticipation. Theo’s following missive is as though a blessing from on high.
“Doc, we’re going in to speak to Dr. Varga, and the chief wants you to observe if you’re available.”
Before installing a one-way mirror, we’d managed to spy into the room by situating lamps on either side of the window to obscure the interviewee’s view through the glass.
“Absolutely.”
“The chief’s waiting for you in his office. But we’ll be in the interview room.”
“Perfect.”
He takes a step toward the door and pauses. “We’ll get started but try to keep our inquiries more casual until you and the chief arrive.”
“Ah,” I say, holding my sudsy, dripping hands aloft in front of me, my elbows bent. “I’ll be there shortly, in less than five minutes.”
“All right, Doc.”
I hurriedly mop up the excess water and suds off the counter, drop the sponge, steel wool, and rag into the sink basin, peel away my second skins, leaving them to deal with later too, dry my arms, and scurry to the back to hang up my smock.
When I enter his office, Archer is idly gazing out of the window onto the street, his hands cradling the back of his head, and one leg is propped on the corner of his desk. His face is a frozen mask, and although he doesn’t move, a sideways glance tells me that he’s aware I am there.
Under normal circumstances, I would subtly wheedle his thoughts from him, but Archer’s right, our new normal might as well be teetering on the edge of our old normal.
“I had already mentioned this evening to Kate, it seems. Though I don’t recall actually inviting her. Anyway, she asked if I would be sending a carriage for her or if she should hire a cab.”
“I see. That complicates things,” I remark, partially thinking of how Kate’s presence tonight would muddle my own plans.
“Not so,” he says with a firm set to his jaw. “Things, or we, have become uncomplicated.” He unfolds himself from his chair and rise
s abruptly to his feet, approaching the door in three long strides. With a single nod toward the interview room and an outstretched hand, he says expressionlessly, “After you.”
I forget that while our time here has chipped away at his stony facade, my brother is really a product of his training, which was intensive from what little I’ve heard of it. He had always been in line to head up the Division. At the age of eighteen, he was assigned his first surveillance team, then at twenty-one, his first investigation. For the next fifteen years, he’d worked up to second-in-command just as it was assumed he would. Over the long process, all of his soft qualities had turned sharp and hard or had been shelved one by one behind a hard exterior. His once wry humor, his infrequent but still loving expressiveness, and his apparent kindness were replaced with a decisive coldness, a measured distance, and an unyielding sense of duty. He allowed himself to become the perfect robot. And yet, at times, when he lets me in, I am stunned by his depth. His words can be unbelievably tender, pulled from mysterious fathom and rising to the surface in rare bubble bursts.
I look up at him and a tight knot forms at my sternum. It hurts more than aches just now, and I realize I have to find a way to forgive him. I need him, perhaps more than I need anyone. Therefore, I stop in the middle of the empty corridor flanking the front desk and sidestep into it. Archer lowers his brows, and I squint back at him. “Damn it, Archer, don’t do that. Not with me. You’re no longer the captain of the goddamned Clarion army,” I say in a strained whisper.
“What?” When I fail to extrapolate right away, he asks again, “Don’t do what?”
“You don’t get it. I said I understood: What you did was not for lack of trust back then, yeah. BUT that’s what it’s about now. Trust. It’s a vicious cycle with you. You don’t want me to read you, but then you make me, and then I come to my own conclusions, which are probably wrong. In other words, just don’t make me. If you ever want us to be okay again, don’t make me study you. I’m so sick and tired of trying to interpret the few signals you let me see before you re-erect your guard. I don’t want you to be someone I gauge. I want you to be someone I can get to know. Be the man who in there somewhere is my brother. I want to like him; really, I do.”
No Time Like the Present Page 22
