The Chalk Girl km-10

by Carol O'Connell

  He had lost his music.

  ELEVEN

  Phoebe thinks Willy Fallon’s body looks like the exoskeleton of an ant. And Willy is quick like a bug, but I say no. I see her as Spider Girl. I see Willy in my dreams, a pinhead atop eight long legs, scuttling across my bedroom floor in the dark of night. And this image of her stays with me all through the day. Every day.

  —Ernest Nadler

  CSU investigators worked in the deep green shade of the Ramble, policing the ground around one of the hanging trees. They placed small yellow cones to mark the sites of found gum wrappers and cigarette butts. They had already removed a slew of rats shot dead by police officers. Every bullet spent had required a ballistics test and paperwork.

  ‘Damn cops,’ said a CSI, who concentrated on the holes in the bark of a tree, the only holes not made by gun-happy rat killers.

  They all looked up from their work when a park ranger called out to them, ‘We found another one!’ The team of men and women followed him across Tupelo Meadow and into the woods. The ranger stopped and pointed upward. ‘Wait till the wind comes up.’ And now a mass of leaves waved aside to expose a green sack hanging from a high tree branch, well hidden from the flashlights of last night’s searchers. It was a rare thing to arrive ahead of police and rescue workers, who contaminated every crime scene.

  All eyes were on the team’s newest member, CSI John Pollard, a small, well-muscled young man, who spent his free time mountain climbing. A tree should be easy. It was. Within a few minutes, he had made his way up through the leafy boughs and clouds of gnats to reach the burlap sack and its bulging load. On the ground, other CSIs gathered round the trunk, waiting for him to release the victim into their hands. But first, a nature photograph – click – a pristine shot of the branch untouched by ham-handed detectives. His fingers explored the outside of the sack. Its contents were stiff, unyielding.

  No sign of life. No need to hurry.

  He used a screwdriver to leverage the rope along the bough by a bare inch for one more shot. Click. There were no ruts or burns in the bark. The bagged victim had not been hauled up here by this rope. He found the loose end of it neatly coiled in a fork of the tree. Before he let the coil fall down to unravel into waiting hands – click – a picture of the slipknot that held the sack in place.

  The rope dropped, and two CSIs pulled on it. The slipknot came loose, and the sack was quickly lowered through the tree limbs. As John Pollard climbed down, his eyes turned toward the ground, where his teammates were cutting into the burlap to preserve the rope’s closing knot, and he had a glimpse of jet-black hair and naked flesh – a woman.

  Wilhelmina Fallon stirred after she felt the hands probing her. She came awake to pain in every joint of her body. Then came the elevator sensation of going down and down. Finally, she lay on solid ground and felt a breeze blow across her bare body as the rough material was pulled away. Pairs of hands worked on the ropes at her wrists and ankles, then wadding was plucked from her ears, and a stranger’s voice said, ‘It looks like wax.’ Another voice said, ‘Bag it.’

  Ah, now she could hear – but she could not see, nor could she speak.

  A lone hand touched her throat, and fingers pressed down hard. A woman called out, ‘I got a pulse!’

  ‘No, don’t touch that tape,’ said a man. ‘If she’s dehydrated like the others, you’ll peel the skin off her face.’

  Others?

  ‘Wait for the paramedics!’

  ‘Here they come!’

  Sirens. She heard sirens, running feet, and a new voice said, ‘Oh, sweet Jesus.’

  One arm was pricked with a needle.

  ‘Nod if you can hear me,’ said a woman close by.

  And Willy Fallon nodded.

  ‘Lady, I’m gonna cut a small hole in that tape across your mouth. Then I can insert a tube with water, okay?’

  Willy nodded again. Oh, yes. Yes! Her mouth was flooded with a thin stream of cool water, and she swallowed, greedy for it, choking on it. She was alive.

  Heller had always resented his promotion to commander of Crime Scene Unit – a damn desk job – and so he was a common sight in the field, observing his people at work. He stood beneath the newly discovered hanging tree, and he was pleased, but not because the latest victim had survived. This was the only pristine crime scene for the Hunger Artist. He turned to the man beside him. ‘Did you notify Mallory and Riker?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the park ranger. ‘They didn’t even ask where the tree was. They just wanted the name of the hospital.’

  ‘Good.’ His technicians would have ample time to work the scene without those two underfoot, though the detectives could have done nothing to ruin his good mood. On the contrary, he planned to dampen their day. When he explained the mechanics of the crime, it was going to drive them both nuts. This thought put Heller in such rare high spirits he nearly smiled.

  Like the other hanging trees, this one also had two screw holes drilled into the trunk just above the roots. He looked up into the thick leaves as he spoke to a veteran CSI. ‘What about marks on the branch?’

  ‘No rope burns on this one,’ said the woman. ‘John got pictures.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Heller, ‘cut out the screw holes.’

  An appalled park ranger watched the CSU team cut a circular core sample from the tree trunk. ‘Why such a big chunk? That’s a lot of damage.’

  Heller could have explained that he needed both screw holes in one piece of wood for tests and court evidence. Instead, he brushed his face, as if a bug had landed there, and the ranger took his meaning. There were no more protests from the tree lover when the team decided to saw off a branch as well.

  Over the next hour, more equipment arrived. With a nod to the techs combing the ground around the tree, Heller made his way across a clearing to the site of an experiment. There he found his new CSI, John Pollard, a corn-fed boy from Ohio, experienced and solid on science. The only flaw in the youngster’s résumé was the civilian status; he was a tourist in cop culture. Pollard had finished the last of three test runs, and now he loaded his equipment onto a hand truck outfitted with two oddball tires, a brand of inflatables to match tread marks found yesterday – one of the few bits of evidence they had not read about in the Times.

  ‘How’d it go, John?’

  ‘Very smooth, sir. But God knows there’s gotta be easier ways to kill people.’

  One eyelid was pulled back, and Wilhelmina Fallon stared into a brilliant white light. She heard a small mechanical click, and darkness followed. As she drifted in and out of sleep, words were caught in snatches at first, and now whole sentences floated back and forth across her bed. She recognized the doctor’s voice when he said, ‘The sedative’s wearing off. Don’t expect much. She was hit on the back of the skull. The concussion wiped ten or fifteen minutes of memory.’

  ‘That’s three for three,’ said the voice of a woman.

  And the doctor said, ‘Pardon?’

  Another stranger, this one a man, said, ‘Three bop-and-drops. Blows to the back of the head.’

  ‘Gotta go. Don’t stay long, okay?’ A door closed on the departing doctor.

  The strangers’ voices remained in the room. The door opened again, and feet walked in. There was no need to open her eyes. By their conversation, Willy knew all three of them were cops. She could even sort out the ranks by the deference the new voice paid to the other two. She ignored them, slowly waking to an inventory of soreness and pain from shoulders to ankles.

  Now she recognized the new voice. After the tape had been removed from her eyes and mouth, this policeman had taken her statement in the emergency room. He was answering a question for the other two cops, saying, ‘Naw, she’s fine. That tube in her arm isn’t feeding her meds. It’s for vitamins.’

  ‘Christ,’ said the other man. ‘It looks like she’s been starved for a week.’

  And this one must be a detective.

  ‘No, sir,’ said the man with lower rank. ‘More lik
e twenty-four hours, give or take. She could remember a TV show from yesterday. Must’ve been on the skinny side before she got strung up in the Ramble. Starvation chic. That’s what the ER doc called it. Your vic was naked when they cut her down. No ID yet.’

  And the female detective said, ‘You didn’t get a name while she was conscious?’

  ‘No, ma’am. She started screaming. That went on for a while before they sedated her.’

  ‘So the lady was in a lot of pain?’ asked the other detective.

  ‘No, sir. I think the doc knocked her out for being a bitch. It was that kind of screaming.’

  Willy repressed a smile. Just above her, she could smell stale tobacco trapped in clothing when the male detective leaned over her and said, ‘Hey, Mallory, didn’t this woman used to be somebody?’

  Bastard.

  ‘Society pages,’ said the one called Mallory, moving closer. On the other side of the bed, a discreet trace of very good perfume warred with the tobacco smell of the man. ‘But mostly tabloids.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said the other detective. ‘Willy Fallon, party girl and queen of drug rehab. Doesn’t look so good now, does she?’

  Oh, really? Willy’s eyes opened by slits, and one hand snaked out from beneath the sheet to grab the man’s crotch. With his soft parts firmly in hand, she administered a light, threatening squeeze, a warning not to move – not to breathe. Her voice was hoarse when she asked, ‘What’s your name?’

  He looked so surprised. They always did. This one had the classic frozen stance for hostage testicles. ‘Lady, don’t do it.’

  ‘He’s a cop,’ said the woman. ‘Let go of him. Now!’

  Willy turned her head on the pillow to see a tall green-eyed blonde. She glared at the woman’s linen blazer. ‘Either you stole that from my closet . . . or we have the same tailor.’ Oh, shit. It looked better on the cop.

  And now – another surprise.

  The blonde snatched up Willy’s free hand and bent back the fingers to bring on sudden pain, the kind that came with bright points of light, with shock and awe and the patient’s agonized scream of ‘You fucking bitch!’ The man’s testicles were freed as the blonde’s silently implied condition of ending the torture. But Willy was still yelling obscenities after her wounded hand had been released.

  The cop called Mallory pulled a notebook from the back pocket of her superb designer jeans. Pen to the open page, her words were frosty when she said, ‘So, Miss Fallon, now that you’re awake—’

  ‘You bitch! You cunt!’

  ‘—can you think of anyone who might want you dead?’

  ‘I can make you wish you were never born!’

  The man pulled back Mallory’s blazer to expose a gun in a shoulder holster. ‘My partner can shoot you,’ he said. ‘She wins. Now answer the damn question.’

  The blonde seemed almost bored when she asked again, ‘Who wants you dead?’

  ‘Tough one, huh?’ The man smiled. ‘Just give us your top ten.’

  The patient recited an automatic response, a phrase oft repeated on the occasions of drunk driving and possession of recreational drugs. When she was done, the detectives could only stare at her, and the uniformed officer said, ‘Huh?’ This was the first time these words had elicited any surprise from the police.

  Willy raised herself up on one elbow. ‘Didn’t you hear me, you morons? I’m invoking my right to remain silent. No more questions till my lawyer shows up.’

  The male detective answered his cell phone, said ‘Yeah?’ and then turned to his partner. ‘Heller’s got something.’

  The detectives quit the room, trailed out the door by the cop in uniform.

  Well, that was easy.

  Willy reached for the device that hung from her bedstead. So familiar from her days in drug-rehab facilities, this was a remote control for running nurses until they dropped. Oh, but first she must call a lawyer. Yes, that was rule one, impressed upon her when she was child – when her parents still cared if she lived or died.

  What the hell was the name of that stupid assistant district attorney? Had she ever called him by his right name? No. When she was thirteen years old, she had alternated between Bowtie Boy and You Jerk.

  TWELVE

  Phoebe and I are always the first ones into the dining hall. When the doors open, we run like crazy so we can grab chairs at the end of a corner table, a safe place with two walls at our backs. We call it the Fox Hole. Everyone else calls it the Losers’ Table. Even losers new to the school know to come here. They see kids in glasses or braces, the lumpy, shapeless ones and the pencil-shaped uncool, and every loser says to himself – These are my people.

  Toby Wilder walks in. Phoebe’s eyes shine. And there are other girls with shiny eyes, here and there, all around the room. He definitely has power over women – but he doesn’t care. Toby sits down to lunch in his Fortress of Silence. Everyone wants to hang with this kid, but no one bothers him. Phoebe and I watch him from the Fox Hole. We all know our places.

  —Ernest Nadler

  The private office of the man who ran Crime Scene Unit was a cluttered repository of weird dead things in glass jars and catalogues of arcane knowledge. Riker and Mallory had been kept waiting – and wondering how much trouble they were in – and how were they going to dig their way out?

  Heller lumbered into his office and glared at each detective in turn. Sizing their necks for nooses? No hellos were offered. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a photograph of two holes in tree bark. ‘This is what we started out with. Screw holes in trees . . . after we read about the trees in the newspaper.’

  Apparently all was not forgiven. Riker turned his head toward the sound of squeaky wheels. The new hire, CSI John Pollard, entered the room, pushing a hand truck that fit Coco’s loose description of a delivery man’s dolly. The long struts of the handle extended up from a square of metal between two wheels. A large cardboard carton sat on this low platform, held in place by buckled straps.

  ‘That box holds a simulation of the murder kit,’ said Heller. ‘My guy’s the same weight as the heaviest victim. John, sit on the box.’ The CSI perched tailor-fashion on top of the carton, and his boss secured him to the dolly with straps. ‘Now you got a rolling weight of just under two hundred pounds.’

  Riker eyed the hand truck with its load of box and man. ‘Could a woman move that thing?’

  ‘One way to find out.’ Heller turned to Mallory. ‘Give it a shot.’ And then he walked out the door, unconcerned that this might give her a hernia.

  She tipped back the hand truck and wheeled the carton with the ride-along CSI out of the office and down the hall. If this caused her any strain, Riker saw no sign of it. They entered a room of bare walls and a clean, steel table. This was a thinking-man’s lab with no visual distractions – and no noise. Heller could gut detectives in here all day long, and no one would hear the screams.

  John Pollard, freed from his bindings, began to unload the carton, and Riker shook his head – no, no, no! – as a jumble of equipment accumulated on the long table: a bag of screws, a cordless drill, a metal plate, a socket wrench, a pulley – and a winch? Attached to the winch cable was a heavy-duty hook used for towing cars and trailers. Two battery leads extended from its back end, and now – Christ Almighty – a car battery was set on the table. ‘What’s with all this crap? Our perp used a rope to hang the sacks. We gave it to you. We even saved you the knots.’

  CSI Pollard leaned down to retrieve a bagged coil from the carton. ‘This is one of the ropes from the crime scenes. But the Hunger Artist used a winch cable to lift those bodies into the trees.’

  Heller laid a photograph on the table. It was a close-up shot of a branch. ‘You see those marks? Those are imprints from a chain used to hang this.’ He picked up an open-sided pulley. ‘Your perp threaded one of these with a winch cable.’

  John Pollard rested one hand on the winch. ‘This model can pull a rolling weight of five thousand pounds – cars, boats. It wasn’t
designed to lift anything, but we tested this one in the park.’ He touched the two red battery leads. ‘These hook up to any twelve-volt.’ He nodded to the car battery at the other end of the table. ‘I’m guessing the Hunger Artist would pick the lightest brand. That one weighs thirty-five pounds.’

  Mallory folded her arms, clearly not buying any of this. ‘There’s no good reason why a perp would make this so complicated.’

  ‘I don’t care about why,’ said Heller. ‘We’re telling you how he did it.’ He bent down to the carton, pulled out a six-inch length of branch in a clear plastic bag. ‘Here’s the damn tree, Mallory. Look at it. Chain-link impressions – just what you’d expect from holding dead weight. No sign of burn or drag. The rope only held the sack in place. It didn’t pull anything over this branch. A pulley and a winch lifted the body straight up. That’s the only scenario the evidence can support.’

  ‘The Hunger Artist put a lot of thought into this,’ said CSI Pollard. ‘In fact, he over thought everything, every possible problem. In all three trees, the sacks were tied off on a high branch. If this guy hauled the victims up with a rope and used his own body as a counterweight, he couldn’t even climb the—’

  ‘So that’s where the winch comes in,’ said Riker. A second rope would have neatly solved the problem, but he only wanted to end the windy lecture – before Mallory did.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Pollard in a tone reserved for rewarding small children and pissing off homicide detectives.

  ‘No,’ said Mallory. ‘Doing it this way, the perp would be out in the woods all night.’

  ‘Wrong.’ Smiling and smug, Pollard held up the cordless drill and clipped in the socket wrench. ‘I bolted a winch mount to a tree in ten seconds. Then I connected the battery to the winch, lifted a weighted sack, climbed up and tied it off with the rope.’ Pollard picked up the remote control. ‘I loosened the cable with this. Then I unlocked the chain, and the pulley dropped to the ground. I climbed down in one minute flat – removed the winch’s mount plate – another ten seconds. Start to finish, seven minutes was my best time. It only looks like the Hunger Artist did it the hard way. This is actually the fastest, easiest way.’