The Polka Dot Girl

by Darragh McManus

“Two?”

  “Two, a hit. Someone wanted me dead. This smelled like a professional job, Chief. She was one tough bitch. Even after I’d fired at her, shot out her back window, blown a chunk out of the ass of her car? She didn’t blink. She did her job. She kept her cool and got away.”

  “I thought her job was to kill you.”

  “Which brings me to three. It wasn’t me they were after. What I mean is, they didn’t expect the target to pull a Beretta 950 and hit back. I think maybe this woman thought I was someone else— not a cop, I don’t know what but someone else. Someone unarmed, an easy mark. She made a mistake, went gunning for me, then realized I was gunning for her and got clear. Which, again, suggests a professional. Once she clicked I wasn’t her woman, she adapted to the situation, the altered circumstances, and changed the plan.”

  Etienne shifted her position on the swivel chair, her big bony frame laboring through a strange sort of choreography. She said, “I’m with you. There’s no reason why someone would want to kill a member of the Hera City Police Department.”

  Don’t you just love the nebbish propriety of officialdom? I respected Etienne, even liked her up to a point with her sober sincerity and bad haircut, but the way she gave the full title of the HCPD made me want to laugh for some reason.

  She said, “You clearly weren’t the target, but obviously we don’t have a clue who was. It may or may not be connected to your current investigation. I suppose my advice is, keep it in mind. Store it away for easy access in the future.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “So what now for you?”

  “Now I’m going to talk to forensics about the crime scene, then take a trip down there myself. Maybe question those security guards, though I’m not over-confident they’ll have anything to offer.”

  “Alright.” There was an extended, loaded pause, one of those pauses that are clearing the throat of an awkward impending conversation. “I’ve spoken with Joanne Farrington. I take it she has already briefed you on the Madeleine Greenhill toxicology report?”

  I said warily, “She mentioned it.”

  “She mentioned it. Well, the examination shows that the girl was a heroin user. Farrington estimates for about four months or so: needle marks, bruising, topical infection, the early stages of kidney damage, you know the list.” Another pregnant pause. “I’m…unsure what to do with this information, Auf der Maur. I don’t fully understand why I’m telling you about it. …You know, I presume, who the girl’s mother is?”

  “I spoke to her yesterday and the night of the murder.” “Misericordiae Greenhill is… I’ve known her a long time. I wouldn’t say we’re friends as such, but… I know her. I know what she’s capable of, for good and bad. I would prefer to talk to her about this in private before making any decisions.”

  I nodded and didn’t say diddley. This was way above my paygrade.

  Etienne said, “I’m not talking about burying evidence or any illegal activity. But politics is politics, and if we can make this case without the world and her mother knowing that Greenhill’s daughter was a drug abuser, so much the better. We need to know, but not everybody does. Agreed?”

  I nodded again and said less than diddley. Etienne said, “So we understand each other. Good.” She rose from her chair and slid her long arms into a jacket that looked like it had been marinated in starch. “Sorry, I’ve a meeting with the city prose- cutor in ten minutes. You remember that serial killer case from last winter? The woman’s lawyer is pressing the insanity button like her life depends on it.”

  “Which it does.”

  She gave the kind of smile which suggested that she found what I’d said funny but wasn’t allowed to formally admit that. “Yes, well… You know my attitude to the death penalty. To me it’s barbaric but it’s not up to me. I put my own opinions aside and do my job, as do you. So go on, get out of here and do your job.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  I was at the door when she spoke again. “Auf der Maur?”

  I turned back to Etienne. She smiled once more and said, “I’m glad you weren’t hurt yesterday. I’d hate to lose a good detective like you.”

  I smiled too. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

  Forensics is a funny thing, isn’t it? The whole endeavor seems so inimical to our traditional concepts of police work, and yet how vital and central it is to a successful resolution. Not all the time, but often enough to have earned the lab ladies our esteem and, in those instances when we’re at the end of our tether, when we haven’t got a goddamn clue, our boundless gratitude.

  I joined the Hera City police mainly because I wanted control over my life and my environment; in other words, I wanted to learn how to protect myself and others. That’s what comes with growing up the smallest girl in your class—you’re never allowed to forget that just about everyone can push you around, and at some stage in my teenage years I decided: nobody is pushing me around anymore. I also joined out of a youthful, well-meaning sense of moral righteousness; you know, simply because it was a good thing to do. To dedicate one’s life to the cause of justice, to balancing the horrible imbalances of greed and anger, lust and pettiness.

  It all sounded swell at the time and I still believed in a lot of it, at my core, though idealism and optimism had been worn to a duller sheen by a dozen years of disappointment, ugliness and, especially, repetition. It’s like the thing about sandcastles: you build something up, painstakingly construct a slightly better, nicer, more decent corner of the world, and then whoomp! The waves crash in and wash it away, and the worst thing was, we saw the same waves over and over. People didn’t change, they didn’t act any differently to their forebears; they did the same stupid, selfish, vindictive things as they always did. There were slight variations in the details, that’s all. To paraphrase the tee- shirt slogan, same shit, different case file. But we carry on regardless, building our castles, pitting blind hope against grinding experience, holding on tight to those odd moments of triumph and vindication, those rare bright spots in the blackness where, yeah, good does win out. It happens. Not often, but often enough, just about. I mean, what else are we supposed to do?

  Of course, I also joined the police because I figured it for a life of excitement, variety, camaraderie, maybe even a little danger. Nothing like facing down your demons first thing in the morning. And, not coincidentally, the cops also had the coolest stuff. I’m such a baby, I know. Firearms, powerful cars, body armor, night-vision, bugging devices, all the latest technology, et cetera et cetera… I’m being a little facetious here, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a certain edgy, scary thrill in having a license to carry a weapon. A license to use it.

  All of which brings me back to forensics, who are, to a woman, the antithesis of the gung-ho, thrill-seeking patrol cop, the obsessed detective, the visionary (or delusionary) section chief. The women who work in forensics are methodical, patient and modest. They don’t have grand notions about themselves like many of us dicks do. They don’t feel they have something to prove. They don’t crave excitement or peril. They don’t want a more glamorous existence. They don’t do ego, aggression, ambition or politics. What they do do is a fine job, always professionally and courteously and meticulously. The forensics gals are pure scientists who happen to work in a police department, and we love them.

  I took a sip of coffee and dialed through to the lab complex, which was based in HCPD headquarters uptown—a new, purpose-built construction, bomb-proofed after a demented anarchist with a working knowledge of nitroglycerin went kaboom in the old lobby a few years back. Three cops were killed, two admin staff and a lady surprising her daughter by bringing a packed lunch to her workplace. I knew one of the cops; we’d trained together. What a weird experience it was to attend her funeral: the shining coffin, the forlorn bugle call, the rifle volley in salute to a fallen comrade. She had a daughter, too, an angelic little blonde who thankfully was too young to fully understand.

  Besides forensics, HQ also housed m
ost of the HCPD brass, records and accounting, press center, technological research, weapons training and the emergency response command center, among other things. It was a truly dynamic place, bustling, sparkling with energy, although I didn’t especially yearn to work there. I liked to visit but I liked where I was more. Besides, Detectives Division was housed in one of Hera’s oldest and most beautiful buildings, a six-story Art Deco masterpiece which had once been the personal palace of an industrialist who dedicated the first half of her life to accumulating a fortune and the second half to blowing it on booze and gambling. The city purchased the building 20 years ago, moving the dipsomaniac ludomaniac out and moving the dicks in.

  “Forensics.”

  “This is Auf der Maur, Homicide. Is that you, Leigh?” “Hi, Genie. Good to hear from you. It’s been a while.”

  “It has that. Listen, I’m calling about the Madeleine Greenhill crime scene. Case number one-one-four-three-dash-six-two-forward-slash-D-for-Doris.”

  “Sure. Just lemme pull that up here on screen… Okaaay… We did a full sweep of the area two nights ago, as you know. Found very little, unfortunately. Obviously nothing on the victim, or nothing we can use. The water would’ve washed off any hair, skin flakes, fibers, you know. Our dredge of the riverbed provided zip. It’s like a sewer down there anyway. One of the divers actually got a skin rash from the water. Anyway, I can tell I don’t have your sympathy so we’ll move swiftly along.”

  I laughed and said, “Please do.”

  Leigh continued, “We did find a few potentially interesting little bits and pieces on dry land. First: slivers of steel about ten yards from the pier nearest to where the body was floating. That’s…yeah, Pier 22. I say slivers, they were more like flakes. Very small but we spotted ’em. ’Cause that’s what we do, she said proudly.”

  “And what’s the significance? I mean, it’s a docks. Place has to be full of metal containers and whatever.”

  “These were different. We analyzed them—tempered steel. Not your average everyday iron, which is what you’re thinking of. May be nothing, may be something, but they didn’t come from the immediate vicinity. Also: prints, a few feet from the metal flakes. Dug into a thin layer of mud so we know they’re fresh. Don’t match the victim’s sandals or the prostitute’s shoes. We reckon boots. Heavy, industrial. Maybe work boots, like for a building site or something? Deep ridges on the sole, probably made from some form of plastic or hardened synthetic rubber.”

  I had a feeling that this was about the sum total of it. “Anything else?”

  “The girl’s second sandal. We found that washed up on the other side of the harbor, the pier directly opposite. Figure she went in wearing both and that one came loose, floated back up. It was slapping against the struts, you know, the wooden pylons? Just floating there so we grabbed it.”

  Just floating there. I pictured Madeleine’s corpse bobbing on the water, her ungodly-pale complexion, her dress billowing, her hair wafting about her face like plant tendrils, and actually shuddered, an unholy chill running up and down my spine. Death is a creepy thing and murder is creepier still.

  Something struck me then. I said, “Hey, do you guys have any thoughts on how Madeleine’s body came back to the surface? I mean, I assume she was weighted down.”

  “She sure was. The damage to her face, you don’t get that near the surface. That’s the beasts of the murky deep you’re talking about. To be honest, we don’t know for certain how the killer weighted the body. Trisha—you know Trisha, right? Anyway, she reckons it was your standard rope-and-concrete-block deal. Which would bring the girl down to the bottom, but there’s always the possibility that the knots will come loose. Didn’t seem to be any definite rope marks, but I guess that’s more the coroner ’s field of expertise than ours, huh?”

  “Yeah… Okay, that should do it. Thanks, Leigh. A font of knowledge, as always.”

  “You’re welcome. How are you, anyway?”

  “I’m alright. Never mind how am I, how are you? Still with the lovely Elenora?”

  Leigh laughed. “Yeah, still driving each other crazy. Hey, how’s Odette? Give her a big hello from me, okay?”

  I didn’t bother telling her about Odette. She was just making small talk, being nice. My problems weren’t Leigh’s problem. I said, “Will do, Leigh. Adios, chica”, and hung up the phone.

  Chapter 7

  Madeleine

  I WENT to the canteen and bought coffee and a bagel, warm and smothered in cream cheese, found a large table under a window and spread out each one of Hera’s newspapers before me. The murder dominated the front pages of all the morning dailies. Some of the previous evening’s papers had run the story, without many of the details, as the fourth estate played run-around with chronology and our department’s deliberate obfuscation. We were playing this one nice and close, what with the characters involved; but things leak, information wriggles out of our control, people say stuff they shouldn’t to people they shouldn’t, and by this morning the basic facts of the case were known by anyone with the money to purchase a copy or the good graces of a friend to loan theirs.

  The upmarket broadsheets told the story in a stately, dignified way: “Police to investigate murder of Greenhill heir ”, “Body of Madeleine Greenhill discovered”, “Scion of city’s most famous family found dead.” The tabloids took their customary robust and insensitive tack, reducing the complexities of a tragic situation to blunt slogans-for-morons in huge letters: “Misery for Misery after brutal slaying”; “Mad bashed to death in sleazy docks.” One even went with the pithy, but surprisingly lyrical, “Murder most foul!” You had to love them. The only folks in the whole of Hera not cowed by and frightened of Misericordiae were also among the most disreputable. They were amoral, atavistic, vulgar, even borderline criminals sometimes, but goddamn it if they didn’t have guts.

  There were a few quotes from the Mayor, prominent city councilors, Chief of Police Irene Ealing—media interaction in this case stopped with her. I was under orders not to even breathe in the general direction of a reporter. Anything the press needed to know came through Ealing’s office, and she would decide exactly what it was that they needed to know. In short, very little.

  Some cream cheese oozed from the bagel, onto page three of the Hera Investigator—that really is its name—which had a picture of Madeleine, taken at some social function or other, next to an op-ed piece which screamed at readers, “Hera going to hell in a handcart: if a Greenhill can be murdered, who is next!?” The cheese had landed right on Madeleine’s face and was congealing there, ugly and clotted, turning the color of death. Ugh. Too much like the real thing, that poor girl destroyed, first her life and then her beauty.

  I pulled the page free and crumpled it up, then changed my mind and decided to have a proper look at the picture. I wiped it sort of clean with a tissue and studied it. Madeleine was wearing a stunning sequined dress. She looked so young; she was so young. Behind her stood five or six other women, some in cocktail dresses, some in long-tailed tuxedos matched with stovepipe hats and pointed boots. At the rear of the group stood a tall girl, a little older than Madeleine, slightly stoop-shouldered as if she was self-conscious about her height. The photograph was blown up too big, almost pixelated, the finer details blurred into oblivion, but even so, there was something about that girl, something in that sly smile: a kind of intrigue, an ambiguity, a whispered mystery…

  I mentally slapped myself in the face and said, Get a grip, for Christ’s sake. You’re not profound, you’re just lonely and probably horny. I could feel my cheeks redden in private embar- rassment. I did what I’d intended to do originally, scrunching up the page and tossing it in a wastebasket as I returned to my desk. And there, waiting on that desk, was another of those buff- colored envelopes, again with the neat handwriting: “Detective Eugenie Auf der Maur, Homicide Division.” This time, though, there was no directive about strict privacy. I guess Misery figured, how private can a high-profile murder case really be,
anyway?

  The dockside security guards could wait. I spread the three thin, stapled documents out in front of me. Document one: Madeleine’s KAs for the two years before her death. Document two: Madeleine’s favorite bars, clubs, restaurants, theaters, all that. Document three: Madeleine’s life in précis. Jesus, her mother was a meticulous woman. And thank goodness for that.

  I started with the last one and read backwards for an hour and a half. Almost immediately I was feeling sorry for her, sorry enough to send up a promise to heaven: I’ll get the fucker for you, Madeleine. It’s the least you deserve. I felt sorry for her because she never really had a chance of being a normal girl, and I had a hunch that, underneath the wildness and kinky glamour and tang of scandal, that’s exactly what she was. She was the kid who had everything but nothing she wanted or needed. She grew up under the intolerable pressure of being Misericordiae Greenhill’s daughter, a position neither volunteered for nor desired. How could you not go nuts with a childhood like that, staggering under the massive weight of dead generations and ridiculous wealth and old stone and always, always the expecta- tions of your mother and your city and yourself? Being a Greenhill meant you were someone, but maybe Madeleine didn’t want to be someone; maybe she just wanted to be herself.

  Of course, none of this was spelled out in Misery’s synopsis. She gave me facts and I surmised, I inferred, I probably projected a little, if I’m being honest. But it felt true, my analysis of Madeleine’s life and who she was, like I had cut through to the heart of her. It felt like I knew her, and I knew I liked her.

  Madeleine was born exactly 20 years and ten months before the day she died. Educated at home between the ages of six and ten, by private tutors and no doubt Old Misery herself, then St Severa’s Boarding School until 17. Showed an early aptitude for sports—hockey, volleyball, archery—and also science and literature, but never really followed through with any of them. Briefly suffered from an eating disorder in her mid-teens, like many girls of that age. Was considered quite religious by her school, though never any suggestion of taking orders. Studied piano aged 17: enter Odette to the drama, stage left. Graduated St Severa’s with honors aged 18 and enrolled in an exclusive third-level college, the LaVey Institute, to study Comparative Religion. Dropped out after less than six months and returned home, I’m guessing to a welcome about as warm as a polar bear ’s ass.