The Polka Dot Girl

by Darragh McManus

  “I thought you didn’t know her very well.”

  “Did I say that? Yes, well, my staff and I talk about the girls, as one might expect. It is my business to know about each and every one of my students. And, I may add, my pleasure.”

  I nodded. I had a feeling—it was more than a feeling, it was a full-on certainty—that LaVey was keeping things back from me. She knew more about Madeleine than she let on, and that pissed me off almost as much as the fact that I was gazing up at her from my sunken seat. Time to take an aggressive tack. Time to stand up, metaphorically and literally.

  I pushed myself out of the armchair and said, “You realize that withholding information from me is as serious an offense as lying outright. You do know that, right?”

  She didn’t even bother to pretend to look shocked. “Withhold? Detective, please. What possible reason could I have to withhold anything? I am a mere educator. Madeleine was one of my students, albeit briefly. Our stars were aligned momentarily and then we floated apart once more.”

  Was this woman for real? I fought the urge to violently puke across the whole length of the desk as she said, “That’s all I can tell you, because that’s all I know. But I’m sure her former class- mates will have their own perspective on the child.”

  I gathered my things and said, “I’m sure you’re sure. If anything else comes to mind, be sure to let me know. And I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again real soon, Ms LaVey.”

  Having left my new best friend something small to chew over, I turned on my heel and exited. Next stop: the dormitories. It probably seems a bit odd for third year students like Bethany Gilbert and Mary-Jane Tussing to still use on-campus accommodation, but apparently that was the way they did things in this freaky-deaky little institution. Azura exhorted “her girls” to fully immerse themselves in the LaVey way, to live the life as well as study the prescribed material, to actually “experience” their education and not just soak it up from books and the words of lecturers. Ugh, creepy. Sounded like a cult or something.

  Outside in the afternoon sunshine I stopped a student, a chubby, pretty thing with a disarming smile, and asked for direc- tions to Minerva House. She pointed me towards an ivy- encrusted building across a quadrangle. As I crossed the campus to the senior dorms, I remembered my own educational adven- tures as part of my HCPD training. The Department encouraged all the girls to continue their academic pursuits, though it wasn’t mandatory. So I took a diploma in, believe this if you will, Philosophy and Modern Art. I couldn’t wait to leave the recruit dorms after the compulsory first 12 months for my own pad— even a tiny coldwater fleapit with a shared bathroom meant so much to me at 19. I love my mother, we always got on just fine; I had a nice, uneventful childhood. And yet I never countenanced moving back in with her when I had the choice: I plumped for independence, the edgy challenge of taking care of yourself. Maybe it’s because I was so small and thus felt the urge to make my own mark, to step confidently and assertively into the world.

  And maybe it’s because, while I’m sociable enough, I also like my own space, both material and psychological. Since I passed the first year I’ve always lived alone, except for those three-and- a-half years with Odette. Was it really so long? That time has become compressed in my memory, a blur of an eye-blink in the narrative of all our histories. And, I suppose, that’s all it ever was.

  I had contacted the college administration from my office, telling them to find the two girls and have them wait for me in their rooms. I thought about pumping each individually first, see how we got on, then maybe bringing them together and trying to engineer an interesting chemical reaction. And talk about a reaction: as I peeked my head inside Bethany Gilbert’s room, the first I met along the corner, I was greeted with this: “’Bout fucking time. What do you cops use for clocks, a fucking sundial?”

  I raised my eyebrows in a passable approximation of an affronted authority figure. Gilbert was sitting cross-legged on her bed. She had a strong working-class accent which she’d striven to soften but clearly came to the surface during times of stress. The girl was plump and sulky, her body swathed in layers of dark fabrics, her eyes smudged in kohl. She looked and acted like an overgrown toddler who’s just had her dummy taken away.

  I said, “The benefits of a LaVey education obviously don’t extend to vocabulary or manners. Swear at me one more time and I’ll haul your ass downtown.”

  I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but her face got even sulkier. I half-expected Gilbert to start squalling and throwing her things about the room…though in this mess, it’d be pretty difficult to tell any difference. She reached for a coke, snapped it open and chugged down half in one smooth movement. At least she didn’t finish with a belch.

  “My name is Detective Auf der Maur,” I said. “I’m investi- gating the murder of Madeleine Greenhill. You were her friend, correct? Look at me while I’m talking to you, Bethany.”

  She grudgingly graced me with a glance and said nothing. I said, “Okay, now answer my question.”

  “Yes, alright, alright. We were friends, sort of. I mean, I don’t know, we weren’t bosom buddies or anything. I knew her when she was here, that’s all.”

  “I have information that you two remained good pals. You hung out together, went drinking, whatever. Come on Bethany, she only died a few days ago. Surely you haven’t forgotten Madeleine already?”

  She sighed, deflated, like she knew she’d lost—which she had.

  Ego and youthful boldness are no match for the power of the badge.

  Gilbert said, “Yeah, we hung out. Sure. Madeleine always had lots of money and she didn’t mind spreading it around.”

  “And you didn’t mind taking it.”

  She flashed me an angry look. “Well, what the hell would you have done? My mom isn’t rich, okay? I got here on a scholarship. Ain’t I entitled to a few nights out? Don’t I get to have fun?

  …Yeah, I used Madeleine for money. And she used me right back.”

  “How so?”

  “Company. Someone to get liquored up with. Go places with her. You know, clubs and shit like that. She didn’t have many friends. Real friends, I mean.”

  I felt she was giving it to me straight, and I felt that pang of empathy for Madeleine once more. The poor little rich girl. What an awful cliché, but that didn’t make it any less real for her, or any less painful and pathetic. And weirdly, I also felt sad for Misery at that moment. The ogre of Hera City, the woman with an iron fist and a heart of cold stone, the dangerous dictator you dared not cross…and the mother who loved her child as fiercely as every other woman and now was bereft, amputated, an actual part of her body and spirit, the most vital part, torn out and destroyed. Right then I didn’t give a damn what kind of woman Misericordiae Greenhill had been and probably still was; I just wanted to find her daughter ’s killer, for her sake and the girl’s and mine and everybody’s.

  “Did she have any?” I asked. “What? Real friends?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “I don’t know… Maybe. There was one girl she seemed real sweet on. I don’t mean sweet like that, you know, sexually. Madeleine was just fond of her, I think. She used to talk about her a lot. Like they were soul-mates, that kinda nonsense, but Madeleine was naïve like that. She believed in all that sugary crap. In happy endings.”

  Poor you, Madeleine. Poor hopeful child. I said, “Did you know this other girl?”

  “Sure. Virginia something. I met her a few times. She was alright. But a fucking flake, too, like Madeleine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to swear.”

  Hello, stranger. I mentally moved Virginia Newman up another notch or two on my list and continued: “Where did you two like to go? You and Madeleine. Where did you go partying?” “I dunno. Different places. Clubs. Bars. What, are you looking for names?”

  “Yes, Bethany, I’m looking for names.”

  She sighed again, like this was the most difficult thing anyone had ever been asked to do in the history of the world. “Uh�
��let’s see. Uh, Xanadu. That’s a club off Pasiphaë. The western end of it. Reaper ’s. Bush Babies. Hasta la Vista. That… Uh, shit, where else? Musique Drum. That’s a really cool place. I don’t know, lots of places. Madeleine liked anywhere, really. She didn’t care. So long as there was booze and someone to drink it with.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Categorically no, and that’s totally sincere. Not in front of me, anyway. I can’t stand drugs, never did ’em. My aunt died of that crap. Madeleine, I don’t know what she did, but definitely not when I was there. She liked to gamble, though. And she slept around some. Not, like, a total slut? But she had her fair share of good times in the sack. Not with me, ever, in case you’re thinking.”

  “When did you last see Madeleine alive?”

  “Not for a while. Two months, maybe. We drifted apart, you know? Like, uh, we were like two stars crossing in the night sky and then, uh, we drifted apart.”

  I nodded. “Funny. That’s almost exactly the same way as your Azura LaVey phrased it.”

  Gilbert shrugged. “Is it? I wouldn’t… I don’t know about what she said.”

  I moved towards the door. Gilbert called out to me: “Listen, Detective. You won’t say anything to Madam LaVey about all this, will you? I don’t mean Madeleine, I mean the drinking and nightclubs and stuff. We’re not… She doesn’t encourage us to abuse alcohol or, uh, hang out in seedy places. Not that, you know, we can do whatever we like, it’s not a prison here. I just… I don’t wanna get her annoyed about nothing, yeah?”

  I tilted my chin at her in a non-committal way and strolled down the hallway to Mary-Jane Tussing’s quarters. She was sitting at the desk in a cheery, neatly kept room, reading a book which looked very old, very expensive and very difficult. On first instinct it seemed a pose to me: the dutiful student ready and willing to help the authorities with their enquiries. First instinct was reinforced by the too-bright smile and over-eager way she leaped from her chair and crossed the room to shake my hand, saying, “Detective Auf der Maur, isn’t it? Mary-Jane Tussing, but call me May-Jay, everybody does. Please, come in.” Whereas Gilbert was blunt and crude but easy enough to read, Tussing did a subtle, clever impersonation of a polite and helpful person, but was actually a slippery character. There was something fake about her, and I picked up on it almost instantly. She was too slick in her manner, too mature and confident, like an advertising executive crafting the persona of a 20-year-old college kid: all the research had been carried out, objectives identified, strategy formulated. Now all that remained was a willing sucker to buy the product, and I was damned if I’d be that sucker.

  I made a point of not using that cutesy nickname May-Jay like “everybody does”, but said instead, “Ms Tussing, when did you last see Madeleine Greenhill alive?”

  “Ooh…let’s see. Four—no, three weeks ago. I met her at the Players Play On Theater uptown. I was attending a production of Lady Gregory. Do you know the place?”

  Smarmy little shit. Yes, Mary-Jane, us pigs manage to drag ourselves away from the trough once in a while to experience some culture. In fact, I had meant to catch that play myself. Anyway, on we go. I ignored her provocative question and said, “And? How did she seem to you?”

  “Oh, the usual.” She smirked, then assumed an expression of pained regret. “Madeleine. Poor Madeleine. Wasn’t it awful? How could somebody do that to another woman?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. What do you mean ‘the usual?’”

  “Well, I don’t like to tell tales out of school… She was a little, you know—a little drunk. And she was with a girl, I’m sure she was perfectly nice, but she looked…”

  There was a flat pause. I said impatiently, “Looked what?” “Well…” Tussing lowered her eyes and voice simultaneously.

  “Like a hooker. Not a streetwalker—that’s the correct term, isn’t it? Not one of those. More ‘high-class’, I suppose you’d say.”

  “Describe her to me. This so-called looked like a hooker.” “Tall, good figure, wavy blonde hair. Very beautiful. That’s why I don’t believe she was a street girl. I mean, she was a knockout. I bet she could charge just about anything she wanted. I’m sorry, where are my manners? Would you like some tea? Coffee?”

  I waved my hand “no.” Tussing wasn’t exactly a “knockout” herself, but she was a pretty attractive girl. She had a nice figure, slim but shapely, and the curve of her upper thigh made the fabric of her trousers kick out in a way that would be pleasing to many, though probably not to Tussing herself.

  I pressed on: “You hung out with Madeleine a lot. Is there anything you can think of, anyone you remember, maybe someone you guys met in a bar some night, someone who sticks out?”

  “Oh…I don’t know. I didn’t actually know Madeleine all that well, really. We hadn’t met in a long time.” “Except for the Lady Gregory play.”

  “Yes, right. Except for that. We used to… I mean, this is going back a while, Detective.” She laughed prettily. I knew she was holding out on me but held back myself on calling her on it. “Yes, we used to be friends, a while back. But really, I haven’t partied with Madeleine in a long time. I don’t actually drink at all anymore, as it happens.”

  “Good for you. Mens sana in corpore sano.” Then I took a flier: “But I have it on good authority that you and Madeleine were close friends right up until the end.”

  “I don’t know who told you that but I’m afraid it simply isn’t true. We were acquaintances once, no more than that. Madeleine Greenhill and I were never friends.”

  Another one renounces you, Madeleine. They were happy to suck up to you for booze and gambling money, happy to ride your coattails for nihilistic kicks and some of that reflected matrician glamour. And now that you’re cold and dead they’re equally happy to claim they barely knew you. In fact, if it wasn’t for the inconvenience of a nosy cop asking them all these unwelcome, uncomfortable questions, Madeleine, they’d have forgotten you already.

  I felt physically ill listening to this shit. I could feel my temper and temperature rising, and was about to really lay into Tussing, excoriate her, go totally off-beam, hang professionalism and screw objectivity, when she did me a favor: she said, “Bethany Gilbert. She was more of a friend than I was. If you want to know about Madeleine, talk to Bethany.”

  I eyeballed her. “But you three hung out in the one gang, right? So you’d know what she knows.”

  “No. I don’t know Bethany very well. We live in the same building and share some of the same classes. I don’t believe I ever met her with Madeleine.”

  Hold on a second. Something wasn’t right here. I said, “Let me get this straight: you live three doors down from this girl and both of you were in Madeleine’s social group, and you say you don’t know her very well. How is that possible, Ms Tussing?”

  Tussing chewed on her lower lip and didn’t look pleased. I think she was regretting ever mentioning Gilbert. She said, “I didn’t say I don’t know Bethany, of course I know her. I just…don’t know her very well. We’re not particularly close. And I don’t think I ever met her with Madeleine. I’m giving you the truth, Detective.”

  “I have to tell you, I don’t believe that.”

  She flushed and looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her up. But fair dues, she held my gaze. The girl had nerve, I’ll give her that. I didn’t speak; I let the silence expand and fill the room, raising the pressure, heating the air molecules, quickening our pulses and giving us a hum in our ears.

  Eventually she cracked and began to speak, her composure regained somewhat: “Will that be all, Detective? I’m awfully sorry but I have a paper due tomorrow. Comparative Religion is a tough subject. I’m not the cleverest girl in the world. I need to put in the hours.”

  “That was Madeleine’s course too, right?”

  “That’s right. Poor Madeleine.” Here came the so-sincere-it- was-plastic expression again. “Anything I can do to help you find her killer, I will. Anything. Oh, M
adeleine.” Cue the extended, “contemplative” pause. “She was a seeker, you know? She was looking for something more in life, something…deeper.”

  Give me a break. These were almost exactly the same words as LaVey had used half an hour before. I smiled sardonically and said, “How weird. That’s the second time that a student has almost directly quoted Azura LaVey back at me. First Gilbert, who of course you don’t know, and now you. It’s almost like you girls have been coached.”

  Tussing said, “Coached? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yeah. Do me a favor, May-Jay: tell Madam LaVey not to be so sloppy the next time she’s giving you a line to feed the cops. It’s better to alter it a little, you know? We’re more likely to buy your bullshit then.”

  I left before her jaw actually hit the floor, but it was certainly en route.

  Chapter 9

  Cassandra

  I GOT some dinner at a dingy little joint in the heart of the Zig- Zag, a noodle shack so fogged up with cooking steam that the staff provided you with a flashlight and directions map to help you find your food. I had left the LaVey Institute shortly after five and spent the next hour cruising Hera City, listening to the radio, smoking, thinking. By now I’d spoken to several people who knew Madeleine Greenhill reasonably or very well, and I still didn’t feel like I was any closer to an understanding or a resolution. I didn’t feel like I knew anything, beyond the clouded, poignant personal history of my victim and the technical details of her demise. She was born, she lived, she died to violent hands, the end. Or rather, let me add an ellipsis and a question mark: the end…?

  Hell, no—I was only getting started, and so was the media circus surrounding Madeleine’s murder. Well, what else did we expect? This was big—the most shocking story to hit newsstands since a mayor-in-office and the daughter of a convicted drug trafficker were photographed in flagrante by a reckless paparazzo who’d been tipped off to their whereabouts by a money-hungry hotel maid. Hera isn’t the kind of place where just any old somebody gets killed: we generally reserve that singular honor for the low-life, the scumbags, the flotsam and jetsam of our thriving underworld. And who cares if some callous pusher or loser hooker gets offed, right? One less for us to worry about. Except, of course, it’s actually one more for someone like me to worry about.