Cause of Death Page 3

  The light-skinned black guy—Arnold or Eddie or something like that—he’s missing.

  He shook his head disapprovingly, but when he noticed the woman sitting off to the right, separate from the other students, his mood lightened. Her face was smoother than the others, as of yet unburdened by the plight of age and a deep understanding of death.

  Beckett smiled at her, then to the rest of the class, he said, “Alright, your one hour, my pupils, begins now. One hour for eight cases. Which means that the slides will automatically switch every seven and a half minutes, for you doctors who struggle with long division. Once the image changes, there ain’t no goin’ back.”

  With that, Beckett pressed the small button in the lower right-hand corner of the computer screen and the projector flicked to life. He waited for a moment as the projector started to focus, and craned his head around to look at the image.

  It was of a man wearing a striped sweater lying on the back third of his head, his chin tucked against his chest in an awkward fashion. Satisfied that this was the correct image, Beckett nodded to himself and was about to turn away when he noticed something that he hadn’t seen before.

  The sweater was off; he remembered the photograph in his desk drawer, and he was certain that in it the geometric pattern went north/south, not east/west as it was in the image onscreen. Beckett squinted at the image for a moment, trying to think back.

  While names eluded him, especially those of the snot-nosed residents, something like this did not. Things related to death remained etched in his brain as if chiseled on a stone tablet.

  Something’s not right here.

  Beckett made a mental note to review the images in his desk drawer after the test was over.

  “Get ascribblin’, people.”

  Eyes that had been previously locked on him snapped down, tongues pushed into cheeks, and pencils did, as he had suggested, get ascribblin’.

  Beckett walked over to the young woman off to the right and kneeled down close to her ear.

  “Suze, remember that you’re just auditing the course. No need to get all stressed out about it.”

  Suzan Cuthbert raised her head to look at him, pushing her long brown hair behind her ears before answering. She had a spooked expression on her face, and he wondered if perhaps the course content was too advanced for her.

  Too visceral.

  But then she broke into a smile, revealing a set of perfectly straight, white teeth.

  “I’m afraid… I’m afraid It’s too easy,” she said quietly, and Beckett laughed. He patted her on the shoulder and then went back to his desk. He sat, put his feet up, and pulled a book from his bag.

  Enough of this so-called ‘reality’, he thought. Time for something more interesting.

  Then he opened the book to the dog-eared page roughly halfway through and continued reading Ambrose Ibsen’s The Asylum.

  ***

  Someone nudged Beckett’s leg and he startled awake.

  “Wha—?” he gasped, and almost fell out of his chair. He righted himself, catching the book as it slid from his chest.

  He was staring at Suzan Cuthbert’s pretty face, who was looking back at him with a smirk.

  Beckett wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth and observed her for a moment, still trying to catch his bearings.

  “The test?” she said softly, and Beckett nodded, now remembering where he was. And yet, despite this realization, he was unsure of why she was standing before him. He peeked around and saw that the residents were all still scribbling away at their papers. He turned his gaze to the projector next and noted that the final image—which depicted a charred, crispy corpse—was still up.

  “Do you…” need a break? He meant to ask, but stopped short when she held out several sheets of paper to him. The right side of his upper lip curled. “You’re done?”

  Suzan beamed and nodded vigorously.

  Beckett eyed her suspiciously.

  The thing about the forensic pathology final exam—the written portion, anyway—was that no one ever ‘finished’. They just kept on writing until Beckett told them to stop. And even then, there was always one person who he had to go and physically remove the pencil from their hand. Beckett’s first thought was that Suzan maybe didn’t finish all of the slides, or that she had simply missed the point of the exam, but when his eyes fell on the dense block of text on her paper, and then the smirk on her face, he knew that this wasn’t the case.

  He knew she was bright, but this was… suspicious.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking the paper from his hand. Her smiled broadened, and when she turned to leave an idea occurred to him.

  “Hey Suze, why don’t you stop by my office sometime this afternoon? You have class?”

  Suzan thought about this for a moment.

  “Only until two-thirty, then I’m free.”

  Beckett nodded.

  “Good, I’m there until four. Swing by, I’ve got a job for you.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “A job?”

  “Sure, a job. You know, work. Hard labor. Mining. Landscaping. Mike Rowe’s Dirty Jobs. See you this afternoon,” then he stood, and to the rest of the class, he said, “Alright you so-called doctors, time’s up. Stop writing, put your lead peckers down, and hand in your papers.”

  As expected, the room erupted into groans. One student even went as far as to mutter something about the fact that they still had three minutes left, to which Beckett suggested that they report him to the secret police.

  By the time all of the students had handed in their papers, the PowerPoint switched again, momentarily dimming the lighting in the room. Beckett turned his head around and realized that the loop of images had started over again.

  And onscreen was the same image of the man, the one with the sweater that, for whatever reason, wasn’t quite right.

  Chapter 6

  Drake slept soundly, as he did on most nights since he had shot Dr. Mark Kruk. His dreams of Clay and the Skeleton King faded into the background, becoming more white noise than coherent images, something that he could ignore without much effort. Every once in a while he would find himself startled from slumber, and his eyes would focus on the finger bone that he laid on the small table beside his bed as a constant reminder.

  While sleeping soundly was a relief, Drake never forgot.

  Forgetting would mean that Clay had died without reason. And yet Drake was grateful when he discovered that there was such a thing as remembering without being haunted day and night.

  When he finally awoke, around eight-thirty according to the cheap analog clock on the nightside table, he opened his eyes, clucked his tongue, and waited for his eyes to focus on the small, dice-sized bone.

  More than once he had thought about going to Beckett and asking him to see if he could do a DNA test on the bone itself, to find out where Kenneth Smith had acquired it from—who he had acquired it from. Even though Ivan had been the one to unceremoniously throw it on the table at Patty’s Diner, Drake had no doubt as to whom had given it to him.

  But he had resisted the urge.

  Drake wasn’t so proud to admit that he couldn’t admit that he was scared.

  Scared of the nightmares returning.

  So instead, every morning, after showering and dressing, he would slip the bone into his pocket and carry it around with him, a morbid reminder of what happened when you stopped paying attention, when you got so stuck in your ways that you can’t see anything new.

  One day, he told himself, one day I’ll find out where this came from. And when I do, I’ll find you, you bastard. I’ll find the man who really killed Clay. The real Skeleton King.

  Drake groaned and pulled himself out of bed. He was surprised that his head was no longer fuzzy and congested upon waking, something else, like the lack of nightmares, that he was slowly becoming accustomed to.

  While he still very much enjoyed his Johnny Red, and dreamed of the Blue that Ken had offered him that rainy
night, he had cut his consumption back to a level that ensured he wouldn’t have to wait until noon for the alcoholic fog to finally clear.

  Drake went straight to the shower. As water sluiced off of him, he found his thoughts wandering to Chase of all people.

  About how he had thrown himself on the grenade that was the Butterfly Killer case, sacrificing himself to make sure that she could live on.

  And live on she did.

  A smile crossed his face, thinking about the fact that she had already become a first-grade detective.

  It’s almost time, he thought, almost time to reach out to her, to speak again.

  The truth was, he liked Chase. He liked her no-nonsense approach to detective work, to her life, to him of all people. She was the only one back at 62nd that he missed. Not Simmons, not Yasiv, and definitely not Rhodes.

  Just Detective Chase Adams.

  Well, Clay, too, but that was a different matter entirely.

  Drake also admired the way that Detective Adams was willing to fudge the rules, just a wee smidgen, in order to keep the people of New York City safe.

  After toweling off, Drake pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.

  There were aspects of his old life that he missed, but wearing the same damn chinos and sport coat wasn’t one of them.

  And if checks like the one Mrs. Armatridge had given him kept on coming, well, shit, the things he did miss about being a detective might soon be forgotten.

  Thoughts of the elderly woman brought an image to mind. He was sitting across from her, her hands nervously fondling comically large pearls that hung around her neck.

  “My maid…” she began, her voice acquiring the watery quality consistent with daydreams, “she’s been killing people.”

  Mrs. Armatridge took a folder out of her over-sized purse and handed it over to him. Drake knew before he even opened the folder that it wasn’t going to be filled with images of ancient looking silverware.

  It was a photograph of a dead man, his neck bent awkwardly beneath him.

  “It’s the same, but different,” Mrs. Armatridge said, her voice deepening. “I stole it from Beckett.”

  With the word Beckett, her voice changed completely; it was the young doctor’s voice, now.

  Drake shook his head.

  Not my problem now, he thought. It’s someone else’s problem. Let the boys—and girls—in blue figure it out.

  Drake grabbed his phone from the kitchen and switched it on. He was still learning how to use the damn thing—his fingers seemed too big for the electronic keyboard—but he had to admit that the outfit that Screech had hooked him up with was pretty impressive.

  And a dozen times more useful than his last one.

  “Speak of the devil,” he muttered as a text message from Screech popped on the screen.

  Arriving at Mrs. Armatridge’s now. Can’t expect that this is going to take more than a few hours.

  Drake nodded to himself and then started to type his reply.

  I’ve got nuggets to do today. I’ll jingle you.

  He cursed.

  Jingle you? What the hell? Screech wrote back.

  Join, Drake corrected. I’ll join you.

  Screech’s reply was instantaneous: a laughing emoticon.

  Drake frowned.

  Useful, and a colossal waste of time.

  Chapter 7

  True to her word, Suzan Cuthbert arrived at Beckett’s office just before three-thirty in the afternoon. He had completed marking three of the eleven exams—they all passed, some by the skin of their teeth—and was taking a break to look over Suzan’s own when there was a knock at his door.

  “Come on in,” he said, without looking up.

  Suzan had nailed the first case. She had written the differential as “homicide”, but the main diagnosis, the correct cause of death, was listed as positional asphyxia, likely due to alcohol intoxication.

  A smile crossed his face.

  She was good. Really good. Most of his residence had gotten the answer correct—it was, after all, the easiest of the eight cases—but she was the only one of first three he had graded to have noticed the half empty bottle of vodka peeking out from beneath a corner of the messy bedspread.

  “Dr. Campbell? You wanted to see me?” a small voice asked.

  Beckett folded the test paper on top of the stack of others and smiled warmly.

  “Just Beckett, Suze,” he said. “And come in, take a seat.”

  Suzan did as was bid and looked up at him in anticipation. If it had been anyone else before him, Beckett would have reveled in her minor discomfort, allowed her to sit there while he tidied his desk, picked his nose, scratched his balls—did whatever to prolong the sensation.

  It wasn’t that he was an asshole; rather, it wasn’t that he was just an asshole—there was a method to his madness. Years of working with the dead had taught him that being uncomfortable made one work more quickly, which can lead to missing potential evidence or cause of death differentials. As did shock. It was his goal to prepare his students for both, which is the reason why he treated them as he did.

  And, besides, it was hella fun doing it.

  “I want you to be my TA, Suzan,” he said quickly.

  Suzan’s eyes brightened.

  “TA? Seriously? I’m not sure—”

  Beckett cut her off.

  “Do you think I’m a good doctor, Suzan? I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but I’m one of three Senior Medical Examiners in NYC—the youngest of the three, I might add—and, as you may or may not be aware, I’m a professor at NYU.”

  Suzan started to flush and looked about to say something, but Beckett stopped her by leaning forward.

  “I knew Clay—he was a great man. So before you say anything, know this: I’m not asking you to be my TA because of him. I’m asking because of you. I think you’re smart and going to make one hell of a doctor one day. The way I figure it, if I can get you in here now, maybe one day you’ll come work for the Medical Examiner’s office. So, before you say some ‘I need to think about it’ or some such nonsense, I’m just going to go ahead assume the answer is yes.”

  Beckett stood quickly and reached for his coat on the back of his chair. He put it on, and then pulled a wool cap from the pocket and pulled it over his ears. It was only September, but it seemed that the last vestiges of a warm summer were fleeing them quickly.

  The weather prognosticators, as brutal as they were most of the time, were predicting the first snowfall to come in the third week of September.

  “And because that answer is yes, your first job is to grade these papers,” he said, passing the pile of exam papers to her. Suzan appeared flustered, embarrassed, and a little confused, and several of the tests fell to the floor. “I’ve done most of them, but finish up the rest, would you?”

  Beckett was at the door when Suzan finally managed to speak.

  “B—b—but, where’s the solution sheet?”

  Beckett, his back to her, smiled.

  “Look at your test for the solutions,” he said, then left Suzan alone in his office.

  Chapter 8

  Mrs. Armatridge—whose first name Drake learned from the check that he had promptly deposited was Greta—lived in a large, plain looking semi-detached home in upper Manhattan. Drake noticed Screech’s car, a brand new Tesla, parked across the street, and he pulled his Crown Vic behind it. Rubbing his hands together to warm them, he walked quickly to the door.

  It was unlocked, and he stepped inside without knocking.

  Modest from the exterior, the inside of Greta Armatridge’s home was a different animal altogether.

  It was like stepping into an alternate dimension—a dimension in which everything had been coated in precious metal or rare, tightly woven fabrics.

  The first thing he noticed was the crown molding that outlined a twelve-foot high coffered ceiling; the second was the original flooring that were so buffed he could make out his own reflection in them. Spread out acr
oss the floor were pieces of hulking furniture adorned with intricate, hand carved arms and legs. The maroon walls were covered in mirrors of various sizes and shapes, and what Drake suspected were original oil paintings wrapped in frames of gilded gold.

  After he overcame his shock of the discrepancy of the interior versus exterior of Greta’s home, Drake cleared his throat and hollered, “Screech? You here?”

  The man’s head poked out from behind a staircase, eyes wide.

  “Jesus, you scared the shit of me. Ever think of knocking?”

  Drake’s eyes narrowed.

  “Never mind. Anyways, wrapping up here. Just setting up the last camera. Wanna give me a hand?”

  Drake said sure and made his way toward Screech.

  The staircase that his partner had been tucked behind was large and ornate, much like everything in the house, and he was using the underside of the stairs themselves to disguise a camera the size of a silver dollar.

  “That’s it?” Drake asked, marveling at the tiny recording device.

  “Yep, that’s it. Already set up three others. One in the kitchen, one in the office, and one in the bedroom, of course.”

  Drake raised an eyebrow at this, remembering his conversation with Mrs. Armatridge.

  Sometimes with these cameras, we pick up things that are… how can I say this delicately… not just theft. Things that are outside the realm of what one might consider ordinary, he had warned her.

  And what better place to record such things than in the bedroom?

  “Hold the chair, will you?” Screech asked.

  Drake frowned at the sight of the man’s dusty runners soiling the cushion of what looked like a chair that a museum curator might plant his ass after a long day and everyone had gone home.

  Screech leaned forward, pressing the camera into the underside of the dark, wooden staircase.