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Still, Franklin knows what I keep bottled up. “Some folks can barely get by,” he answers gently, perhaps regretfully. “Mom usually works the night shift, comes home, gets the girl up for school and sends her off for the day. Then she goes to her second job. Sleeps in the early afternoon. Third job in the evening before she circles back and starts again.”
“She didn’t come home this morning?” Aubree asks. “She just stayed out?”
“Apparently, she catches the bus between jobs, but the bus on this route wasn’t running today, and she didn’t have the time or the coin for alternative transport. So she called her neighbor.” He takes out a notepad and reads the name. “Cora Stevens. An artist next door. She paints all day. Mom called and asked her to check in on the girl.”
“And the artist didn’t do that?” I ask. “She ignored the woman?”
He shakes his head. “She doesn’t have keys, Doctor. She hardly associates outside her apartment. So when she knocked on the door and no one answered, she assumed Chelsea had gotten herself to school on her own, and she went back to her place to get on with her day.”
“A typical seven-year-old couldn’t get themselves to school,” I mutter.
But I think back to my own childhood. To being raised by the television and letting myself in and out of our home. I was mixing my own medication before I reached middle school. Inserting the needle and infusing Factor VIII not a hell of a lot later than my sixth birthday.
“Butthisseven-year-old,” I sigh. “A kid used to being alone? She could do it.”
Franklin bobs his head. “Everything seemed quiet and tidy here, so the artist shrugged it off and went back to work. Texted the mom that she’d checked in and everything was fine.”
“Yet, she was lying in her bedroom.” When Aubree’s breath shakes and her hands fumble our equipment, I take the camera from her and set it back in our murder bag to give her time to collect herself. “She was here all along, in her pretty bed with the pretty blankets with flowers and tassels…” Devastated, she brings her blue eyes to mine. “She was hurt so bad. And no one was here to help her.”
* * *
We spend hours at Chelsea’s crime scene, documenting the carnage of a little girl’s body. Collecting evidence, and making damn sure we don’t miss a single step. I’ll help these detectives find their killer just as vigorously as I work to help Archer and Fletch find theirs.
Once transport brings Chelsea to Autopsy Room One, I follow her in and spend another couple of hours taking samples from places I wish I never had to look. Torn skin. Bruised limbs. I take swabs of the sticky residue on her fingers for the lab, and examine her most private areas, hoping I can pull DNA and land a murderous asshole behind bars before the legal system has time to mess it up.
Daytime turns to early evening, and sunny skies turn to a dusk breeze whipping against the George Stanley’s windows. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder if it’s an icy wind, or a balmy, spring type that promises a new season.
And all the while, Archer works a different case, somewhere else in the city, and leaves my phone quiet.
I rest against my desk now, tired. Emotionally drained. Pressing the pads of my thumbs to my eyes and questioning society as a whole, like I so often do when cases like Chelsea’s end up in my lap.
I’m supposed to be wading through the administrative mountains that come with my position as Chief Medical Examiner, especially as we approach the end of another financial quarter, but for as long as a child’s bright blue eyes are burned to the backs of my eyelids, I can’t find the energy to read a single email or report.
Not even a text lighting up my phone could rouse a little enthusiasm.
Across my office, Aubree opens my door and stops on the threshold. She’s not as bright and loud as usual, either. Not as lively as I’m used to. For some reason, this little girl’s death hits us harder than normal.
“Come on,” she mumbles. “Let’s get out of here. Have you heard from Archer today?”
Dropping my hands, I shake my head and study my colleague. My best friend. “No. I haven’t heard anything.” I push up straight and try not to think of the new case that easily trumps the harvested organ I caught before the sun came up today.
We’re not supposed to favor one over another. We’re not supposed to push more resources one way, when we should allocate manpower evenly. But someone raped and murdered a little girl today.
Unfortunately, the cops running her case aren’tmycops, so I don’t get a front-row seat to their investigation, or receive updates the way I’ve become accustomed to.
Knowing Chelsea’s tiny body lies inside a fridge downstairs, and not in her living room while she watchesDaniel Tiger’s Neighborhoodand eats her dinner, is enough to give me a headache.
“I guess he’s busy with Corrigan,” Aubree murmurs. Just as distracted as I am, her words are soft and her movements, slow, as she grabs my coat from the stand by the door. “Busy is good,” she adds. “Means they’re following up leads.” She holds my coat in her hands, while her own lies draped across her arm. “Are you done for the day?”
“I guess.”
Pushing away from my desk, I circle around to the other side and check my computer for any last-minute details that might need my attention. My email inbox is full, as always. My calendar overflows; that’s nothing new. The mayor has left a message for me to call him back…I’ll call tomorrow.
Switching off the monitor and snatching up my bag, I take out my phone and keys and start toward the door. “What time is it?”
“Nearly seven.” She offers my coat and holds the door as I pass through, then steps to my right and matches my pace all the way to the elevator. “I was thinking of going to Tim’s for dinner.” Tapping the call button on the wall, she nibbles on the inside of her cheek. “Ya know,let’s be friends. Let’s be kind.” She lifts a hand to mimic a puppet. “Blah blah blah.”
Smiling for the first time all day, I move into the elevator when the doors ding open, and step to the side to lean against the handrail. “You’re ready to be friends with him now?”
