Doctor Death Read Free

to meet the Commissioner’s second demand—that after the fact there be no visible signs of what had taken place.
    We don’t lay the dead naked in their graves. We dress them, even if they are unlikely to need it. We see it as our duty, the lastdignity we can give them, even though we know that the clothes will just rot with the body.
    Cecile was naked now.
    And still she appeared neither exposed nor desecrated in my eyes. Even in death there was a symmetry, a completeness to her that made it seem as if she were missing nothing except life. That absence hit me suddenly, so deeply that a tiny wordless exclamation escaped my lips.
    “What is it?” asked my father. He stood together with the Commissioner just outside the half-open door and waited to be called in when I was done with the undressing.
    “Nothing,” I said. And then I saw something that did mar the body’s symmetry. “That is . . . she has some marks on her. Some scars.”
    “Maddie, you are not supposed to examine her. Just to undress her.”
    “Yes, Papa. I have done that now.”
    The two men entered. I took my notebook and began to make notes while my father carefully and systematically described Cecile Montaine’s corpse. Age and gender, approximate height and weight, state of nourishment (generally good but with signs of recent weight loss), hair color, eye color, and so on. Only then did he focus on the scars I had observed.
    “Half-moon-shaped symmetrically opposed scars and bruises. Some quite faint and of an older date, others fresh and only newly healed. About half a dozen in all, primarily occurring in the region of the breasts, on the stomach, and on the inside of the thighs.”
    “They are bite marks, aren’t they?” asked the Commissioner.
    “Yes,” said my father. “Some have been quite deep, others more superficial.”
    “An animal?”
    My father shook his head. “I do not think so. A dog, for example,would leave a much more elongated configuration, with deeper penetrations from the canines. I think these are of human origin.”
    The Commissioner was not a man whose face mirrored his soul; he nonetheless raised one eyebrow.
    “Are you telling me she was bitten, multiple times and over an extended period of time, by a human being?”
    “Yes. That is what I have to conclude.”
    “Is this relevant to the cause of death?”
    “Not directly. The lesions have all healed. But human bites can of course carry infection just as animal bites can, so an indirect connection cannot be ruled out.”
    I looked at the scars. Some were faded pale white lines now, others more garishly mauve and purple. Breasts, stomach, thighs. Not arms, shoulders, or neck. Only areas that would normally be hidden by her clothing. There was an unsettling intimacy and calculation to the damage.
    “Is this something that has occurred voluntarily or . . . ?” The Commissioner did not finish his sentence.
    “That is difficult to determine. But I can say this much—the pain must have been considerable.”

    The scars in no way solved the riddle of Cecile’s death. They just raised more questions. Nevertheless, while I dressed her corpse, with some difficulty because rigor mortis had not yet dissipated, my father had no choice but to write out a death certificate that stated that her death was natural. Cecile Montaine had taken ill. She had died from her illness. And with that the case was officially closed.

    On the day of Cecile Montaine’s burial, the thaw set in. Heavy gray snow fell in sodden clumps from the branches of the elm trees along the wall facing Hope Avenue, and the paths were a slippery mess of slush on top of old crusts of dark ice. It was not just for show that the ladies clutched at the supporting arms of the gentlemen of the party—button boots, even with a sensible heel, were not suitable footwear under these circumstances. The sky was leaden, and showers of drizzling cold rain swept across the churchyard at regular