Three on a Match

by Peter Miller

The Hans Christian Anderson version of ‘The Little Match Girl’ which is the seed for my story, can be found here.

Pitka was last on the scene. A little bit of early snow and the usual Christmas chaos was freaking out the whole goddamn city. You’d’ve thought that New Yorkers would be used to it by now.

There were three patrol cars and an ambulance pulled up at the kerb, lights dancing red and blue across the Tiffanys doorway. Morrison was there with a couple of beat cops, watching the ME taking prints. Pitka ducked under the crime scene tape. A flash went off in his face. Christ, there were reporters here already.

He headed towards the huddle of cold figures under the awning.

“These guys must have fucking ESP. How’d they know?” The question directed at no-one in particular.

“There was some Rolling Stone guy getting takeout. He walked right past and recognised her.” Morrison said.

“Jesus. Of all the dumb luck.”

“Probably would’ve gone straight to the morgue as a Jane Doe if he hadn’t. The car that found her called her in as a transient.”

Pitka shrugged. “Might’ve been best all round.”

He stepped over a drift of dirty snow toward the body. The face was as familiar to him as his own kids. Like anyone who’d lived in this town for more than five years he’d seen it looking out from milk cartons and newspaper banners for three months back in ’96. Biggest Missing Persons operation the Department had ever run. Cherie Scott. The grandaughter of billionaire Aaron Elkin Scott who’d made his money on a safety match monopoly. The Match King.

The ransom note never came. The Bureau figured that it had been a kidnapping gone wrong, that maybe the kid had been killed accidentally. Life moves on, everyone forgets eventually.

The crumpled figure at his feet was wrapped in a thin pink sweater and a couple of plastic trash bags in a pathetic effort to keep out the cold. Funny how she didn’t look any older. Living on the street did that to people. You saw them on the same corners and under the same subway steps year after year and they never aged. Then one day, you never noticed exactly when, they were gone. Guess the city just calls in its debts. Not much of a Fountain of Youth.

“I’m thinking it’s a fairly clear cut case of exposure,” Emma Goldman, the Medical Examiner was stripping off a latex glove. “The kid just ran out of heat.”

Pitka stooped down closer to the body.

“What’s with this?” He pointed at a plastic name tag pinned to the sweater. It said “My name is Sophia” in felt pen. The writing was smudged by time and moisture.

“My guess is that she didn’t know who she was. Some kind of trauma, maybe. Won’t know until I get her back to the lab.” Goldman said. “It’s possible that if it was a kidnapping they dosed her up on Halcion or Hypnos way past the safe limit and screwed up her memory. It happens.”

“And then they’d be trading damaged goods.” Morrison said. ܜWouldn’t win any popularity contests for that. Hard to believe she spent five years on the street and no-one recognised her.”

“Really.” Pitka said. He imagined that for the first two or three of those years she was more likely to have been staring at the walls of someone’s basement, drugged out of her little brain.

Now the tiny frozen body lay still and alone in the snow. She seemed almost happy, like she’d found a comfortable bed for the first time in ages. Dozens of spent matches were scattered around her, each burnt right to the end.

“Trying to keep herself warm” Goldman said, “I doubt it helped much.”

The irony wouldn’t escape the press either. The terms of Aaron Scott’s will had allowed a pretty substantial inheritance for his granddaughter if she was ever found. Pitka hoped she’d gotten the matches for free.

He stamped his feet to get some warmth back as they loaded the body into the ambulance. The forensics guys were doing a thorough sweep on the site. It wouldn’t amount to much he knew but this was one job that better be done by the book. He groaned as a news crew zeroed in on him, snapping on a light that was way too bright.

Later, after all the press and most of the sightseers had lost interest and his forth cup of coffee was cold he cuffed Morrison gently on the shoulder.

“Later Max” he said. “You’ll be OK?”

“No problem boss, nearly done anyway. Hey, have a Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah, sure thing.”

He headed up Sixth towards Benny’s. He guessed the girls would be in bed by now and the Christmas tree lights would still be burning bright. But this year, like last, it was just guessing.

On the south of the Park he watched a laughing couple climb into a carriage hitched to a swaybacked old nag that looked like he’d rather be someplace else. The driver, wearing a ridiculous top hat festooned with tinsel, flicked his crop and they headed off, wheels crunching the ice.

Pitka watched them disappear and then slipped into the warmth of the bar wondering whether there were ever any happy endings.