David Jackson - Marked

Nicole nods. She understands now. She can start to see how Doyle’s thought processes are working. He really isn’t here to pass judgment. He simply wants answers. And it seems to her that all his questions are the right ones to be asking right now. She trusts this man.

‘How will you know? I mean, how will you be able to figure out where she went and who she met?’

‘From talking to people. From studying camera footage at the subway stations and so forth. It’ll take time, but we’ll do what we have to do.’

She nods again. ‘Thank you.’ She pauses for a long time, then says, ‘Did. . Did they find any more? Of Megan, I mean.’

‘No. We’re still looking, and not just in the East Village. A bulletin went out to all precincts. We’re checking the rivers, construction sites, derelict buildings — any place we can think of. We’re even going through the garbage in the landfill sites. But, well. . a place like New York, you can’t freeze it for long while you search it.’

‘I understand,’ she says. And she does. New York isn’t a huge area, but it’s tightly crammed and intensely busy. Constantly shifting and changing. It’s amazing they found what they did. But three pieces. It’s nothing. Somewhere out there is more of Megan. Undiscovered, unclaimed. She deserves better. She deserves to be brought home.

Nicole feels herself filling up again — when will this crying ever stop? — and says, ‘It’s just that. . The burial. You understand? We’d like to be able to bury Megan. I mean. . all of her.’

She sees Doyle’s discomfort, and realizes she is putting him in an impossible situation. How can she expect him to answer that? He’s doing what he can for us. Let that be enough.

And yet. . If he really wants to help. .

‘There’s something else,’ she says. ‘Maybe you can’t answer it, but I’d like to know.’

Doyle studies her for a while, then nods. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Was Megan. . Was she. . I mean, did the killer. . did he interfere with her?’

There. A tough question to get out, but she did it. And now it’s out there, hanging around for a response, she’s not sure she’s done the right thing. She’s tempted to reel it back in.

Doyle looks at her again, long and hard. He chews on his lip, as though he’s debating what to do with this big fat question mark being dangled in front of him.

Finally, he says, ‘There is evidence of sexual assault, yes.’

She knew this. Not definitively, but in her heart. She tried to prepare herself for the confirmation when it came, but still it seems to slice deep into her gut. The tears that had welled up in her get squeezed out with the pain. As they roll down her cheeks, she keeps her gaze fixed on Doyle. And as he stares right back, she senses something from him. Defiance. Not of her, but of whatever constraining forces are being applied to him. Screw the rulebook, he seems to be saying.

‘You weren’t supposed to tell me that, were you?’

Doyle shrugs. ‘I do a lot of things I’m not supposed to do.’

She nods her gratitude. Any other cop would have refused to answer. Would perhaps even have lied. Doyle won’t lie.

She says, ‘Whoever did this, he’s a monster. He’s evil. Megan was a child. She was my baby. How could anyone hurt a child?’

‘I don’t know. And I can’t imagine your pain. Just thinking of this happening to my daughter makes me sick to my stomach.’

She blinks in surprise. Should policemen say such things? Aren’t they supposed to remain detached and objective? He’s full of surprises, this one.

She finds herself relaxing in his presence a little. He has that effect. A calming influence. She feels as though she could talk to him about anything, no matter how personal. She gets another jolt when her next thoughts of Megan do not involve death and agony, but instead are fond memories stretching back in time. Of Megan as a child, a toddler, a baby.

‘Megan could be hard work, you know.’

There is a slight smile on her face as she says this, and Doyle reflects one back at her.

‘Mine too.’

‘Right from birth she was determined to be a troublemaker. Ripped me to pieces so badly I can’t have any more kids.’

‘Yeah?’ says Doyle. ‘That happened to my wife too. At one point I thought I was gonna lose both of them.’

She narrows her eyes at him. What is this? Whatever happened to Just the facts, Ma’am ? Where’s his little notebook, into which he jots down times, places, names? The uniformed cops weren’t like this. The Missing Persons cops weren’t like this either. How is it possible for this man to let his humanity through like this when he has to deal with murderers, rapists and other scum? How can he shoot the breeze about his wife’s pregnancy while contemplating how he’s going to catch a man who has just raped a teenage girl and cut her into little pieces?

Her voice becomes bolder, less mired in intense sadness. Like it’s the first normal conversation she’s had in days. ‘You should have heard me in the hospital. I thought I was going to be all calm and collected. The model mother-to-be. You know what I do for a living?’

‘No, I don’t think I saw that in the files.’

‘I’m a midwife. I’ve lost count of the number of babies I’ve delivered. I’ve seen every complication there is. The only thing that worried me about giving birth to my own child was that I would try to tell the other staff how to do their jobs. But boy, once I got my feet in those stirrups it was a totally different story. I lost it. I forgot everything there was to know about midwifery. I just lay there and screamed.’

She sees that Doyle’s smile has broadened, and realizes that hers has too. And it feels okay. It doesn’t feel disrespectful, because it’s about Megan. It’s about celebrating who she was and how she did things. And that’s fine. She’s allowed to do that. In fact, she believes that the only way she’s going to get through this is by holding on to the happy moments, even though she knows it won’t always be possible.

‘That’s what I don’t get,’ she says.

‘What is?’

‘I bring life into the world. It’s what I wanted to do ever since I was a kid. I get a huge kick out of it. New life — there’s nothing more sacred than that. But this man, whoever he is — this murderer — he enjoys raping and torturing and killing and dismembering. How do such opposites get to exist in the world? How is it possible for a person to enjoy such things?’

And now Doyle’s smile has gone, and she regrets the fact that she has soured the atmosphere again.

‘Because he’s not really a part of this world,’ says Doyle. ‘He’s sick, and I don’t think he can be cured. That’s why he needs to be removed from it.’

She listens to his words, and it seems to her that Doyle could be talking about a specific person rather than some unknown killer he has never met.

‘Can I ask you something else, Detective?’

‘Sure.’

‘Could you remove this man from our world? Permanently, I mean. Not prison.’

When Doyle says nothing for a couple of seconds she adds, ‘I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t be asking-’

‘If it were up to me?’ says Doyle. ‘In a heartbeat. No doubt about it. If I was sure I knew who had done this to your daughter, and the law allowed me to do it, I would put a bullet in this scumbag’s brain without hesitation.’

‘And if the law said no, but you thought nobody would ever find out?’

She sees the muscles twitch in Doyle’s jaw. It’s a tough ethical question, but she genuinely wants to hear his response.

‘I’m a cop,’ he says finally. ‘I have to uphold the law. Otherwise what am I doing in this job?’