David Jackson - Marked

He has spent most of the afternoon away from his desk, trying to track down leads. Talking to Megan Hamlyn’s girlfriends. Trying to find people who may have seen her on the subway, or in the East Village. Questioning the owners of security cameras that may have picked up her image during the final moments of her short life.

More particularly, though, he has stayed away from Proust. And he feels better for it. Proust has an irritating habit of raising Doyle’s blood pressure. Of making him think he’s about to blow an artery. The man’s a health hazard. Which is quite an understatement for a murdering, torturing piece of shit like Proust.

Calm down, Doyle.

And then there are these stupid games Proust is playing. Making himself out to be the victim. Trying to give the illusion, without actually making the blatant accusation, that Doyle is violently attacking him at every opportunity. What the hell is that about? Does he really think that’ll work? What the fuck does that crazy, fucked-up, psychopathic-

Chill, dude. Relax.

He lets out a long, slow breath. He switches on the car radio. Hears Adele. Nice. Soothing. Sing along, man. You’ll be home soon. Away from all that shit.

Because it’s driving him out of his skull. He knows this. He knows he is not acting normally. Not with his family, not with LeBlanc, not with anyone.

Poor Tommy. He doesn’t know what to make of any of this. Doesn’t know what to believe about his own partner.

And yes, it’s my fault, thinks Doyle. I’m not playing fair with Tommy. I’m keeping him in the dark.

And yes, I did feel out of control when I had my hand around his throat. The poor kid was scared shitless. That’s what Proust does to me. He makes me crazy. But it’s not an excuse. What I did back there was unforgivable.

So maybe Tommy is right after all. Maybe this is the way to nail Proust. Play it by the numbers. Proust isn’t perfect. He will have made mistakes. With enough time and effort I can find out what those mistakes were. And, by God, I won’t stop until I do. I owe it to those two young girls, and to their families.

As he turns onto West 87th Street, he is still thinking about LeBlanc. Thinking he is actually starting to like him. He was never sure before. Didn’t know what views LeBlanc had of him, especially with LeBlanc working so closely with Schneider. And because he was uncertain, he tended to shun him. LeBlanc was right about that, too. Doyle is too quick to dismiss people. Sometimes he should give others more of a chance.

Hell, he thinks, maybe I should start going to LeBlanc for psychotherapy.

He also admires the way LeBlanc stood up to him. That took balls. And he didn’t jam him up with the bosses when he could have. That took loyalty.

Christ. I’m starting to sound like I’m falling in love with the guy.

Smiling, Doyle squeezes his car into a space several buildings down from his own. He wishes he could get closer, seeing as how there’s still no let-up in this damned rain. He clambers out. Locks up the car. Makes a dash along the street. Draws level with his front stoop.

‘Hey, Doyle.’

The call is as brief as that, but Doyle recognizes the voice immediately, and it stops him in his tracks. His smile vanishes. His day has grown somewhat darker.

Oh yes, he knows this voice.

It’s a reminder of a part of his past he would rather forget.

‘Get in,’ says the voice through the open window of the gray Chevy Impala.

Doyle doesn’t move.

‘Come on. You’re getting soaked out there. And I’m getting wet with this window open.’

Doyle looks up at the front door of his apartment building. He is just steps away from warmth, dryness, friendly faces. The last thing he needs right now is a conversation of the type he’s being invited to have.

But he knows this guy won’t go away. He knows how this man operates.

Doyle steps around the car, opens the door and climbs in. The man behind the wheel closes his window and then turns to face Doyle.

It’s like being confronted by one of the undead. The man’s pale skin glows white in the dim interior of the car. His cheeks are hollow, his lips thin. Lank black hair furls across his forehead like a raven’s wing. He wears a dark suit, dark overcoat and dark tie.

‘Hello, Doyle,’ he says.

‘Hello, Paulson,’ says Doyle. ‘Little early for trick or treat, ain’t it?’

They are not, and probably never will be, on first-name terms, these two. Although they go back some way, it has not always been the most affable of relationships.

After Laura Marino died in that apartment on that fateful night, and all the rumors of Doyle’s possible role in it began to surface like dead fish, Sergeant Paulson here was assigned the task of investigating his fellow officer. Except that ‘fellow officer’ is a term that most cops would choke on when trying to describe Paulson and his ilk.

Sergeant Paulson is a member of the Internal Affairs Bureau, that section of the NYPD charged with unearthing corruption in the force. It was at one time known as the Internal Affairs Division, but it got promoted, such was the thirst for its activities amongst the bosses and the politicians, who were determined to demonstrate how seriously they took the integrity of the city’s law enforcers. Whatever its name, its job is to police the police. And it is not known for wearing kid gloves when it carries out its mission.

Doyle found that out for himself when seated across a table from Paulson. He found out just what a bastard this man was. He found out what it’s like to be the suspect rather than the one doing the suspecting. And he found out what it was like to hate another man with an intensity that brought him close to committing murder.

Paulson was relentless and he was without mercy. He hounded Doyle. His questions were devoid of both subtlety and sympathy. He seemed determined to destroy Doyle, to the extent of making threats to do precisely that. And despite official assurances that the investigation was confidential, it became apparent that everyone and his dog were aware of what was taking place here. Rumors became fact, whispers became confident voices, blunt opinions became sharpened spears of distrust and dislike. These were carried on the wind, reaching the ears of Doyle’s wife and his loved ones. He almost lost them. He almost lost everything.

And all because of this man seated not two feet away from him.

Says Paulson, ‘Crappy night, huh?’

‘I think it just got worse,’ says Doyle.

Paulson adopts a pained expression. ‘Now why’d you have to go and say that? Didn’t we part on good terms last time we met? You brought me donuts, as I recall. You wished me a merry Christmas.’

‘I think your medication must have been too strong. You were imagining things. I don’t remember any of that.’

‘My medication? Oh, you mean for that bullet I took. The one that had your name on it.’

And there’s the thing. That’s what makes this relationship so complicated. Doyle wants to hate Paulson with a passion. He feels he’s entitled to that. But the best Christmas present he got last year was the one from Paulson. It was the gift of his life. How do you hate someone who does that for you? Why did Paulson have to go and mash up something that was so patently black and white into a muddy gray mess?

‘Look, Paulson, I owe you one. I admit it. You saved my life. There. Happy now?’

‘It helps. Your recognition of my gallant self-sacrifice certainly goes some way to assuaging my indignation here.’ He pauses. ‘But, of course, it fails to recognize what else I did for you.’

‘Which was?’

‘Where shall we start? Well, there was that confidential information I gave you at the time. Information which I think was crucial in getting you out of that jam you were in. Without that you’d probably still be afraid to enjoy the freedom of coming home to your lovely family here. And then there was the fact that I overlooked some distinctly dubious practices of yours while you were endeavoring to extract yourself from said jam. So, taking all of the above into consideration, I’d say I deserve a little leeway here. Wouldn’t you agree?’