David Jackson - Marked

Then, at the door, Hamlyn grabs Doyle by the arm. This time he looks Doyle straight in the eye, because this time it’s about what he regards as the appropriate male response.

‘Promise me,’ he says. ‘Promise me that you’ll get this bastard.’

Doyle nods. ‘We’ll get him.’

‘And. . if there’s any chance. . I mean, if I can be there when you do. .’

The sentence is left unfinished, but the message is up there in neon. Doyle doesn’t know what to say. He’d like nothing more than to grab up this sicko and hand him straight over to Hamlyn and anyone he wants to invite to a revenge party. But he knows it’s not going to happen. All he can do is give a hint of a nod, meaning nothing more than the request has been noted.

And then the detectives leave. On the way out, Doyle hears sobbing coming from upstairs. When the door closes behind them, LeBlanc makes a dash through the rain. Doyle takes his time. He ambles down the driveway, through the tidy front yard with its manicured patch of lawn, out onto the street with its perfect line of trees. And all the way there, while the rain batters down on him, he thinks about his promise to Hamlyn.

He will not allow the killer of this young girl to walk free.

Not this time.

See, it’s the preconceptions that bother Doyle.

Not so much the clothes. Or the spectacles. Or even the inexperience. No, thinking about it, what it all boils down to is the preconceptions.

LeBlanc has been a detective for only about a year. He joined the Eighth not long before Doyle had all those problems with everyone around him being whacked just for knowing Doyle. What a joyful Christmas that was. Hi, my name’s Doyle. And you are? Oh, now you’re dead. Sorry about that.

Since that time, Doyle has never been partnered with LeBlanc. LeBlanc has worked with several of the other detectives since his arrival, but has spent most of his time with one in particular. A man named Schneider.

And the thing about Schneider is that he hates Doyle’s guts.

It all dates back to a time in prehistory when Doyle was in a different precinct uptown and working with a woman called Laura Marino who had a thing for him and was not very discreet about it and then ended up being killed by a shotgun-bearing skell in a Harlem apartment. Which was tragic enough in itself, except for the fact that some people started suggesting that Doyle himself may have had something to do with her demise — suggesting it so forcefully, in fact, that Internal Affairs became involved and Doyle nearly lost his job, his freedom and his marriage. That episode was the trigger for Doyle to transfer to the Eighth with the hope of making a clean start.

Only things are never as simple as that, are they? Police precincts do not operate in isolation, oblivious to the events in other precincts. Believe it or not, they talk to each other — an aspect of modern policing that is actively encouraged. Occasionally, friendships are struck up between members of different precincts, or existing friendships endure even after one of the friends transfers out.

One of Schneider’s close friends is Danny Marino — widower of the aforementioned Laura Marino. And being such a good buddy, he has always done his damnedest to ensure that everyone in the Eighth remains aware of what a checkered past Doyle has.

All of which brings us full circle to LeBlanc. Because — though Doyle has no evidence to support this — Schneider will have been relentless in pouring his poison into his protégé’s ear over the past year. He will have been unable to prevent himself. It’s what he does. And the young impressionable LeBlanc, looking up to his older and more experienced mentor, will have soaked all this up as the gospel truth and established preconceptions that Doyle is now powerless to eradicate.

And that’s the real reason why Doyle feels uneasy about LeBlanc.

He figures this out while he’s driving, and feels that he’s done a pretty fine job of self-analysis, even though head-shrinking is a practice he usually avoids at all costs. In fact, he wonders now why he bothered. What’s wrong with disliking LeBlanc for his style choices? Who says I’m not allowed to be superficial?

‘That was tough,’ says LeBlanc.

He’s in the passenger seat. Doyle has the wheel, because only he knows where they’re going.

‘For them or for us?’

‘For everyone. I, uh, I liked the way you handled it, by the way.’

‘Why?’ says Doyle. He knows he shouldn’t act so snippy. With anyone else he would take the compliment and shine back his gratitude. But not with LeBlanc. Not with the preconceptions he’s got.

‘What?’ says LeBlanc.

‘Why did you like the way I handled it? What was so special about the way I did it?’

‘I. . well, I don’t know why. I just thought you were. . professional about it. You showed compassion back there.’

‘Uh-huh. And why does that surprise you?’

‘Surprise me? I didn’t say it surprises me. It’s just that. . well. .’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, we’ve never worked a case together, you and me. So I don’t know anything about you, and-’

‘What would you like to know?’

‘What?’

‘You wanna know stuff about me? Shoot.’

‘Well, I. . It’s not like I’ve got questions or anything. I just thought I could learn a lot from someone like you.’

‘Someone like me meaning. .’

LeBlanc shrugs. ‘Meaning an experienced detective who seems to know what he’s doing. That’s all.’

‘Uh-huh,’ says Doyle, and even that carries an undercurrent of coldness to it.

They lapse into silence then. It lasts while they get across the Williamsburg Bridge and plunge into the thick Manhattan traffic. Doyle stares intently ahead, trying to see where he’s going through the vertical rods of rain. The car’s wipers swat wildly, but the rain just keeps on coming. It creates a moving, shimmering film of water across the windshield, and just beyond, countless plumes of spray as the drops explode on the hood of the car.

It’s not until the car sails across East Seventh Street that LeBlanc gathers up the courage to speak again. ‘Where you going, Cal? You missed the turning for the House.’

‘We’re not going to the House,’ says Doyle. ‘I got someone to see first.’

He doesn’t bother to tell LeBlanc where they’re going, and he doesn’t bother to say who they’re about to visit.

It’s the preconceptions, you see.

That, and the stupid dress sense.

LeBlanc thinks they’ve got him all wrong.

He’s heard a lot of bad things about Doyle. That he’s a maverick. That he’s ruthless. That he’s a dirty cop. That he has no great love for his fellow officers. That he will even stoop to murder when it suits him.

He tries not to believe it. At the very least, he tries to keep an open mind. It’s how he was raised. Treat people as you find them , his parents used to say. Give folks the benefit of the doubt until they prove otherwise.

He smiles as he casts his mind back to those times. Simpler times, in a simpler life. It was easier to follow advice like that in a tiny God-fearing community in Iowa.

Not so easy in a place like New York City. Especially when you’re a cop. The niceness gets squeezed out of you. Cynicism gets hammered in. You can’t give the benefit of the doubt to a junkie who may or may not be holding onto an AIDS-infected hypodermic needle in that pocket of his, or to a hooker who may or may not be about to whip a six-inch blade out of that purse. Shit like that happens, and you have to assume that it will happen unless you take precautions to prevent it. Otherwise you don’t last long as a cop.