David Jackson - The Helper

Follow my advice, Cal. Think about what you’ve heard. Forget about what your heart tells you to do. It’s the brain that’s important here. You don’t need anything more than that.

Shit!

And it gets worse. Because now I’m the only person other than the killer who knows there’s a link between these two deaths. And I can’t say anything. It’s too late for that.

What, do I go to the boss and say, ‘Hey, Lou, you know that homicide up in the Two-Seven? Well, that was done by the same guy who whacked the bookstore girl. How do I know this? He told me he was going to do it. Practically gave me her name and everything. Thought you might want to know that. How about you put me in for that promotion now?’

Sure, that’ll work.

And if I say nothing? If other detectives don’t figure out the link?

Can I stand by and let that happen?

Shit and double shit.

This all feels a little underhand. Coming here like this without telling Holden or anyone else involved in the case. But he has to know. He has to find out.

Cindy Mellish’s mother lives in a three-story walk-up above a women’s clothing store on Thompson Street. What they call a mixed-use building. When she opens the door she looks like she has cried several years’ worth of tears. The life has gone from her — from her bloodshot eyes, her body, and even her hair. She’s an empty shell. When Doyle flashes the tin, she doesn’t even bother to look at it. She just pushes the door open wide, then turns and walks back into the apartment.

When Doyle follows her into the living room, he notices how clean and tidy the place is. He bets there isn’t a speck of dirt or dust left in here. He pictures her moving from room to room, cloth in hand, trying to distract herself with work while the tears run down her face.

‘Mrs Mellish,’ he begins. ‘I’m sorry to bother you. This won’t take long. There’s just a coupla questions-’

‘I haven’t seen you before,’ she says.

Doyle wonders if she’s heard any of his words.

‘No. You haven’t. I’m just helping out on the case. Do you mind if-’

‘What was your name again?’

He had given it at the door, but he obliges nonetheless.

‘Doyle. Detective Callum Doyle. I just need a little information from you. Would that be okay?’

Silence. For what seems to Doyle like a full minute. He is beginning to think it was a mistake coming here, intruding into her grief. It’s too early. She needs more time.

But he needs to know.

‘Will you catch them?’ she says finally. ‘Whoever did this to my daughter. Will you catch them?’

‘I’m sure we will,’ Doyle answers. ‘We’ll do everything we can, I promise you.’

She gives a slight nod, then stares at the carpet. Doyle waits what he thinks is a decent length of time before he tries again.

‘Mrs Mellish, do you know-’

‘Why?’

For a second, Doyle is flummoxed.

‘Excuse me?’ he says.

‘Why do you think he did it? Killing her in the way he did. So savagely, I mean. Why would he do that to her? I keep asking myself that question. What sort of bad thing could Cindy have done to anyone that would make them think she deserved this in return?’

Doyle shakes his head. ‘Cindy didn’t deserve it. It just. . happened. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all. Please don’t go thinking this was any fault of Cindy’s. The only person to blame here is her murderer.’

She nods again and returns her gaze to the carpet. Doyle knows she is trying to make sense of something which defies reason. We all do it, he thinks. When something terrible happens in our lives, we want to know why. Sometimes it can be hard to accept that there are no answers.

When he begins his question again, he half expects another interruption, and so he pushes his words out in one fast burst: ‘Mrs Mellish, do you know if Cindy kept a diary?’

She raises her head, and Doyle is convinced he sees a flicker of puzzlement and interest in her eyes.

‘I. . A diary? I don’t think so. No.’

No. So that’s it, then. The caller was wrong. There is no diary. What a fucking waste of time and effort this little trip has turned out to be. And from the looks of her, it hasn’t done Mrs Mellish any favors either.

‘Why?’ she asks.

For a moment Doyle thinks she is continuing her quest for philosophical answers he is not equipped to supply, but then she adds, ‘Why do you ask about a diary?’

He realizes now that he has stirred all kinds of possibilities in her mind. Perhaps even jostled some expectations to the surface. A detective schlepping all the way over here to ask about something as specific as a diary? That has to be important, right? That has to signify a lead of some kind, right?

I should get outta here, thinks Doyle. This is wrong.

‘Girls this age, sometimes they keep journals. Sometimes they put stuff in there they might not tell anybody else about, you know? Thoughts they’ve had, people they’ve met, things that have happened to them. It can help us build a picture.’

And now he can see a light returning to those sad eyes. She is latching onto this. Making it into something more than the nothing it probably is. Perhaps there are answers here, she is thinking. Perhaps there is meaning.

‘You think this was done by somebody she knew ?’ she asks.

He catches the incredulity infused into that last word, and he knows he has to move quickly to stop her joining dots which aren’t in sequence.

‘No. I’m not saying that at all. We don’t know if she met her killer before or not. All I want to do right now is learn a little more about Cindy. Maybe it’ll help.’

He hates the fact that he’s hiding things from her, that he’s pretending this is all on his own initiative. Hates it even more that he’s leading this woman down paths she has no reason to navigate.

Can it, Doyle. Shut the fuck up and leave now.

He says, ‘But if you say there’s no diary, then. .’

‘I. .’ she starts, and Doyle catches her glance at one of the doors. Unlike the other doors, this one is firmly shut.

Cindy’s bedroom, he realizes. She probably can’t bear to go back in there. She has cleaned every nook and cranny in this apartment. But not in there. Opening that door breaks the spell. Shatters the illusion that Cindy is still in there, listening to music or reading a book. Or just being alive.

‘She writes,’ says Mrs Mellish. ‘ Wrote . A lot. Ever since she was little. Always scribbling in her notebooks. Poetry mostly. Some stories. But a diary. .’

Doyle waits. Part of him wants to ask if he can search the room. Another part insists this is bullshit. This is all a part of the killer’s sick game: sending him here to push this poor woman to her breaking point.

‘If you want to take a look,’ she says, ‘it’d be okay. If you think it’ll help. Just. . don’t mess it up, okay?’

He nods. ‘I’ll be careful.’

When he moves toward the room she doesn’t follow him. When he opens the door, he hears her footsteps moving away. She doesn’t want to look in here. Not yet.

It’s a cozy, welcoming room. Tidy but full. The bed is made, and a baby-pink dressing gown lies along the bottom of it. A white bra hangs from one of the bedposts. There is a table with a mirror and a large array of make-up items. On one side of the room is a line of cheap white storage units. They comprise a tall closet and a row of low-level units interrupted by a recess with a chair pushed into it. The counter running above these units supports a music system and speakers, racks of CDs and DVDs, lots of cuddly toys, a hairdryer, straightening tongs, a stack of magazines, an electric fan. On the wall above are several posters of actors and pop stars. On the other side of the room is a row of bookcases. Cindy Mellish read a lot of books.