David Jackson - The Helper

When Adelman stands abruptly, Doyle says, ‘Lonnie, let me explain. .’

Adelman holds up his hand. ‘No details. I don’t want to hear details. Come with me.’

He heads for the door, Doyle trailing.

‘Where are we going?’

‘I investigate cyber crime. What I don’t do is spend all my time poking around inside computers.’

Shit, thinks Doyle. He’s getting rid of me.

But then Adelman adds, ‘We have whiz kids for doing that kind of thing.’

He leads Doyle along to the end of the corridor, then opens a door without knocking.

‘Meet our resident genius,’ he says.

Doyle walks through the doorway. He sees a room that looks like the aftermath of an explosion. There are computers and bits of computers everywhere. He hears the whirring of fans and the chatter of disk drives. Behind a long desk, facing away from Doyle, a young man sits staring intently at a bank of monitors. On one of the screens, text scrolls upwards so quickly it must be impossible to read, and yet the man’s gaze remains fixed on it. His feet are up on the desk and he’s eating from a bag of corn chips on his lap. He wears a huge pair of headphones, playing heavy metal music so loud that Doyle can hear it clearly.

‘Hey, Gonzo!’ says Adelman.

Doyle’s eyes widen. Gonzo?

Oblivious to his visitors, Gonzo continues to nod his head in time to the music.

‘GONZO!’

The guy nearly falls off his chair. Corn chips spill onto the floor. Gonzo powers off the music and yanks the headphones away, knocking his glasses off his face. He pushes them back into place as he struggles to look calm and collected.

Adelman says, ‘Detective Doyle, meet Gonzo.’

Gonzo gives him a goofy smile and a meek wave.

Adelman continues, ‘Tell him what you need, and he’ll work his magic. If what you want is on that machine, he’ll find it. I gotta go. Nice seeing you again, Cal.’

They shake hands, and Adelman leaves them alone. Doyle approaches the desk while Gonzo watches his every move. Doyle looks down at the chair, which has a jacket crumpled in a ball on the seat.

‘You mind if I sit?’

Gonzo shakes his head, but makes no attempt to move.

‘This your jacket?’

Gonzo nods, puts some more chips in his mouth. Still doesn’t move.

Doyle picks up the jacket. He looks for somewhere to hang it, but can’t find anywhere, so he hands it across to Gonzo. Still munching, Gonzo takes the jacket, holds it for a few seconds, then tosses it onto the floor.

As Doyle lowers himself onto the chair, he takes a closer look at his host. Gonzo’s hair is red and curly and thinning at the temples, even though he looks to be in his early twenties. His thick-framed glasses are supported by a beak of a nose. His body is thin and wiry. On the window ledge to the side of the desk is an inhaler of the type that asthmatics use.

‘You want a Dorito?’

The shock is threefold. It surprises Doyle that Gonzo can speak at all; he is surprised by the spray of food fragments that hits him in the face; and he is surprised by the voice, which is a high-pitched squawk that sounds like it belongs to Homer Simpson’s wife.

Jesus, thinks Doyle. The offspring of Woody Allen and Marge Simpson. What a set of genes that is.

‘They’re my favorite,’ Gonzo continues. ‘Give me some Doritos and a salsa dip, and I’m your friend for life.’

‘Yeah,’ says Doyle, not sure how to progress that topic. ‘Anyways, I got this computer here. .’

He hands it across to Gonzo, who gives it the once-over before dumping it unceremoniously on his desk.

‘You like Lugzz?’

‘Are they anything like Doritos?’

Gonzo stares at him, then taps a finger on his headphones. ‘The band. Music. You wanna listen?’

‘Uh, actually I thought we might talk about the computer.’

‘Oh. Okay,’ says Gonzo, seemingly amazed that Doyle is willing to pass up such a golden opportunity. ‘What about it?’

‘Well, I’m trying to find something on it.’

‘Have you tried switching it on?’

Doyle looks across to check whether Gonzo is yanking his chain, but he seems serious enough.

‘Yes, I’ve switched it on. I just can’t find the file I want.’

‘The file being?’

‘A diary.’

‘A diary?’

‘Yeah. You know. A journal. A record of events in somebody’s life.’

Gonzo stares again. He pushes another fistful of chips into his mouth.

‘You sure you don’t want some of these? I got lots. Six more bags.’

Doyle is starting to wonder what planet this kid is on.

‘No. Thank you. Now, the diary. You think you can find it for me?’

‘Sure. If it’s on there, I’ll find it.’

The very words Adelman used. But Doyle is starting to find it hard to believe that this kid is capable of anything other than ingesting corn chips to a four-four beat.

‘Great. How long?’

‘How long is what?’

Jesus, thinks Doyle. Do I have to spell everything out?

‘How long will it take you to find the file?’

‘Depends on how well it’s hidden. Plus I got a whole load of other stuff I need to get done first.’

‘So how long?’

‘Give me till tomorrow. I’ll call you. What precinct are you at?’

Doyle reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card and a pen.

‘I’m putting my cellphone number on the back of this card. That’s the only number you call me on, okay? Not the precinct number.’

Just to be sure, Doyle crosses out the precinct telephone number.

Gonzo narrows his myopic eyes at him. ‘You don’t want me to phone you at the precinct?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘Does Lonnie know about this?’

‘He knows,’ says Doyle, which isn’t strictly true. But then Lonnie doesn’t want to know.

Gonzo nods unconvincingly.

‘I gotta go,’ says Doyle. He gets up and walks across this computer junkyard of an office. Just before he leaves he adds, ‘Call me tomorrow.’ Because genius that this kid is supposed to be, he seems like someone who could forget everything, including his own name, as soon as Doyle walks out the door.

For the rest of Doyle’s working day, nothing much happens. Which is not such a good thing. Because what he hoped was that someone would make a connection between the Mellish murder and the Bonnow murder. And nobody has. As far as the NYPD is concerned, these two killings are related only by the fact that they remain unsolved. They have different MOs, they were in different precincts, and there is nothing so far to suggest that the two women even knew each other. So why should anyone even conceive of a link between these two? Hell, it’s not as if there’s anyone calling up cops to suggest such a thing, now is there?

Officially, he’s still helping out on the Cindy Mellish case. Unofficially, he’s just going through the motions. He continues to chase up bookstore customers. He continues to call up people that might have known Cindy. He continues to feel guilt over his knowledge that it’s probably all such a waste of time and manpower.

He is so glad to get home. Away from other cops. Away from eyes that seem to dare him to reveal what he knows. For a few hours he can put all that to the back of his mind. He can enjoy a roast dinner with his family, a bicycle ride in Central Park, bath time with Amy, a glass of wine with Rachel. And when he finally goes to bed and melts into the warmth of his wife, he is almost convinced that there is nothing to worry about, that it will all work out in the end.

The call comes at midnight precisely.

When he blinks at the clock and the pale fuzzy light gradually forms into recognizable numerals and he sees 12:00 written in front of him, he knows the time has been chosen as a signal that this is no ordinary call. It’s the witching hour. Expect to be scared.