David Jackson - The Helper

‘M? And I’m a friend of her father’s? And a consultation was arranged with me because of this relationship? I’m sorry, fellas, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. When was this session with me supposed to have taken place?’

‘At the beginning of last October.’

Vasey thinks some more. ‘No. I don’t recall anything like that. Not in October or any other month last year for that matter.’

‘Do you ever do consultations for friends and people they pass on to you?’

‘Sometimes. But I prefer not to work that way.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because it can be difficult to remain detached. Sometimes it’s hard to reveal painful truths to friends. They might not remain friends very long.’

Holden speaks up again. ‘Dr Vasey, how did you hear about the murder of Cindy Mellish?’

‘I can’t remember. I think it was on the radio.’

‘So you haven’t seen a picture of her?’

‘No. At least I don’t think so. Maybe there was something in the newspaper, but I don’t recall it.’

Holden reaches into his pocket and takes out a photograph.

‘Take a look, please, Dr Vasey. Do you recognize her?’

Vasey picks up the photograph, studies it for several seconds, then slides it back across the desk.

‘I’ve never seen this girl in my life.’

‘Are you sure? Take another look.’

‘I don’t need another look. I have never seen this girl before, and certainly not as a client. Now, I’m sorry, gentlemen, but-’

‘Why would she lie?’ says Doyle.

Vasey turns on him. ‘What?’

‘This is a young woman’s private diary. Nobody else is likely to see it except her. Why would she make something up like that?’

‘And why would I lie, Detective? What possible reason could I have for lying about something as inconsequential as a therapy session?’

‘Who says it was inconsequential?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘According to Cindy Mellish, her session with you wasn’t all that innocent. She says you came on to her.’

Vasey’s eyes are blazing now. ‘I did what ? Are you serious? Are you actually accusing me-’

‘She says you asked her inappropriate questions. Questions of a sexual nature.’

Vasey shakes his head, an expression of disbelief and revulsion on his face.

‘This is too much. Now you have really gone too far. I don’t know what-’ He stops himself in mid-sentence. Something has dawned on him. His mouth twists into a humorless smile. ‘Oh, no. No you don’t. You’re trying to make me a suspect, aren’t you? That’s what this is about. You’re getting nowhere with your murder case, and so you’re frantically trying to find someone to pin it on. Well, I’m sorry, gentlemen, but it’s not going to work. Not with me.’

Doyle presses on. ‘Dr Vasey, did you go to see Cindy Mellish at the bookstore where she worked? Did you make sexual advances to her, and did she slap you in the face?’

Vasey just sits there shaking his head slowly, as if in pity for his poor desperate interrogator.

‘Give it up, Detective. It’s not working. I don’t know what really brought you here, and frankly I don’t care. My guess is that you came across my name in some totally innocent context, drew some very tenuous and fanciful conclusions, and then concocted this whole charade to see if you could get me to blab. Well, tough. It was a nice attempt, but I’m afraid it was always doomed to fail. To be frank, even if I’d been guilty I would have seen that pathetic ruse for what it was. It doesn’t take a degree in psychology to realize what you’re doing. Now if you’ll forgive me, I have clients to see. Genuine ones.’

Doyle doesn’t want to leave. He thinks that Vasey is too smug, too smart. But Doyle also knows that, for the moment at least, he doesn’t have enough ammunition to continue this battle.

Before he departs, he warns Vasey not to leave the city.

Says Vasey, ‘I don’t plan to go anywhere, Detective. I’m innocent of any crime. Why would I need to abscond?’

In the corridor outside the office, Doyle says nothing. He remains mute as they wait for the elevator. Continues with the silent act as he pounds the button to descend.

‘He could be lying,’ says Holden. ‘He’s a shrink. He knows about lying, body language, all that shit. Right now, though, it’s just a he-said-she-said. We need more.’

Doyle is thinking the same thing. He needs more. And that need is making him furious. The diary was supposed to provide answers. It was supposed to lead him to the killer.

Did it do that? Could Vasey possibly be their man?

Maybe.

But maybe isn’t good enough.

Not when someone’s life is about to run out.

Doyle’s shift officially finishes at four o’clock, but it’s after five before he gets out of the station house. He walks along Seventh Street, his mind buzzing. Less than seven hours to go now, and he’s not convinced he can stop what’s coming.

He arrives at his car, takes out his keys. He is so preoccupied he doesn’t hear the footsteps until the figure is within striking distance. Doyle whirls, his hand reaching for his gun.

‘Hey, Detective!’

Doyle blows air. ‘Jesus Christ, Gonzo. What are you trying to do, get yourself shot? Don’t sneak up on me like that.’

Gonzo puts on the sad puppy-dog eyes. ‘You said not to come into the station house. So I didn’t. I waited for you outside. You know, to keep our little secret.’

‘All right, Gonzo, all right. What are you doing here, anyhow?’

‘I thought maybe I could catch up on the case. Find out what happened. Shall we get a coffee?’

‘No, Gonzo. No coffee.’

‘Well, then. . How about the park? It’s a nice evening. We could sit in the park while we chat.’

‘Gonzo, it’s been a long day. I’m tired. I need to go home.’

‘Oh, okay. But what about Vasey? Did you speak with him? What did he say about the girl? Did he own up to it? Did you have to get a little rough with him? I bet you did. I bet he refused to say anything, so you had to roll up your sleeves and swear at him. Did you hit him? Because that’s okay with me. I mean, not that generally I think violence is the answer, because I don’t, but when-’

Doyle feels like employing a little violence right now, but makes do with a hand clamped over Gonzo’s mouth.

‘Kid, listen to me for a minute, okay?’

Gonzo nods, his eyes wide. Doyle takes his hand away slowly.

‘Let’s get something straight. I’m a cop, and you’re a lab technician. Those two things, they’re not the same. I’m sure you’re a very clever guy, and you do all kinds of valuable things for the PD. You must have helped put a lot of bad guys behind bars. You should be proud of that. I couldn’t do what you do. I don’t have the brains. Most of what I do is fill out forms and answer phones and talk to people. So don’t go thinking it’s glamorous, because it ain’t. Stick with what you’re doing, and don’t go looking to mess with the shit I have to deal with. Believe me, you’re better off.’

Gonzo appears unconvinced. ‘Yeah, but. . You said it was a secret. Just me and you. How can you handle a case like this all by yourself? I thought maybe I could-’

‘No! You hear me? No!’ Doyle feels like he’s talking to a young child who wants to help out in the kitchen. Like he has to be told in no uncertain terms that while it’s okay to fill a kettle, the sharp knives and the stove are definitely out of bounds. ‘It’s not safe. And anyway, things have changed. I got somebody else working with me now.’

Gonzo blinks at him. He looks as though he’s just been jilted at the altar.