David Jackson - The Helper

He sees her wavering. This is a lawman at her door, and as a good law-abiding citizen she wants to do what’s right. But as a grieving daughter she also wants to tell him to fuck off and leave them alone. And Doyle understands that perfectly. He wonders what she would do if he told her how he failed to save her father’s life last night.

‘Who is it, dear?’

The voice comes from inside the apartment. Its owner comes into view. Doyle sees a flash of recognition in the woman’s eyes.

‘We’ve met before,’ she says. ‘Detective. .’

‘Doyle,’ he says. ‘Cal Doyle. Hello, Mrs Hanrahan.’

‘Please, come in.’

She beckons him inside. With reluctance, and wearing an expression of annoyance, the daughter opens the door wide to admit him. Doyle nods his gratitude and his apology as he enters.

It’s a light, airy apartment. The furnishings are modern and tasteful. On the walls are numerous photographs of two young children. An upright piano sits in one corner of the room, and supports yet more photos.

‘I’ll leave you two alone,’ says the daughter. ‘I need to get some air.’

She grabs a coat from a peg near the door, then shoots Doyle another look of anger as she leaves.

Doyle turns back to Mary Hanrahan. He knows that she is somewhere in her mid-fifties, but thinks she looks a dozen years older. He remembers Sean telling him that she used to own a bakery store but had to sell up because of problems with her circulation. He notices now how ruddy her complexion is, and how her breathing seems somewhat labored.

‘You’ll have to forgive Fiona,’ she says. ‘She’s been through a lot.’

Doyle smiles at her. ‘Nothing to forgive. I know how difficult this must be for both of you. I was really sorry to hear about what happened to Sean.’

She nods slowly, her eyes glistening. For an awful moment Doyle thinks she’s going to break down, but then she recovers her composure.

‘Please,’ she says. ‘Take a seat.’

They sit at opposite ends of a long cream-colored sofa.

‘How did you find me?’ she asks.

‘The super at your building directed me here. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘I can’t be at our apartment. I don’t know if I can ever go back to our apartment. Even if they can clean it up, I’m not sure that, well. .’

Doyle makes a show of looking around the living room. Anything to change the subject.

‘This is a nice place.’

She gives him a matronly smile. ‘Fiona and Brett have done well for themselves. They both have good jobs. They work hard. They deserve a break every now and then, but it’s difficult with two young children. Do you have children, Cal?’

He holds up a finger. ‘One. A girl.’

‘Then you know. I mean, how hard it is to get time to yourselves. That’s why I came here last night. To look after the children while Fiona and Brett had a night out. That’s why I wasn’t at home.’

Doyle gets what she’s saying. She wasn’t at home last night. When her husband was killed. She wasn’t there with him, and she regrets it bitterly. Doyle can hear the self-recrimination in her voice.

She continues: ‘You see, last night was their wedding anniversary. I couldn’t say no, could I? I couldn’t let them down. The reason we moved to the Village was to be near our children and grandchildren. I love to see them. Why would I say no to helping them out? I can walk here in just a few minutes. And it’s good for me too. I have problems with my circulation, you know.’

‘I’m sure you’re a wonderful parent and grandparent. It’s nothing to beat yourself up about.’

She looks at him, seemingly grateful that he understands. He imagines she has spent the whole morning talking to people who are concerned with just the facts, ma’am . The whos, whats, whys and whens. And when she answered their questions, perhaps nobody picked up on her subtext. Perhaps they failed to see what was happening to her inside.

‘They won’t make me see him, will they?’ she asks. ‘For identification purposes, I mean. They say that he’s. . well, that he’s not what he was. I don’t want to see him like that. I want to remember him as he used to be.’

Doyle has seen bodies with shotgun wounds to the face. It’s not a pretty spectacle. Uncomfortable even for cops who have seen all kinds of terrible sights.

‘No, don’t worry. The NYPD has his fingerprints on file. You won’t need to identify him.’

She nods again. Doyle is glad that he has been able to lift one small weight from her shoulders. Not much, but something.

She says, ‘You probably know more about this than I do, but the police were very interested in hearing about our friends. People we know well. People we trust. Is it possible, do you think? That someone we know might have done this?’

Another worry. It’s bad enough when an act of extreme violence is perpetrated on you or your family, but the thought that it could have been done by somebody you know, somebody you might meet again very soon, can be almost impossible to accept.

Doyle hesitates before answering. She is looking to him for help, and by God he owes it to her to clear this fear from her mind. But he has to be careful. What he knows and what he can say are not necessarily the same.

He says, ‘My guess is that there were no signs of a break-in, no signs of a struggle?’

‘No. The police said there was nothing like that.’

‘Then it’s understandable that they would want to talk to everyone who Sean might have allowed into the apartment. In most cases that would mean friends, family, people the victim knew pretty well.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘But that’s not always the case. It could be somebody pretending to be something they’re not. An authority figure, maybe. It could be someone Sean never met before in his life.’

She looks at him like it’s a ridiculous suggestion. Which, he has to admit, is exactly how it sounds. A complete stranger who is such a smooth talker that he can get close enough to an ex-cop to pull out a shotgun and obliterate the man’s features before they can even register surprise. The funny thing is, Doyle is pretty sure that it’s almost exactly how it went down. The killer, whoever it is, has this magic ability to inveigle his way into the homes of his victims. Into their lives. And once he’s there. .

‘But if it’s somebody he never met before,’ Mrs Hanrahan is saying, ‘why on earth would they want to kill him? And why would they go to such lengths? If they hated him that much, why not just gun him down on the street?’

Why indeed? Because maybe it’s not about hate. Maybe it’s about power. Maybe he’s doing it simply to prove he can. And that makes him so much more dangerous than a killer who is blindly driven by something as basic and primitive as raw hatred.

‘I don’t know. I think it’s too early to say. But we’ll catch him. That’s one thing I’m sure of.’

‘We?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You said, “We’ll catch him.” Are you working Sean’s case?’

He hears a note of hope in her question. She wants someone who knew Sean personally to be taking care of things for him.

‘I meant the police. But I’ll do everything I can.’

He notes the look of disappointment. She was a cop’s wife for God knows how many years. She knows how these things work. She knows that unless there’s a break in the case in the first forty-eight hours, then it’s unlikely the perp will ever be caught. And that means she wants every resource at the NYPD’s disposal to be allocated to the search for her husband’s murderer. Doyle has promised her that he will play his part, and he intends to keep that promise.

‘I suppose the detectives asked you all the usual questions about whether Sean had any enemies, anyone that may have threatened him recently.’