David Jackson - The Helper

Doyle puts his free hand to his forehead. He feels sick.

‘Go on, Gonzo.’

‘There was a rope. Around his neck. I think. . I think his head came off. Oh, God.’

Doyle says nothing for a long while.

‘D-Detective? Are you there?’

‘I’m here, Gonzo.’

‘What should I do? I don’t know what to do.’

Doyle chews his lip. ‘Listen to me, Gonzo. Are the cops there yet?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘Is there a big crowd around the body?’

‘No. The body landed on a roof. It’s on a brownstone next to Vasey’s apartment building.’

‘So did anybody else see this?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Look up at the apartment building, Gonzo. Is anyone looking out onto the roof of the brownstone?’

A pause. Then: ‘Yes. I can see figures at some of the windows. I think maybe they heard something.’

‘All right, Gonzo. Now go home.’

Another pause. ‘Go home? What do you mean? I’m a witness. I saw a murder. What do you mean, go home?’

‘Just do what I say. You saw a crime. You reported it to me, a police officer. You’ve done all you can. I’ll get some cops to come over there.’

‘If you’re sure. .’

‘I’m sure. If you stay there, you’ll have a lot of explaining to do. Now leave it with me. If I need to speak with you again I’ll call you on this number. Is that okay?’

‘Yeah. That’s fine. I’ll. . I’ll go home now.’

‘You do that, Gonzo.’

He ends the call. He wants to throw his cellphone through the window, the way Vasey just went through his. Jesus, what an exit.

He has no intention of calling the cops. The people in Vasey’s building will see to that. And what would he say, anyhow? How would he explain Gonzo’s role in all this? Especially when he’s not even sure what goes through that kid’s head at the best of times. Who does he think he is? Dick Tracy?

Doyle thinks he could do with someone like Dick Tracy right now. He could have figured this out. He would have known Vasey was next.

I wasn’t calling to give you clues. You know why? Because you already have them.

It should have been obvious. He’d uncovered a link between Cindy Mellish and Sean Hanrahan, and he’d assumed it was a pointer to their killer. Only he was wrong. Sure, the link was there, all right. But it wasn’t telling him anything about the murderer.

It was telling him who the next victim would be.

The link was the clue. And a bigger fucking clue you couldn’t ask for. Doyle feels as though the caller might just as well have said, ‘The next person to die will be Andrew Vasey,’ and still he would have missed it. He feels that stupid.

Something else occurs to Doyle. He looks at his watch. .

And laughs out loud.

The timing of the murder. He missed that, too, didn’t he?

When Doyle delivered his tirade over the phone, and the guy responded with ‘Ten-four, Detective.’

Ten-four.

Which can be cop-speak for ‘message received’.

But which can equally mean four minutes past ten. The time Vasey was killed.

So he’d been told who, and he’d been told when. What more could he have asked for?

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

And just how clever is this bastard, that he can assure you he is giving you no clues when in fact he’s giving out every fucking clue under the sun?

There’s a severe mismatch of intelligence here, Doyle thinks.

It doesn’t bode well.

‘So let me get this straight. .’ says Cesario.

Doyle and Holden sit opposite the Lieutenant in his office. This is their first task of the day: to bring the boss up to speed without causing him to wet his pants over what a nightmare this is becoming.

‘Both the Mellish girl and Hanrahan go to see Vasey as patients-’

‘Clients,’ says Doyle.

‘Whatever,’ says Cesario, giving Doyle a withering look. ‘They’re both connected to the psychologist.’

Yeah, thinks Doyle. They’re shrink-linked.

‘So you bring him in, he lawyers up, and you get nothing.’

Doyle looks at Holden. Holden looks at Doyle. Doyle feels they should have something to add. That word ‘nothing’ seems a little harsh. It sounds less than the emptiness it represents. In fact it resounds with negativity. Only he’s not sure how to nudge it over the line and into the positive zone.

Cesario continues his narrative: ‘And then Vasey gets whacked. Does that about sum it up?’

Doyle would have phrased it differently. He thinks it’s like summarizing the movie Jaws as Fish attacks bathers, sheriff kills fish . Where’s the fine detail? Where’s the emotion? Where’s the stuff that makes it interesting? But he shrugs nonetheless. Says, ‘I guess.’

Cesario sits in silence for a while, then says, ‘So where are you going with this, Detectives?’

‘We think. .’ Doyle begins, emphasis on the we , ‘we think these could all be the work of the same perp.’

Cesario sighs. ‘See, that’s what I thought you were gonna say. I didn’t like it when I thought it and I hate it even more now. Do you understand the enormity of what you’re asking me to accept?’

Holden says, ‘We understand, Lou. But we have to at least consider the possibility.’

‘All right, so let’s consider it. Go ahead. Convince me.’

Doyle finds the ball rolling back to him again. Thanks, Holden.

‘Okay. We have three DOAs, not counting Vasey’s doorman, who we’ll put down as collateral damage for now. Admittedly, they were all killed in different parts of the city, and with completely different MOs. A multiple stabbing, a shooting and a guy thrown through his window. On that basis alone, I agree, there’s nothing there. But toss in the Vasey connection and it changes the whole picture. It’s just too much of a coincidence that a shrink and two of his clients should all take hits from separate, completely independent killers. And there’s something else they have in common, too.’

‘Go on.’

‘These murders weren’t spur of the moment. There’s no obvious motive for any of them. What we do know is that they were planned. These people were targeted. In each case, the killer seemed to befriend them or at least get them to trust him before he whacked them. The bookstore girl let the killer get really close to her, close enough to write a fake number on her arm. Hanrahan and Vasey allowed him into their apartments. Maybe they all knew him, or maybe he’s just an excellent con artist. Whatever, to me this sounds like the work of one killer or group of killers.’

Cesario leans back in his chair and puts his arms behind his head, bringing them perilously close to two tall cactus plants flanking him. Just like his predecessor often did, thinks Doyle.

‘There’s a lotta supposition here, fellas,’ says Cesario.

He rocks a little, ponders some more, makes a decision.

‘I can’t ask the Chief of D’s to give us the other cases. Not on what we got so far.’

Doyle is almost out of his seat. ‘Lou-’

Cesario raises a warning finger.

‘But I want you to look into this. Talk to the precincts working the other cases. Talk to Homicide. You find anything more concrete that ties these DOAs together, then I’ll put in that call to the Chief of D’s.’

Doyle realizes it’s the best they’re going to get. He can’t blame Cesario. After all, what they’re talking about here is a possible serial killer. The task of stopping someone like that is a heavy responsibility for any squad commander to take on.

He sees Cesario reach for a file from his in-tray. He’s moving on to his next job. Meaning this discussion is over. Holden starts to rise from his chair.