David Jackson - The Helper

Gonzo scratches his head and puts on a pained expression. Like he’s just been asked to solve the riddle of the origin of the universe.

‘Well, yeah. I needed to speak with you.’

‘Why didn’t you just call me on my cell?’

‘I didn’t want to disturb you. You know, while you’re working. I know how busy you are. I know how important your cases are. I thought I’d wait until you take a lunch break.’

Doyle sighs. ‘Get in the car.’

They both get into what seems to have become Doyle’s makeshift private office.

‘What is it, Gonzo?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What do you mean, you don’t know? You wait outside my building for an hour, and you don’t know why you want to see me?’

‘I. . I just needed to talk.’

‘About what?’

‘About. .’ He waves his arms wildly, causing Doyle to duck. ‘About all this. I’m not used to this kind of thing, you know.’

‘You need counseling? Maybe you should go see a shrink.’

Gonzo glares at him. ‘That’s not funny, Detective Doyle. What I witnessed last night was traumatic. It may have affected my mental stability for the rest of my life.’

You mean, Doyle wonders, it can get quirkier than this?

‘What do you want me to say, Gonzo? I didn’t ask you to put a constant watch on Vasey. In fact, I don’t recall asking you to get involved in this at all. All I wanted was for you to find one lousy thing on a computer. How did that develop into you becoming the city’s secret protector?’

‘I’m not trying to be a superhero. Or even a cop. I’m just trying to help. I sit over there in 1PP, looking at computer screens day after day. Except for Lonnie and a few of the other guys, I hardly see a soul. And the only reason they talk to me is when they need me to look at a computer. I never go out of the building. When you came in and asked me to look for that diary, I thought here we go again. One more request to add to the pile. But when it became obvious that you had reasons for keeping it under wraps, I thought this was my chance to prove that I’m more than just a brainy guy who knows about computers. That’s all. I was just trying to be of assistance.’

‘Yeah, well, maybe I’ve had my fill of people trying to push help on me lately. Maybe it’s more trouble than it’s worth.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Nothing.’

They lapse into silence. Both staring out of the car windows, watching the people walk by.

Doyle’s phone rings again. He takes it out of his pocket. No caller ID, so he kills it, scowling as he does so.

He notices that Gonzo is watching him, additional puzzlement on his permanently bewildered features.

Doyle doesn’t want to get into it, so he throws out a random thought: ‘Why do they call you Gonzo, anyhow?’

The pained expression again.

‘I forget.’

‘So what’s your real name?’

Gonzo thinks some more.

‘I forget.’

Doyle can’t help himself then. He cracks up. He knows it’s probably doing untold damage to this individual’s fragile mental state, but the absurdity of it all just keeps hammering the laughter out of him.

And when he looks again at Gonzo, he sees that he too is wearing a smile. At last, a point of agreement. A small meeting of minds which interpret the world in very different ways.

Says Doyle, ‘What you saw last night? Try to put it out of your mind. We’re working on it. We’ll catch whoever did that.’

Gonzo nods, says nothing.

‘You want me to drop you off at the Big House?’

‘No. Thanks. I’m good.’ He opens the car door. ‘Do me a favor, will you, Detective? If you ever need a little job doing — I mean, nothing too dangerous or anything — do you think maybe you could consider me?’

‘Sure, kid. You’ll be top of my list.’

And then Gonzo closes the door and is gone. Back to his lab. Back to his computers. Back to his lonely little existence.

The office is as dead as it was last time. Doyle half expects to see tumbleweed rolling by, driven by a whistling wind. He thinks the girl here must get bored out of her skull. Although she seems to have no trouble finding things to keep herself occupied. Her own appearance, mainly. Today she has moved on from her nails and is concentrating on her hair. Maybe tomorrow she’ll shave her legs. She looks sidelong into a small mirror set up on her desk while she pecks her fingers at her blond strands, teasing them into order. When she notices Doyle walk in, she shows him how perfect her teeth are.

‘Hi,’ she says. ‘You’re that cop guy, right?’

‘Yeah, I’m the cop guy. Is your boss in?’

‘You gonna throw him in jail?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Yeah, he’s in. Go straight through. He’s not expecting you.’ Doyle pushes open the door to the inner office. He sees Repp bent over an open drawer of a file cabinet, muttering to himself as he rifles through its contents. Doyle watches for another few seconds, until Repp pounds angrily on the cabinet and straightens up.

‘Hayley, do you have any idea-’

He sees Doyle in the doorway then, and he narrows his eyes. Like he’s trying to beam malevolence from his pupils.

‘You again.’

‘Me again.’

‘Do you ever bother to make appointments?’

‘Only with gynecologists. They tend to get kinda tetchy when I pop my head unannounced into their business. I thought you’d prefer the surprise. More than two people in this place must come as quite a shock.’

‘Ha! Allow me to hold my sides before they bust open. You ain’t heard about the recession? Things are bad all round. If there was such a thing as a cop who wasn’t on the take, you’d probably notice it too.’

‘My heart bleeds, Travis. Doesn’t give you an excuse, though.’

‘An excuse for what?’

‘Scamming old ladies. In particular, Mrs Sachs.’

Repp gives him a long stare, then waves him away. ‘Close the door on your way out.’ He turns back to his file cabinet and opens the top drawer.

Doyle sighs and ambles over to join Repp.

‘We’re not done.’

Repp doesn’t look at him. He continues to walk his fingers across the file dividers.

‘We had this conversation already. Did you forget? Or maybe you caught Alzheimer’s from banging old ladies.’

Repp’s chuckle pulls a trigger in Doyle’s brain, and he slams the file drawer shut before Repp can react. Before he can move a muscle. Or a finger. Such as the one that doesn’t manage to escape being sandwiched between two panels of gray steel.

Repp lets out a high-pitched scream. He extracts his hand from the drawer and stares at it with bulging eyes. Spittle flies from his mouth as he yells at Doyle.

‘My finger! It’s bleeding! What the fuck did you do that for?’

‘Sit down, Travis,’ Doyle commands. To help him obey, he gives him a hand. Right in the chest. A good hard thrust. Repp stumbles backward. When the backs of his legs connect with his chair, he collapses into it.

Repp continues to protest, his voice still higher than a soprano’s. ‘You can’t do this. You broke my fucking finger. Look at it! It’s bleeding. Hayley! Get the fuck in here! Get me some bandages.’

Doyle turns to see Hayley in the doorway, her features contorted with a blend of amusement and astonishment.

‘It’s okay, Hayley. He’s fine. I’ll be outta here before he loses more than a pint or two.’

Hilarity wins out. Hayley has to put a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter, then she disappears.

‘Jesus Christ,’ says Repp. ‘This is my good finger, damnit! I use this finger for everything.’

‘Spare me the sordid details,’ says Doyle. He perches himself on the edge of Repp’s desk, looming over him. ‘Now, where were we? Oh, yeah — Mrs Sachs.’