David Jackson - The Helper

Kravitz maintains his stare for a while, as if unsure whether to take offense.

‘You should talk to somebody about that problem. Some women, they like to see what’s going on when they’re in the sack. Could be the reason your relationships are always so short.’

Folger merely nods, even though he resents the return insult. Resents, too, the word ‘short’ being thrown at him like that.

Standing a few feet behind the two Homicide dicks, Doyle tries to avoid being distracted by their inane drivel. He watches while Norman Chin, the Medical Examiner, performs some initial scrutiny, directs the taking of numerous photographs from various angles, and supervises the extraction of the body from its watery grave. Then he concentrates on what Chin has to say about the victim.

He listens to Chin’s description of the injury to the girl’s throat, the pressure marks on her shoulders, her broken nails and the scratches in the tile grouting, the bloodstained frothing in her nasal passages and in her mouth. He listens to the academic asides on oxygen deprivation, hemodilution, body chemistry disruption, diatoms, and cadaveric spasm. And he listens to Chin’s tentative conclusion — wait for the damn autopsy, goddamnit — that death was due to forcible drowning caused by an assailant or assailants unknown. In short, ladies and gentlemen, what we have here is a murder case. Who would have guessed?

But it’s not just any old run-of-the-mill murder case, is it now? Oh, no.

‘Well, look who it is,’ says Folger, spotting Doyle behind him. ‘Thank Christ for that. We can all go home now. The case is solved.’

‘How do you figure that?’ says Kravitz.

‘Didn’t you hear? Doyle here has a theory that all homicides recently committed in this city are connected. They’ve all been carried out by the same killer. Whatever the precinct, whatever the MO, it don’t matter. Same guy every time.’

‘Is that so? Kinda like a unified field theory, huh?’

Folger looks puzzled. ‘Uh, yeah.’

‘Well that certainly makes our job easier. What do you think, Doyle? Is this another victim we can chalk up to your Mysterious Manhattan Murderer?’

Actually, yes, is what Doyle wants to answer. That’s precisely what he thinks. He could be wrong, and he hopes he is. But what worries him about this scene is that there is no sign of forced entry to the apartment. Which suggests either that the victim knew her killer, or else she was somehow tricked into allowing him into her apartment. And lulling his victims into a false sense of security before he strikes is the thing at which Doyle’s oh-so-helpful enemy excels.

Except that this time he wasn’t helpful, was he? No phone calls for Doyle to reject. No phone number on the victim’s arms. No pretending to be Doyle in a call to the victim. Nothing.

Not that Doyle wants any of that. He’s glad to be out of it. He wanted a conventional murder case and now he’s got it. He should be celebrating. He should be running around this corpse, singing and clapping.

But he’s not. And he knows why. It’s because a part of him is saying, Maybe you could have prevented this. If you hadn’t slammed the door on your only source of information, maybe you could have listened to the clues and interpreted them correctly for once and prevented the death of this pretty young girl. For the others, the clues were there every time. You just didn’t know how to read them. And now people are still dying and you have no clues at all. Is that really what you wanted?

He has no answer. He is being pulled in opposite directions simultaneously. To listen to the helper or to ignore him. He has to decide, because right now it’s tearing him apart.

‘Who found the body?’ he asks Kravitz, ducking the homicide detective’s question.

Kravitz gives him a long look, and Doyle wonders whether the man is going to give him a hard time. He is mildly surprised when he gets a straight answer.

‘Roomie. Even better-looking than this one. She’s in quite a state.’

‘Where is she?’

‘With the landlady downstairs. Apartment 1A.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Yeah,’ says Kravitz, and it seems to Doyle that there is almost a hint of respect there. He tells himself that Kravitz must be having an off day.

After the problems he’s had with Holden, it occurs to Doyle that he should at least mention to him that he intends talking to the roommate. But Holden is already engaged in conversation with a thin bald man — presumably one of the tenants.

Fuck it, thinks Doyle.

He trudges down the stairs to the first floor. When he knocks on the door of apartment 1A, it opens within seconds.

He guesses that the woman before him is about sixty, even though her over-tanned skin has the appearance of antique leather. She wears a dazzling flower-print dress that Doyle thinks is far too short for a woman of her advanced years. Her hair, sculpted into a gravity-defying beehive, has been dyed a shade of red not found in nature. Minus the hair, she’d struggle to hit the five-foot mark. She reminds Doyle of the little old lady in Rosemary’s Baby — the one who befriends Rosemary only so that she can use her to carry the Devil’s child.

‘Police,’ says Doyle as he shows his shield.

‘Big surprise,’ says the woman. ‘The building is crawling with them right now. Where were you when I got burglarized last Christmas?’

‘This is a little more serious than that, Mrs. .’

‘Serafinowicz. With a z.’

‘With a z, huh?’ says Doyle, wondering where it goes.

‘Yes. And don’t tell me how serious this is. I know how serious this is. There’s a beautiful young girl lying dead in one of my apartments up there. You better catch the son of a bitch who did that, or else you’ll have me to answer to.’

Doyle decides that answering to Mrs Serafinowicz with a z is the last thing he wants.

‘That’s why I’m here. I need to talk to the roommate who found the body, and I’m told she’s here with you.’

‘She already spoke with the other cops.’

‘That’s okay. I just want to make sure that we’ve covered everything.’

‘She’s upset. She can’t stop crying, the poor girl. Can’t you come back later?’

‘Time is of the essence, ma’am, as I’m sure you appreciate.’

She studies him for a while. Listening to the demonic voices in her head, no doubt.

‘All right,’ she says. ‘Just go easy on her.’

She opens the door wide, and Doyle steps into a room that seems to be filled with junk. Almost every available surface is covered with items that look like they’ve come from all corners of the globe. Swiss cuckoo clocks, bears dressed in London Beefeater outfits, Japanese fans, Mexican sombreros, Australian boomerangs — she’s got them all. Doyle notices that there’s even a section of a shelf devoted to all things Irish, including a bobble-headed leprechaun exactly like the one he has on his desk in the squad-room.

Sitting on a chintz sofa in the center of this organized chaos is a young woman. She has curly blond hair and is wearing a very low-cut brown top. Her eyes and nose are red from crying. She looks frightened and vulnerable.

‘Hi,’ says Doyle. ‘My name’s Cal Doyle. I’m a detective with the Eighth Precinct. You mind if I ask you a few questions?’

The girl shakes her head and wipes her nose with a tissue clutched tightly in her fist.

Doyle takes out his notebook and flips it open. ‘That’s great,’ he says. ‘Let’s start with your name.’

She answers him honestly, but what Doyle doesn’t yet appreciate is how significant that answer is.

‘Tabitha,’ she says. ‘Tabitha Peyton.’

‘I’ll make some tea,’ says Mrs Whatever-with-a-z, and she toddles off to the kitchen.