David Jackson - The Helper

‘What about a key to the apartment? You or Helena ever give it out to anyone?’

‘No. Absolutely not.’

‘What about you, Mrs, uhm. .’

‘Serafinowicz. Maybe you should put it in your little notebook there. And don’t forget the z. But to answer your question, no, I do not give keys out to anyone but my tenants.’

Which is also the response Doyle expected and feared. What confounds him is that the only sign of a struggle was in the bathroom. How does a complete stranger manage to talk his way into the apartment of a beautiful girl who isn’t even properly dressed, and then get her into the bathroom without a fight of some kind? How the hell does he do that?

Doyle is starting to think that if there has been any satanic activity going on in this building, then maybe he should be looking upstairs for signs of it.

‘All right,’ he says. ‘Thank you. I’ll leave you alone now.’

Mrs Serafinowicz looks surprised. ‘That’s it? You have no more questions? The other cops asked a lot more than you did.’

Doyle has plenty more questions, but he knows he isn’t going to find the answers here.

‘I’m sure there’ll be other things we’ll need to ask at a later stage, but I’m done for now.’ He turns to Tabitha. ‘You got somewhere to go tonight?’

It’s Mrs Serafinowicz who answers. ‘She’s staying here. I have a furnished apartment available on the second floor. She can move in there for as long as she wants.’

Doyle wants to smile appreciatively at her and maybe even pass a compliment, but he suspects she’ll find a way to use it against him. Like most people, she has appearances to maintain.

‘Thanks for the tea,’ he says, and leaves it at that.

When he exits the apartment he stands in the hallway alone for a while. Something is troubling him, and it takes a minute or two for him to figure out what it is.

Helena was running a bath for Tabitha, and there was a pizza on the way. That means Tabitha had every intention of returning to her apartment pretty soon. She said so herself: I only intended to stay for a few minutes.

So why did the killer take such a huge risk? Why did he choose that moment and that location and that method — drowning isn’t always the quickest or tidiest of deaths — to murder a woman whose roommate could come back and disturb him at any second? Didn’t he care? Was he assuming that he could just as easily cope with overpowering and killing both of them?

It occurs to Doyle that this act seems a leap beyond anything the killer has done before in terms of daring. In fact it seems almost uncharacteristically rash.

Has the killer become more unhinged? Or is this simply his way of stepping up the game?

Whichever it is, there’s only one man who can give Doyle the answer.

Ten-thirty p.m. Doyle alone in the squadroom. Typing up his DD5 reports and wishing that life could be simple.

He wants to know how the fuck he ended up playing the stooge to that joker. That guy whose idea of fun is to tell Doyle whom he’s going to kill next, but in such a way that Doyle can never grasp the true meaning. It makes Doyle feel like he’s in a comedy sketch — the unfortunate dimwit everyone laughs at for getting the simplest things so drastically wrong.

He also wants to know how the fuck he now finds himself almost wishing he hadn’t relinquished that role. Perhaps he was always meant to play the innocent fool. Doesn’t the guy you feel sorry for always win out in the end?

The thing of it is, there’s too much he needs to know. It’s like being a child who has been told there is something very interesting in a box, but that he must never look inside it. The temptation to open the box becomes overwhelming. Sooner or later you just know you’re gonna sneak a peek.

There are things going on in the killer’s life. In his mind. His patterns are changing. Doyle needs to know why. He needs to open the box.

He gets a further nudge in that direction when his cellphone squawks at him. Not a phone call, but a text message:

No clues this time. I promise. Take the call. Please.

Well, well, thinks Doyle. The scumbag’s actually pleading with me.

Seconds later he hears the ring tone, almost immediately drowned out by the voice in his head:

Ignore it, you prick. You’ll regret it if you answer it. You’ll be right back in his pocket. Playing his stupid games and losing every time. Stick to your guns and kill the fucking call.

Sound advice. For the sake of his own sanity, he knows he would do well to heed it.

But he’s never been good at doing what he’s told.

He answers the call a second before it goes to voicemail. Opens the box. And already he feels like Pandora, letting out all the evils of the world.

‘You better not be shitting me!’ he yells into the phone. ‘You give me one fucking clue, sneak one piece of bullshit information under the fence like you did last time, and I’m gone. Permanently. You understand that, motherfucker?’

There is a moment’s silence, during which Doyle thinks to himself, This better be who I expected it to be.

‘And a good evening to you too, Detective,’ says the caller. ‘It’s nice to hear your calm, collected voice again. I’ve missed our little chats. So let me give you some reassurance. You don’t need to worry anymore. I’m changing the rules.’

More changes. Not what Doyle wanted to hear.

‘What rules?’

‘The rules of the game. You’re right. I think I was a little unfair on you. The game was always a little one-sided. The outcome was never in doubt, given your limited capabilities. And so I don’t blame you for walking away.’

Doyle refuses to rise to the insult, or to be seduced into feeling any gratitude for this conciliatory approach. Allowing emotions to govern his response is the most dangerous thing he can do right now.

He says, ‘So you admit this is all just a game to you. What’s the problem? You got nobody else to play with? Nobody wants to be your friend anymore?’

‘To be frank, life was starting to become a little dull without you. You’re such a good sport, Cal. I missed you terribly. And I think you missed me too, didn’t you?’

‘That’s right, I was devastated. I was like a goldfish without a bicycle.’

‘You joke about it now, but admit it. You’ve been desperate for me to call, haven’t you?’

‘Is that what that was, going all silent on me? You trying to teach me a lesson of some kind?’

‘I was trying to show you that you need me too, Cal. I need you and you need me. We have a symbiotic relationship going here.’

‘Actually, I think of you more as a parasite. A tapeworm or a flea. The last thing I need is you sucking my blood the way you’ve been doing.’

‘Really? That’s the way you feel?’

‘That’s the way I feel.’

‘Then why did you answer this call?’

Doyle hesitates before he answers, and kicks himself for it. ‘Because of the text message. Because I wanted to know why you’ve suddenly decided to change tactics.’

‘Oh. Only that,’ says the voice, mocking in its disbelief. ‘Not because you realize that you and the rest of the boys in blue don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of stopping these killings without my help?’

‘Don’t underestimate us, asshole. We’re closer than you think.’

‘Of course you are. Well, in that case you won’t be needing my assistance. But just in case you change your mind, here’s how we’re going to do things from now on. Each time another killing is planned, I’m going to give you the option, Cal. I’ll let you decide whether you want to hear my little hints or not. I won’t sneak anything in. I’ll simply ask you for a yes or a no. Yes if you want my help. No if you don’t. It’s that simple. What do you think, Cal? Does that work for you?’