David Jackson - The Helper

He is not in a police sedan, with its lights and sirens and air of authority. He is in his own rust-bucket of a car, and all he has at his disposal is a car horn; and everybody else on the streets, many of whom have much more imposing vehicles and much more impressive car horns, simply blare back at him and flip him the finger and mouth words such as ‘asshole’.

But he gets there.

He gets there just as they are lifting Tabitha’s lifeless and naked corpse from the bathtub. It becomes real then. She is dead. Despite the frequent but unconvincing arguments that have been running through his head about there being some mistake, Tabitha Peyton is most assuredly no longer in the land of the living.

You’ll be safe. I promise.

That’s what he told her in the coffee shop. That he would protect her. And she believed him. She trusted him unreservedly. And he let her down.

‘You believe this shit?’

Jay Holden. At Doyle’s side.

‘I mean, that the guy has the balls to kill one girl, then come back the next day and kill the other one?’

Doyle says nothing. He is too numb. It seems too much of an effort even to think, let alone speak.

Holden doesn’t let up. He grabs Doyle by the upper arm and turns him so that they are face to face. Holden’s expression is more serious than any that Doyle has seen on him before. And when Holden speaks again, it is in a low rumble.

‘You know something, don’t you? Me, I don’t know shit. I’m just a simple cop. This is all fucked up and I don’t know why. These girls dying like this. The shrink and the other vics. Maybe they’re connected and maybe they’re not. I have no idea. But you know, don’t you, Cal?’

Doyle maintains eye contact with Holden. He neither confirms nor denies Holden’s suspicion. But he knows that Holden isn’t stupid. It doesn’t take a detective to work out that Doyle has a deeper interest in this case than is normal.

Holden nods. As though he has just heard Doyle’s thoughts.

‘When you want to talk, you know where to find me.’

And then he walks away.

Doyle feels his legs itching to take him in Holden’s direction. God, if he could only tell him. If he could share this burden with somebody else. Anybody. How much of a release would that be?

And then another voice breaks into his thoughts. A voice much less welcome.

‘Hey, Doyle! Good to see you again.’

Doyle turns to see Folger, with the usual stupid grin on his face. Behind him, Kravitz stands silently.

Folger continues: ‘You called in for a look at the babe? Another stunner, huh? Better even than the first one, in my book. You think they were rug munchers? I think they musta been. There’s not a trace of rug left on either of ’em.’

His laugh is raucous and unaccompanied. He tries to nudge his partner in the ribs, but succeeds in reaching only as high as his solar plexus. Kravitz recoils, slightly winded, but also looking faintly embarrassed and irritated.

Doyle shakes his head in apparent pity. ‘Folger, get a life.’

He turns away, but Folger decides he hasn’t finished.

‘Get a life! That’s rich! You hear that? Get a life. From the guy who has people dropping dead all around him. From the guy who doesn’t get cases any more serious than traffic offenses. From the guy who’s so fucked up he thinks all the crimes in the city are the work of one evil mastermind. This is no comic book, Doyle. There ain’t no such person as Lex Luther. Get a life. Jesus, what a joke.’

Doyle knows he should keep on walking. He should maintain his cool and leave all this behind. Doesn’t matter what they think. Doesn’t matter what they might say about him when he’s gone.

Like hell it doesn’t.

He does an about-turn and strolls back to Folger. The Homicide detective stands his ground, but Doyle knows it’s only because he’s given himself no choice. You can’t throw out a pile of shit like that and then take refuge behind your partner when it starts flying back at you.

‘Nah,’ says Doyle. ‘That ain’t the joke. You wanna know what the real joke is? It’s when people say that short people make up for it with big dicks. It’s just not true. I know that because I spoke with a hooker named Alicia.’

Doyle hears a collective intake of breath from around the room. It’s been rumored for a while that, through sheer desperation, Folger has been getting it on with a fat old prostitute, but nobody has had the temerity to raise the topic in his presence.

Until now. And Doyle isn’t keeping his voice down as he reveals all.

‘Alicia told me yours is the tiniest she’s seen in her whole life, and she’s gonna be fifty this year. That’s a lot of dicks to compare against. She did say you’ve got stamina, though. Said you were grunting and gasping in that bedroom for over an hour. Until she got tired of waiting and helped you climb up onto the bed.’

The room erupts. Folger erupts too, but it’s with uncontrollable fury rather than laughter. When he lashes out, Doyle is ready for it. He’s expecting it. In fact, he wants it.

He swats away Folger’s telegraphed punch as though it’s a mere inconvenience, and then he responds in the way he has been planning all along. Grabbing Folger hard by the throat, he pushes him backward. Only by a couple of feet. Just enough to send him ass over tit into the bathtub.

‘Holy shit!’ somebody says.

Folger pulls himself up in the water and starts to drag himself out of the tub.

‘Oh, you did it now, Doyle. Your career is over. It was nothing anyway, but now you are so finished. You are fucked, boy.’

He steps onto the floor, water pooling around him. He stretches out a finger, then slowly circles his arm so that the finger takes in everyone in the room. ‘You all saw that, right? You saw him assault a fellow officer.’ His finger finally lands on Kravitz. ‘You saw it too, right? For the report. You saw what he did.’

Doyle sees Kravitz look down on his partner. And what he realizes is that the man is looking down not just through altitude, but through attitude too.

‘Yeah, I saw it. I also saw you throw the first punch. You want that in the report too?’

That’s when Doyle decides it’s time to go. He takes one last look at the face of Tabitha Peyton, then walks out the door. Nobody in that room is going to report him for standing up for himself. If anyone’s career is over, it’s Folger’s. At the very least, there’s probably a divorce about to take place between the Homicide cops.

He trudges down the staircase. He should feel better after putting Folger in his place, but he doesn’t. Folger is an irrelevance. The face at the forefront of his mind right now is not Folger’s but Tabitha’s. Tabitha’s beautiful, innocent face, now reflecting the peace she once craved. Maybe she was right to feel so disenchanted with this city. It finally claimed her, didn’t it? And there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Nothing he could do to turn her life around and provide her with the opportunity to discover happiness.

When he hits the street outside, his heart is filled with darkness. There is the potential for murder in that heart.

And he’s not sure he wants it to go away.

He pounds on the door. Which in itself is a favor, because what he really wants to do is kick it right down.

When it opens a crack, Doyle slams his palms on it and sends Gonzo reeling across the living room.

‘What the fuck happened, Gonzo? You were supposed to be looking after her. How could you take your eye off the ball like that?’

Gonzo’s jaw moves up and down, but nothing comes out. It’s like someone has pressed his mute button.

It’s only then that Doyle notices the absurdly large, white-framed spectacles that Gonzo is sporting. Only then that he sees the swelling on Gonzo’s cheek, distorting his face into that of a hamster with a peanut in its jowls. Only then that the truth dawns on him. He lowers his voice to a more respectable level.