David Jackson - The Helper

‘I want your help,’ says Doyle.

‘You sure? I don’t want to twist your arm or anything.’

‘Just say what you gotta say.’

‘All right, Cal. I’m glad you’ve seen sense. Here we go. .’

As the music fades in, Doyle tunes out. He doesn’t even listen to what the man is telling him. Just lets him say his piece. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t give him any reaction. Nothing for the pond life to feed off. And when the monologue is over, Doyle hangs up without even a word.

He stares into space for a few moments longer. Then he reaches for the item he brought home from the station house. A digital voice recorder, still wired up to his cellphone. He switches it off. At the start of his shift he will hand it over to the Lieutenant.

And with it, he’ll be handing over his life.

Sunday morning. Doyle is wending his way to work again. The traffic is light, and it’s going to be another beautiful spring day. It feels to Doyle as though the fingers of sunlight reaching to him through his windshield should be accompanied by a heavenly choir. He wonders if he’s being told he should be driving to church instead. To seek some forgiveness. To discover if, even at this late stage, there’s any hope of salvation for him.

Waiting at a stop signal, he glances at the voice recorder sitting on the passenger seat next to him. It also seems to be sending him messages. Trying to entice him. As if it’s saying, Go on, you know you want to . Falling prey to temptation he picks it up and switches it on. And that’s why I don’t go to church anymore, he thinks. The priests always said I was weak. But why the hell not? What’ve I got to lose? Might as well hear what the Lieutenant’s about to hear before he tosses my ass in the slammer and swallows the key.

The music first. Something modern. Doyle knows this song. He’s not good on titles, but the band playing this one sings it time and time again.

Why does it always rain on me?

First clue? Has to be. But it means nothing to Doyle.

Then the killer’s voice breaks in. That damn silky voice that will haunt Doyle forever.

‘Certainly raining a lot on you lately, huh, Cal? If it carries on like this, you’ll need to get yourself a hat. Protect that brain. It’s the only thing that’s going to get you out of this mess.’

The caller pauses for a moment, raising the music’s volume and then lowering it before he speaks again.

Sonofabitch thinks he’s a damn DJ now.

‘I don’t want you making any mistakes on this one, Cal. You don’t have a good record so far. It must be breaking you up inside. How do you cope with that? All those mistakes? It must affect your behavior, your relationships. Maybe I should ask your wife. She of all people must sense something is wrong.’

He pauses again while he gives Doyle another blast of the song.

‘What’s the matter, buddy? Nothing you want to say to me? I understand. You must have a lot on your mind right now. As if all these people dying wasn’t enough. You’ve got the distractions too, right? All that small stuff that just gets in the way. The little irritations that you could do without. It’s all raining down on you, right, Cal?’

The chorus once more. Repeating the title: Why does it always rain on me?

‘It’s okay. You don’t need to say anything. Save your energy for what’s to come. Just remember that I’m here to help when you need me. Speak to you soon, my friend. Oh, and by the way, you have until eight o’clock tonight. Eight p.m. Get it right this time, Cal. I’m rooting for you, buddy.’

The call ends then. Doyle shuts off the recorder. What the hell was that all about? There were clues in there? Rain? What fucking rain?

It angers him that he cannot read anything of value into what he’s just heard. Is he really that stupid? Granted, he’s no chess grandmaster, but can’t he at least do something with what he’s just been given?

Fuck it.

Why am I stressing over this, anyhow? Makes no difference. Not my problem anymore. Let the PD figure it out. Let them decide what to do with me, too.

When he gets to the squadroom, he keeps his hands in his pockets, turning the voice recorder over and over. His mouth is dry. He tries licking his lips, but his tongue rasps on the parched skin. Through the windows looking into the Lieutenant’s office, there is no sign of Cesario.

Doyle turns to LeBlanc, who is biting into a soggy egg and bacon muffin. ‘The boss not in yet?’

LeBlanc wipes yolk from his mouth with a napkin. ‘He’s at the Big House for a meeting. Could be there for a coupla hours.’

Doyle nods his thanks and moves to his desk. Great, he thinks. It’s like pissing your pants and then being told you have to sit in them for the rest of the day.

He does some paperwork, makes some phone calls, answers a few more calls, but he feels he may as well not be there for all the impact he’s making. If all the cops were as absent from the planet as he is today, the crooks could go wild.

At just after ten-fifteen his desk-phone rings again. What is it with you people? Don’t you know it’s a Sunday? A day of rest, folks. Go cut your lawns or visit your aged aunts or jog around the park. Just stop bothering me when I’m on the verge of jumping off the cliff that was my life.

He answers it anyway. Reels off the usual, ‘Eighth Precinct. Detective Doyle.’

‘Detective Doyle? It’s Mrs Sachs here. I hope you don’t mind my bothering you like this, it being a Sunday morning and all.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Doyle catches sight of Lieutenant Cesario entering the room and moving across to his office. He feels his heart start to knock on his rib cage as if to say, You’re on, Doyle. Time for your swan song.

All he needs to do now is get rid of Mrs Sachs.

‘Hello, Mrs Sachs. How are you today?’

‘How am I? I don’t know how I am. I’m either deliriously happy or crushingly disappointed. What should I be, Detective? Tell me how I should feel.’

Doyle watches Cesario take his coat off and sit in his chair. He for one doesn’t look overjoyed. Doyle wonders if he’s getting heat from upstairs over the roommate murders. Well, Lou, maybe I can help you out on that score.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sachs. I don’t understand what it is you’re asking me.’

‘Well, you spoke with Mr Repp, didn’t you?’

Doyle recalls his visit to Repp, and it almost causes him to smile.

‘Yes, I spoke with him.’

‘Then I guess what he said to me yesterday must be with your permission. So I should be happy, am I right?’

‘Mrs Sachs, what did Repp say to you, exactly?’

‘That my Patricia is willing to come home. That she’s in some financial trouble, and that if I’m willing to provide the money for her to pay off her bills, she will come back home to me. That’s what he told me, and that’s what I would love to believe. Only. .’

Her voice cuts off, and Doyle is convinced she is choking back a tear. It’s what she would love to believe. But deep down, she knows she is being fleeced. She knows her daughter is dead.

‘Mrs Sachs, can I assume from what you’ve just said that Repp is willing to act as the courier here? That he is offering to take the cash to your daughter and then bring her back?’

‘Yes. That’s what he told me.’

‘And how much money did he say your daughter owes?’

‘Just over four hundred thousand dollars. It’s not the money. The money I can raise. But. .’

Son of a bitch, thinks Doyle. You wouldn’t listen, would you, Repp? I gave you fair warning, but you wouldn’t listen. You’re still gonna take the old lady’s money and then you’re gonna disappear. Well, we’ll see about that.