David Jackson - The Helper

‘Mrs Sachs, let me look into this, okay? Give me some time to check it out. Meanwhile, keep tight hold of your money. Don’t give Repp a penny till I clear it. Okay?’

‘All right. Yes. Thank you. I’ll wait, but. . I don’t want to lose her, Detective. If she really is willing to come home. .’

‘Just give me until tomorrow, please. One more day to check this story out. Your daughter has been gone since 2001. One more day isn’t going to make a difference.’

There’s a pause, and then: ‘You’re right. I can wait another day. When you’re my age, the days fly past like they’re minutes. I’ll wait. Thank you, Detective. You’ve been good to me.’

‘Goodbye, Mrs Sachs.’

He almost slams the phone down. What the hell does Repp think he’s playing at? Does he think this is a game? Does he think he can just ignore what I said and carry on doing things his way? What a shit. What a lousy, stinking. .

What am I doing?

Why am I getting so caught up in this? Five minutes from now I won’t even be a cop. Repp will be in somebody else’s caseload. Why am I letting him get to me like this?

Why? Because I care, that’s why. I care about people like Mrs Sachs and all the other victims who deserve to have somebody on their side, fighting their corner. It’s why I became a cop.

And that’s what I’ll miss. See, I was wrong. When I sat here complaining about working the small cases instead of the high-profile ones, I had it all wrong. It’s the Mrs Sachses of this world that make the job worthwhile.

And I’m gonna throw it all away.

Doyle looks again into Cesario’s office. This is one of the hardest decisions he’s ever had to make, but he knows he can’t back out now.

He gets up from his desk. Slips his hand into his pocket and grasps the digital recorder. Starts dragging leaden feet toward the Lieutenant’s room.

In the scheme of things, with all these corpses piling up around him, Mrs Sachs’s problems are peanuts. Yes, he’d happily smash Repp’s face in right now if he had the chance, but let’s get things in perspective. People are dying and will continue to die if nothing is done. On that scale, Repp is way down the list. He’s an irrelevance. An irritant. A. .

Doyle stops in his tracks.

What was it the caller said on the phone?

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?

Doyle stands there in the middle of the squadroom, his eyes darting but seeing nothing as he replays the phone call in his mind.

Shit!

He looks up. He sees Cesario raise his head and catch sight of him, then give him a look of inquiry.

Doyle feels himself being tugged toward Cesario’s office. He takes a step forward.

And before he can stop himself he is spinning on his heels and heading out of the squadroom. He looks straight ahead, blinkered to the other detectives. He marches out into the hallway and then down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Taking them so fast he runs the danger of tripping and sending himself hurtling through the air. But he’s oblivious to the risk. He just needs to know. He needs to find out.

He breezes past the sergeant’s desk, through the wooden front doors and out onto the sidewalk. He takes out his cellphone and speed-dials a number.

A single question burns in his mind. To anyone else it would sound trivial, but to Doyle it’s the most important question in the world. And he knows who will have the answer.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, hon, it’s me.’ He tries to sound casual, to keep the tremor of urgency out of his voice.

‘Cal, what’s wrong?’

So much for not panicking his wife.

‘Nothing’s wrong. I just need to speak with you.’

‘You’re okay? I mean, the way you were talking last night-’

‘Forget about that. A touch of the blues, that’s all. Today’s another day.’

‘Okay, so good. I’m glad. Because you had me worried.’

‘I know. Forget about it. Seriously.’

‘Okay. So, then, why the call?’

Any other husband might be irritated by the question, the tone of suspicion. But then other husbands probably call home more often than Doyle does. He admits he has only himself to blame. When he has his work head on, home and family tend to get pushed out. It has caused friction between him and Rachel before, and he has promised her that he will try harder. This should be one of those calls, making up for his failings in the past. Unfortunately it isn’t.

‘Well, this is gonna sound kinda weird. But things are pretty quiet down here today and, well, we’re doing a quiz.’

‘A quiz? You’re doing a quiz? In the station house? Things are so slow that you have time to do a quiz? All the criminals in your precinct have decided to take the day off?’

‘Yeah. And I got this question. If we get this right, our team wins.’

‘Callum Doyle! Are you expecting me to help you cheat?’

‘One team point. That’s all we need. And it all rides on this question. Please, hon. You gotta help me out here.’

He hears a sigh, but he knows she can’t resist quiz questions. ‘Shoot.’

‘It’s a music question, okay? Britpop, I think, so right up your street. I recorded a few seconds of it. Ready?’

‘Go ahead.’

He takes out the digital recorder and holds it in front of the phone. He presses the play button. The music comes across loud and clear. Just before the killer’s voice breaks in, Doyle shuts it off and puts the phone back to his ear.

‘Did you hear that?’

‘Yeah. “Why does it always rain on me?” The title’s in the lyrics, Cal.’

‘I know, I know. But I can’t remember who sang it. I need to know the band.’

‘That’s easy,’ she says. And she tells him. Goes on to say, ‘Ask me another.’ But he’s not listening. She said what he thought she would say. What he hoped she would say.

It’s from an album called ‘The Man Who’.

The band’s name is Travis .

The person who is supposed to die at eight o’clock this evening is Travis Repp.

Nothing has changed. It’s still the case that people have died. More people are about to die. It’s just that now he has a little more information about the next intended victim. The conclusion? He should still hand what he’s got over to the Lieutenant.

Everything has changed. He was about to go under. Now he’s been thrown a lifeline. He can catch the killer. He can set up a trap at Repp’s place and catch the killer. The conclusion? He should save his career and his liberty and maybe even come out of this a hero.

What a di-fucking-lemma.

Because if he opts to go it alone, and he gets it wrong. .

Again . .

Well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.

And yes, he could still be wrong. He got it wrong before, when he believed that Paddy Gilligan was about to take a hit.

Yes, Doyle, but that’s because you didn’t do your homework. You made assumptions. You didn’t even bother to check out the fucking song, you moron. ‘Hanrahan’s Last’. How easy would that have been if you’d checked the song?

So the lesson is?

The lesson is I have to be sure. I have to be certain beyond all doubt that the next vic is Repp.

And I have about nine and a half hours to do it.

Back in the squadroom, he bumps into Cesario coming the other way.

‘You wanted to see me?’ says Cesario.

‘Uh, no. It can wait.’

‘You getting anywhere with that theory of yours about those DOAs being connected?’

Doyle fingers the recorder in his pocket again.