David Jackson - The Helper

‘No. Other than the shrink, I can’t find anything.’

Cesario nods, like it’s the outcome he expected. ‘Actually, I’m kinda glad. The last thing I need right now is a serial killer on the loose. It’s bad enough that the city’s murder rate has shot up lately without it all being the work of some mysterious homicidal maniac. Worth a shot, though, huh?’

He slaps Doyle on the arm and heads out of the room.

Doyle feels like a kid who’s just lost a major football game and been told he did his best. The patronizing tone in Cesario’s voice was that obvious.

He shakes his head and moves to his desk. Sits down and stares at the mound of files in front of him. One manila folder for each of the deceased. His lie to Cesario was only a partial one. Of course there’s a link between the victims: they were all killed by the same man. But beyond that there has to be another connecting thread of which he is as yet unaware. Doyle refuses to believe they were targeted at random. There has to be a reason. And the reason has to be in these files.

But he’s been through them. Time after time. He’s found nothing. It’s another quiz question: What do the following have in common? But this isn’t one he can pass on to Rachel. He has to solve this one for himself. He has to locate the thread so that he can tie it to Repp. Only then can he be certain that he’s figured out the identity of the next victim.

A few days ago he was convinced he had it. It all looked as though Vasey was the focal point. Both Cindy Mellish and Sean Hanrahan consulted Vasey, and then Vasey himself became a victim. But then it all fell to pieces. None of the other victims were ever clients of Vasey. So maybe the only association there was that Mellish and Hanrahan were murdered partly as a way of signposting the way to Vasey as the next victim.

Or is that just what the killer wanted him to think?

Did he want Doyle to think that this was all there was to it, when in fact there was something more concrete in the apparent relationship?

Okay, so hold that thought. Let’s explore this a little more.

Mellish and Hanrahan consulted Vasey. Lorna Bonnow and Tabitha Peyton never did. Or, at least, they don’t appear on Vasey’s official client lists. Which in itself is not definitive because Cindy Mellish isn’t on those lists either. The other two victims — the doorman of Vasey’s building and Helena Colquitt — can be disregarded as collateral damage.

Let’s assume for the moment that Lorna and Tabitha didn’t consult Vasey.

However. .

Maybe they did go to see a shrink!

Tabitha Peyton was a wreck. Beautiful, intelligent, delightful — yes, all those. But a wreck too. She lost both her parents. It drove her to drink, to meaningless relationships, and almost to self-destruction. Wouldn’t it also have driven her to seek professional psychological help at some point?

It’s a possibility. Doyle regrets now that he didn’t ask her directly when he had the opportunity, but at the time he had already dismissed the Vasey hypothesis.

And what about the nurse, Lorna Bonnow? Did she ever see a shrink?

Doyle decides it’s time to abandon his desk.

The husband or the lover. It’s almost a coin-toss.

He opts for the boyfriend, partly for the reason that he lives here in Manhattan, but primarily because Doyle suspects that if Lorna was in the habit of divulging her deepest darkest secrets, it was more likely to be to her clandestine lover than to the partner on whom she was cheating.

Doyle’s immediate impression of Alex Podolski is that he is one of those guys who spends a lot of time in front of the mirror. His long hair is shiny and immaculate. He wears a canary-yellow T-shirt that is tight enough to ripple with the underlying muscles. And he seems to have cultivated a manner of looking sidelong at people when he addresses them, presumably because he has decided that it’s his most striking pose.

Podolski invites Doyle inside, and glides with the grace of a panther across his living room. Doyle follows him in with the refinement of a bull elephant. He notices how the walls are festooned with martial arts equipment: curved swords, nunchucks and various wooden sticks, poles and spears.

‘Quite a collection,’ Doyle says.

‘Thanks. Amazing what you can find on eBay. I just finished placing an order for a fukiya . That’s a Japanese blowgun that fires poison darts.’

Doyle figures he’s supposed to sound impressed. ‘This all for show, or do you put it to use?’

Podolski smiles. ‘It’s for show. Although I might change my mind if I ever find the bastard who killed Lorna. Not that I’ll need it. My hands should be enough. I’m a karate black belt.’

Again I should be impressed, thinks Doyle.

Podolski looks him up and down, assessing him. ‘You do any martial arts yourself?’

‘A few years ago,’ Doyle lies.

‘What? Kung Fu? Taekwondo?’

‘Karaoke,’ Doyle says. ‘Had to give it up after injury, though. Kept straining my throat, you know?’

Podolski stares at him, obviously trying to figure out whether Doyle is mocking or joshing.

Get uppity with me, Bruce Lee, and I’ll put you on your ass, thinks Doyle.

Podolski smiles. ‘I’ll take that as a no. You should try it. Get back into shape.’

‘That’s okay. I get enough exercise chasing after assholes all day. Speaking of which. .’

He pauses, lets his gaze linger on Podolski. He sees the man’s eyes narrow. At least, he sees one of them narrow, given the way Podolski is maintaining his sidelong photoshoot pose.

For someone who should be supremely confident of his abilities, he’s a touchy bastard, thinks Doyle.

‘. . we’re still trying to catch Lorna’s killer,’ he continues, and notices how Podolski relaxes his shoulders. But only slightly.

Doyle says, ‘You mind if I ask you a few things about her?’

Podolski hesitates. ‘What did you say your name was again?’

‘Detective Callum Doyle.’

‘And the precinct?’

‘The Eighth. Why do you ask?’ But he knows precisely why. Podolski tightens up again. Doyle sees the muscles twitch in his jaw.

‘Lorna got a call, on the night she was killed. It’s what made her go outside. The guy on the phone said he was a detective from the Eighth Precinct. Said his name was Boyle or Doyle — something like that.’

Doyle tries to remain unruffled. ‘Yeah, we know. To be honest, it’s the only reason I got involved in this case. Officially it belongs to Detective Lopez at the Twenty-Seventh Precinct. He told me the caller tried to pass himself off as me. I want to know why. It could be we’ve crossed paths before.’

Podolski considers this, then nods. ‘Okay, what can I tell you?’

Here we go, thinks Doyle. It’s a long shot, but. .

‘We’re looking into Lorna’s past. In case there’s something there. Anything you can tell us could be useful, no matter how insignificant it might seem. Okay?’

‘Sure.’

‘So what I want to know is whether Lorna ever suffered some kind of trauma. Some event in her life that may have drastically affected her state of mind. Do you understand what I’m getting at?’

‘I think so.’

‘So was there anything like that? She ever mention anything to you about some terrible thing that happened to her? Doesn’t have to be recent. Coulda been years ago.’

It’s gonna be a no, thinks Doyle. Podolski is about to shoot this theory down in flames. At best, he’s gonna say that they never talked about personal shit. They screwed, and that’s as far as it went. Maybe I should have opted for the husband rather than this self-obsessed jerk-off.

‘Well, there was the baby.’