David Jackson - The Helper

‘Boy, that’s some commute.’

She doesn’t smile. ‘He’s in the oil business. He’s over there a lot.’

‘Shaking it with the sheikhs, huh? I bet it’s hot out there right now.’

‘Detective, do you really want to get into a discussion about climates, or is there another purpose to your visit here this afternoon?’

‘Actually I came to ask you about your ex-husband.’

‘Why? Are you still trying to pin the earlier murders on him?’

‘No. But I do want to find out who killed him.’

‘Really? Then I suggest your time would be better spent elsewhere. I have already been interviewed by the police. Several times, in fact. I have told them everything I can.’

‘Everything?’

‘Everything. No, Andrew did not have any enemies. No, he was never threatened to my knowledge. No, he did not have any financial worries. No, he did not tell me of any meetings arranged at his apartment on the night of his murder. No, he-’

‘Did he know any Indians?’

She stares at him. ‘What?’

‘Did he know any Indian people? I’m thinking psychologists here. Indian psychologists.’

She continues to stare. ‘Are you trying to be funny, Detective? Throwing out random questions like that just to prove a point? What’s next? Are you going to ask me if he ever ate pistachio ice cream on a Friday? If you’ve come here just to piss me off, then I should warn you-’

‘Actually I’m serious.’

She is silent for a moment while she searches Doyle’s face.

‘You’re serious?’

‘Deadly.’

‘You really want to know if Andrew knew any Indian psychologists?’

‘Yes.’

Another pause. ‘All right. Well, then, I guess the answer is probably yes.’

‘Only probably?’

‘Andrew was a renowned and well-connected psychotherapist. He attended many conferences and worked with many people. My guess is that he probably had professional dealings with people who were from India.’

‘But nobody specific that you can think of? No close friends that you were ever introduced to?’

‘No. Not that I can recall.’

Damn, thinks Doyle.

‘Okay, I got another one for you. Mount Sinai Hospital. Did your husband ever do any work there?’

‘No. I don’t know. Why are you-’

‘What about Indian doctors at Mount Sinai?’

‘Enough! Detective Doyle, what the hell are you doing here? I am on the edge of picking up my phone and calling your superiors. What the fuck is this?’

Doyle thinks he should go now. This is getting him nowhere. What’s stopping him is that he has more questions in his pocket. The problem is, Anna Friedrich isn’t going to supply him with answers. Not as things stand. She’s a lawyer. She knows how cops work. With most people, Doyle could get away with claiming that he’s merely pursuing something that cropped up during the investigation. But that won’t wash with this lady. She’s too smart and too savvy for that.

‘I. . I’m trying to make a connection.’

‘Well you’re going the wrong way about it, Detective. You really think this is the way to establish a rapport with me?’

Doyle almost cracks a smile. ‘Uh, no. I don’t mean a connection between us. I mean between the victims.’

Friedrich waves a hand as if to say, Whatever . But Doyle can tell she is faintly embarrassed by her misunderstanding.

‘I thought we already discussed your fanciful connection. In your interrogation room. Back when Andrew was still alive and you still had someone you could harass.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I know. But. . but I still think there’s something.’

‘We’ve been through this. The only concrete thing you had was that the murdered ex-cop was once a client of Andrew’s for a very brief time. And before you say anything, I still don’t believe that the Mellish girl ever even met Andrew, let alone had some kind of secret liaisons with him. He told me he didn’t know her, and I believe him. So that’s it. That’s all you have. And what it doesn’t do is get you any closer to finding my ex-husband’s murderer. So now, if you wouldn’t mind. .’

She uncrosses her legs, starts to rise. She’s about to show him the door.

‘That’s not all,’ he says, and he surprises himself by how loudly and firmly he says it.

‘What?’

‘It’s not all I have. I think there’s more to it.’

She lowers herself onto the sofa again. ‘What do you mean?’

Doyle says nothing.

‘Detective? What do you mean, there’s more to it?’

Go now, Doyle tells himself. Get out of here. Before you say something that will land you in deep shit. This woman’s a lawyer. A good lawyer. One false move with her and she’ll have you licking her shoes.

But he finds himself unable to get up from his chair.

He says, ‘I think it goes wider than most people think. Beyond the three victims you’ve just mentioned.’

She shakes her head, clearly mystified. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘There have been other murders recently. You may have read about them or heard about them on the news. All over the city. Totally different MOs. Nothing to tie them together. Nothing obvious, anyhow.’

‘Okay, so all the more reason for you to get one off the books by finding my husband’s killer, wouldn’t you say?’

‘That’s not what I mean. I think there’s someone. . someone out there.’

‘Someone out. . Who? Detective, you’re making absolutely no-’

And then the lightning bolt strikes. He sees it in her face, the way her mouth drops open.

‘You’ve got to be shitting me. A serial killer? You’re talking about a serial killer?’

Doyle’s nod is a subtle one. He almost can’t believe it himself when it’s stated so clearly, so baldly.

She says, ‘Let me be clear about this. The NYPD is now of the opinion that a number of murders recently committed in this city were the work of one person, and my ex-husband was one of his victims. Have I got that right?’

‘Uhm, not exactly.’

‘Not exactly? How not exactly?’

‘It’s not the official line of the NYPD that these murders are the work of a serial killer.’

‘Okay, I get the picture. They don’t want to panic the city. But unofficially . That’s what the police now believe.’

In response, Doyle puts out his hand and waggles it from side to side, a pained look on his face.

She says, ‘Jesus Christ, Detective. This is like talking to Lassie. A little help here, if you please. You want a crayon so that you can draw me a picture?’

‘It’s not what the NYPD believes. It’s what I believe.’

‘You. Just you?’

‘Just me.’

The room goes silent. Doyle is not sure which way this will go. He suspects she is probably wishing for her ex-husband to be back in the room. Someone who knows about people who are one sandwich short of a picnic.

She says, ‘Why? Why do you believe that?’

He shrugs. ‘A hunch. A feeling.’

‘Uh-huh. Tell me, do you hear voices in your head at night? Can you tell what dogs are saying when they bark? What do your police buddies think about this hunch of yours?’

Doyle casts his mind back to when Cesario slapped him on the arm and said it was worth a shot.

‘Not a lot.’

Friedrich smacks her lips. ‘Great. So you’re flying solo. You’re ignoring the advice of your Department, refusing to follow their example, and instead you’re following up your own half-baked theories. Actually, scratch that. Theory is too grand a term for this. You’re relying on intuition. You’re clutching at straws, scrabbling for a connection that isn’t there. Hence all the bizarre questions about Indian psychologists and hospitals. You want there to be a link so that you can tell yourself you’re right. It doesn’t matter how insignificant that common thread is, as long as it exists. It doesn’t matter that it won’t help you solve any of these murders. You just want to prove something. Isn’t that right, Detective?’