David Jackson - The Helper

He has given himself a deadline. Five minutes to eight. At that time, he will march up to Repp’s building and sound his buzzer and demand to come in. He will enter on the pretext of wanting to talk about the scam that Repp is running. In reality, he will be there to save Repp’s life. Even if it means revealing his presence to the killer, Doyle knows he can’t stay out here on the street when there’s a man in there who is about to die.

And if the killer shows, great. Who knows? Maybe he’s already inside the place. He could have been waiting in there all day, just waiting to pounce as the clock strikes eight. Go for it, thinks Doyle. Give me the chance to plug you, you piece of shit.

There’s a complication, of course. It has nagged at Doyle several times, but so far he has refused to think about it too hard. What if the killer decides to go quietly? What if he puts his hands up and surrenders and invites Doyle to take him in, giving him the opportunity to spill everything he knows about Doyle? How prepared is Doyle to let that happen?

Because if he’s not, his only other option might be to take the life of a man who is no longer a threat. Sure, he deserves to die. No doubt about it. For Tabitha and all the others, he should take a bullet. Doyle could repeat that to himself any number of times after he fired his gun. But would that be enough to make it right?

Doyle shakes his head. He can’t worry about such things. He has to just let it play out, and worry about the consequences later.

But he would so like to take that man off this earth. He has never felt so strongly about eliminating someone before now. With him gone, the whole city would breathe a sigh of relief. There would be one less cause of misery in the world.

As if the victims hadn’t suffered enough already. Tabitha, especially, when she lost her parents. But also Hanrahan, with his partner being killed in that shoot-out. Look what that did to him. And then there was. .

Wait a minute!

Doyle tenses up so much he feels as though all his ligaments should snap. Ants crawl along his scalp. His mind has already worked something out, but he’s not sure what it is yet.

Okay, start with Cindy Mellish, the bookstore girl. She was dumped by her boyfriend, and it really messed up her head. Ditto Lorna Bonnow when she lost her baby. And Vasey. .

Yes! It fits.

Vasey was kicked to the curb by the delectable Anna Friedrich. She revealed as much to Doyle only hours ago.

Loss. Could this be about loss?

Could it be that it’s not about the fact that these people were connected with psychologists, but about what drove them to seek help in the first place? Is that what this is?

Doyle runs the notion through his head again and again. It feels right. Only. .

Repp. What’s his loss? His failing business? Some girlfriend or wife in his past?

Doyle once more curses the fact that he knows zilch about Repp. Doesn’t know whether there’s a Repp-shaped hole in this puzzle or not.

Slow it down, Doyle. Think it through some more.

They all suffered some kind of loss. A deep loss that affected them profoundly. At least in most cases. According to his wife, Vasey claimed to be devastated, but probably wasn’t. But maybe that doesn’t matter. It’s what the killer believed that matters.

So what did they do because of this loss? They went to see a shrink. Yeah, but. .

Maybe that’s not it.

They were suffering, or claimed to be suffering. Tabitha was hurting so badly she even decided to commit suicide. Pretty ironic when you think about it, the way she was planning to end it all.

Oh sweet Jesus.

Surely not?

Doyle’s heart hammers against his chest. His brain feels as though it could burst with the blood that is surging through it.

He takes out his cellphone and selects a number from his contact list.

‘Eighth Precinct. Detective Holden.’

‘Jay? It’s Cal. Can you do something for me?’

‘No, is the answer that jumps to my lips. And that’s even before I’ve heard what it is you want. That’s what you’ve done to our relationship, man. I hope you’re satisfied.’

Doyle ignores the sarcasm. ‘I need some numbers.’

‘Yeah? How about six-six-six? There’s something not totally right about you lately, like you’re possessed or something.’

‘Seriously, man. Some phone numbers. Can you get them for me?’

‘Whose numbers?’

Doyle reels off the list.

‘Uh-huh,’ says Holden. ‘Pardon me for asking, but why can’t this wait till tomorrow, when you can come in and get them your own self?’

‘Because it can’t. I need to follow something up. Please, Jay.’

Holden sighs. ‘This is your stupid theory again, right? You need to let this go, Cal. Really. People are starting to talk.’

‘The numbers, Jay. Please.’

Another sigh. ‘I’ll call you back.’

‘I’ll hold.’

‘Cal, what the fuck are you-Oh, forget it.’

The line goes quiet. Doyle’s right leg shakes up and down while he waits. A fast beat. It does this when he’s anxious.

Holden comes back on the phone and starts reading out the numbers. Doyle scrawls them in his notebook, then utters a quick thank you and hangs up before Holden can ask him any more questions.

He taps in the first number on his list and presses the call button.

‘Hello?’

‘Mr Podolski? It’s Detective Doyle here. I was at your apartment this morning?’

‘Yeah, yeah. What’s up? You get the bastard?’

‘Not yet. I just need to ask you a coupla more questions about Lorna. You mind?’

‘No. Go ahead.’

‘Lorna told you about the baby, right? And she said it hit her hard. Her and her husband.’

‘Yeah. She came to terms with it eventually, but he never did.’

‘Okay, but before she came to terms with it. She was bad, right?’

‘Well, yeah. I mean, who wouldn’t be?’

‘How bad? Did she tell you?’

‘Bad. Real bad. I don’t know what you want me to say.’

‘Bad enough to want to kill herself?’

‘What?’

‘When she told you about this part of her life, losing the baby and all, did she ever say that she got so depressed she thought about committing suicide?’

Come on, thinks Doyle. Tell me I’m onto something here.

‘Well, yeah. She did say that. How did you know?’

Bingo, thinks Doyle. But only if. .

‘What did she say, exactly? Do you remember?’

‘She said. . she said it hit her when she was leaving the hospital. Like a wave of grief. She was walking out of the hospital with her husband. They were heading back to their car, and they had to cross the street. And then this ambulance came screaming along, and she. .’

‘Go on.’

‘She. . she said she wanted to jump out. In front of the ambulance. She wanted to just step out and let it mow her down, that’s how messed up she was. Look, is this necessary? I don’t like talking about this stuff. I’m not sure that Lorna would have-’

‘It’s useful, believe me. I’m not playing with you, Alex. I need to know these things.’

‘Well, okay. If it helps.’

‘It does. Thank you. I’ll be in touch, okay?’

‘Okay. But-’

Doyle hangs up. He almost cannot believe what he’s just heard. It’s coming together too smoothly.

He tries to control his breathing. It’s too early to be counting chickens.

He looks at the next number on his list. Taps it in with trembling fingers.

‘Hello.’

‘Josh Whiteley?’

‘Yeah, who’s this?’

‘This is Detective Doyle from the Eighth Precinct. I’m one of the officers working on the homicide of Cindy Mellish. I just need to ask you one or two questions. That okay with you, Josh?’