David Jackson - The Helper

‘I don’t know. I mean, I thought you guys were done with me. It wasn’t me, you know. I had nothing to do with it.’

‘I know, Josh, I know. All I want is for you to fill in a little background detail for me.’

‘All right. What do you wanna know?’

‘About when you broke it off with Cindy. You told the other detectives she didn’t take it too well, is that right?’

Whiteley snorts a laugh. ‘That has to be the understatement of the year, man. She flipped. Kept following me around, telling me how much she needed me. I mean, it was getting embarrassing , you know?’

‘She was crazy about you?’

‘She was crazy, period. I mean, I liked her and all, but I needed some space, you know? Every time I turned around the girl was there, sucking up my oxygen. She-’ Whiteley breaks off, as if realizing how this is starting to sound. ‘But this was a long time ago, man. She was out of my life way before-’

‘I know, Josh. Trust me, I’m not looking to jam you up here. I’m just trying to get a handle on her state of mind. You cool with that?’

‘I guess.’

‘Good. So Cindy refused to let go. She was desperate. She would have done anything to make you change your mind, right?’

‘Yeah. That about sums it up.’

‘So did she resort to emotional blackmail of any kind?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean like threatening to hurt herself if you didn’t take her back?’

There it is, thinks Doyle. The big question. Come on, Josh. I need a big fat yes here.

‘Yeah, she did that.’

Doyle punches the air. He has to stop himself from releasing a cry of triumph. It would sound a little disrespectful given the topic under discussion.

‘How, Josh? What exactly did she say she would do?’

‘Like, all kinds. Taking an overdose. Jumping off a building. Like I said, she was nuts.’

No, no, no. Wrong answer, Josh. Think again.

‘Anything else? Did she make any other specific threats to self-harm?’

‘Well, yeah. But it was lame. She was just trying to get to me.’

‘How, Josh? Why was it lame?’

‘One night, she called me up. Said she was going to cut her wrists.’

Doyle hears his phone creak as his grip on it tightens.

‘Go on. What happened?’

‘I told her to go ahead and do it then. I mean, I don’t want to sound unfeeling or anything, but she was seriously bugging me. What you have to understand is-’

‘I understand, Josh. Tell me what she did. Did she cut herself?’

‘No. What I mean is, not really. The next day she showed up with a coupla scratches on her arm. I’ve had worse from my cat. When she showed them to me, I just laughed. I know I shouldn’t have — I mean, the crazy bitch probably needed help — but, well. .’

Doyle knows that Josh Whiteley is waiting to hear more words that will help him feel good about himself, but Doyle is past caring about his welfare. He presents him with some prime bullshit instead: ‘Josh, you’ve been a great help. Knowing something about how Cindy’s mind worked could help us figure out what happened to her.’

‘Okay. Just as long as you don’t think it was me. I’m in the clear, right?’

Doyle ends the call without answering the question. Let the kid stew if he can’t be concerned about anyone but himself.

And then he allows himself to start believing.

Another box has been ticked. It all seems so simple now. So fucking obvious. How the hell could he not see this earlier?

There is one more number on his list. He enters it on his cellphone. This will be the litmus test. The confirmation of what he already knows to be true.

His call is answered, and he launches straight into it. Time is not his to waste.

‘Miss Friedrich, it’s Detective Doyle again. I have another question for you.’

The rush of his words causes her to hesitate. Then: ‘All right. Go on.’

‘You need to bear with me. It might sound a little off-base.’

‘Detective, I think we’ve already established your level of eccentricity. Whatever you ask now won’t surprise me.’

‘You told me that Dr Vasey wasn’t as badly disturbed by the break-up of your relationship as he claimed. Is that right?’

‘That’s what I believe, yes.’

‘Not affected enough to cause him extreme mental distress or to make him seek counseling.’

‘That’s right. I think I’d come to know him well enough to determine when he was just being theatrical.’

‘Okay, but he did claim that he was devastated? Whatever he actually felt about you, he tried to make you feel that you were ruining his life?’

‘Yes, but as I say-’

‘What form did that take?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘What words did he use? What did he say to try to make you feel bad?’

‘Well, I. . I don’t recall exactly. He ranted and raved, that’s all I remember. I was used to him doing that, so I tended to tune him out. Is it important?’

‘It could be. Let me help you. Did he ever threaten to harm himself?’

The silence is long enough to give Doyle his answer. When she speaks again, she is subdued.

‘How did you know that?’

‘Then he did?’

‘Yes. Yes, he did. He threatened to commit suicide.’

Praise the Lord, thinks Doyle, but decides not to say.

‘How? How was he going to kill himself?’

‘He. . he said he was going to string himself up. Hang himself. But it was bluster. I knew he had no intention of doing anything like that.’

‘No. But he said it anyway?’

‘Yes. That’s what he said. But I don’t. . Detective Doyle, I’m starting to find this just a little bit too creepy. What’s going on here?’

‘I don’t know. Not fully. And what I do think could be wrong.’

‘But you’re not wrong, are you? You know something. You’re not as crazy as the other cops believe, are you?’

‘Maybe. We’ll see. Watch this space.’

‘Oh, I’ll be watching. Prove them wrong, Detective. And prove to me you’re not the asshole I thought you were.’

‘Tall order. I’ll see what I can do.’

When he gets off the phone, he brings all the pieces together in his mind. Watches them slot neatly into place.

It was thinking about Tabitha that provided him with the first clue. How she decided to commit suicide by jumping into the East River, and then the irony of her being killed by drowning. It led him to think about the other victims, and in particular what Sean Hanrahan’s wife had said about him being on a sure route to the graveyard. Vasey’s case files also contained notes about discussions with Hanrahan regarding possible thoughts of suicide. It was a natural thing to ask him about. He had lost his partner. He was depressed and drinking heavily. The signs were all there of a cop who might be on the verge of killing himself.

And how would Hanrahan have committed the act? Why, the same way most other suicidal cops do it: by eating his gun. And how did he finally meet his end? That’s right — a gun blast to the head.

It could have all been coincidental, of course.

But not anymore. Not after what Doyle has just heard in those phone conversations.

Cindy Mellish, the bookstore girl. Loses her boyfriend and makes a feeble attempt at cutting her wrists. How does she die? By having first her wrists, and then the rest of her, sliced wide open.

Lorna Bonnow, the nurse. Lost a baby and felt like throwing herself in front of a moving vehicle. Dies when a car mashes her into pulp.

And then Vasey. Threatens to hang himself. Ends up with someone doing it for him, and in spectacular fashion.

That’s the connection. Has to be. The killer’s warped view of helping people is not limited to contacting Doyle and giving him pointers to the next victim.