David Jackson - Pariah

‘I got nothing to hide,’ he says.

Franklin waves a hand across the letter. ‘You got any idea who could be behind this?’

‘Nope. Everybody loves me. Just ask Schneider.’

‘Speaking of which, we have to let them know. If this sicko is prepared to carry out these threats. .’

‘Then everyone I work with could be in danger. I understand that.’

‘We have to play it safe.’

‘I understand. Really.’

‘And I can’t team you up with anyone else right now. Not till we catch this fruitcake.’

This isn’t such a blow to Doyle. If Schneider’s preaching has worked as intended, nobody will want to partner him anyhow.

And then Doyle suddenly realizes where this might be leading.

He says, ‘Just. . don’t take me off the case.’

Franklin opens his mouth and then closes it again, as if re-thinking his words.

‘Mo?’

The hesitation goes on a little longer. Then: ‘Work alone, Cal. Let the other cops do their jobs. Put up with their questions. In the meantime, do what you can to work out who’s behind this. But do it alone.’

Doyle stares into Franklin’s flinty eyes as he tries to read the subtext. He senses that the lieutenant is granting him a huge concession, that he’s acting against an impulse to preempt any possible danger to the members of his squad. For now, at least.

Doyle nods his gratitude. In return, Franklin chin-points at the door and the squadroom beyond.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

As Franklin reads out the message, Doyle waits for the reaction to set in. He waits for the gathered detectives to start making the sign of the cross at him and yelling, ‘Unclean, unclean!’ He waits for them to shuffle their chairs to the far corners of the room and tie handkerchiefs across their faces.

Instead, he gets a welcome surprise.

Because what he sees on the faces of his colleagues is outrage. He sees a band of men and women who do not take kindly to being goaded. A threat? Against a cop? Against New York’s finest? What the fuck is that? Bring it on, shit-for-brains. We’re ready for you.

And what Doyle learns in that moment is that the receipt of the note is one of the best things that could have happened to him in the present circumstances. Because now there is an enemy. Nameless, yes; faceless, yes — but an enemy for all that. What these people needed to hear more than anything was that there is an external agent responsible for this mayhem — that it has nothing to do with the poor schmuck sitting just a few feet away. It’s how it should be: cops on one side, criminals on the other, and never the twain shall meet.

Doyle senses the wave of relief that washes over the squad as they acknowledge the changed situation. They are comfortable with this. This is something they can get their teeth into. Doyle can almost feel the melting away of some of the antagonism against him.

But not from everyone.

It’s Schneider who remarks, ‘Has anyone checked to see if that note is in Doyle’s handwriting?’

It is a curious venture, trying to work out who hates you and why.

Cops get threatened all the time, and Doyle has had his fair share of being on the receiving end. But what people say and what people do are usually two very different things. Your occasional perp, aggrieved at being caught, arrested and possibly sent to prison, may promise to carry out all manner of unspeakable acts on you, your family, and even your pets. But usually it’s all talk, most of them having neither the intelligence nor the wherewithal to put their plans for revenge into effect. Of the more powerful and resourceful criminals that Doyle has consigned to living in a box — and there have been a good number — most are level-headed enough to realize that it’s all part of the game. They do wrong, they get caught, they go to prison, no hard feelings. Such is the nature of their enterprise. To attempt to exact revenge does not make good business sense, and becomes sheer lunacy when it involves stirring the wrath of the NYPD.

And so Doyle is having a hard time coming up with a list of potential subjects, especially those possessing the ingenuity and audacity displayed so far. All he can do is err on the generous side, adding to the list even those who probably don’t remember that it was Doyle who arrested them in the first place.

He spends hours working his way through old case files, reading and rereading his DD5 reports to refresh his memory, making the occasional phone call to check a fact, a detail, the present whereabouts of a con. It’s the same process he went through with Joe Parlatti’s files, only this time it’s personal, and that makes it hard to be objective. Now and again he adds a name to his list, together with a few notes about them, but almost every time a nagging voice says to him, Do you really think this guy could be doing this?

There’s one name he doesn’t set down on his notepad, even though it should probably go at the top of the list. It’s a name that doesn’t appear in any of the arrest records or mugshot books currently spread out in front of him.

He doesn’t want to go down that path. Not yet. Not until it starts to look like it’s the only one still untrodden.

Doyle tosses his pen onto the desk. He digs the middle finger and thumb of his right hand into his eyeballs, trying to squeeze out the tiredness. He stretches his arms out to the sides, hears his vertebrae and shoulder blades complain. He looks at his watch. Six-forty p.m. Way past the end of his shift. The faces that started the day with him have all been replaced by new ones. He knows he should go home, get a good night’s sleep. See something of Rachel and Amy.

Oh, shit!

What was it I promised Rachel last night? About keeping in touch? About how I would call her from the station house to let her know I’m okay, and especially when shit like this is happening?

And how many times have I called today, when we have another cop in the morgue and I’ve received a note from the killer?

He reaches for the phone, knocking over a paper coffee cup as he does so. There was only a cold mouthful left, but it seems to spread like a river that has just burst its banks. He grabs a Kleenex and tries to mop up the murky deluge as he dials home.

He gets a ring tone, but no answer. Eventually, the answering machine cuts in and he hangs up.

Strange. Where would they be now?

Normally they would be sitting down to eat at this time. Or Rachel would still be cooking the meal. In any case, they would be in the apartment.

Unless. .

Unless Rachel has already heard the news about Tony Alvarez, and she’s pissed that her thoughtless husband has forgotten his pledge to keep her informed. In which case maybe she’s felt the need to escape, and has whisked Amy off to a McDonald’s or a pizza parlor.

Yeah, that’s it.

Doyle takes his cellphone from his pocket and speed-dials the number of Rachel’s own cell.

It goes straight to voicemail, and Doyle cancels the call.

She’s really pissed all right.

He snatches a few more Kleenex from the box and does his best to dry off the pages of his reports before turning his attention to them again. He stares at the pages for another half-hour, but not with the same degree of concentration he had earlier. Thoughts of Rachel keep crowding his mind. He pictures her sitting in a diner somewhere, staring into space and not eating, while Amy wolfs down her chicken strips and fries with bucketfuls of ketchup.

At seven-fifteen he repeats the calls — home first and then Rachel’s cell. Nothing has changed. Rachel has decided on a tit-for-tat approach. You don’t want to call me? Fine, I don’t want to accept your calls.

It’s the only possible explanation.