David Jackson - Pariah

‘That was a bullshit beef and you know it. I was cleared.’

‘Just ’cause it was written up unsubstantiated, doesn’t make you clean. You’re a disgrace to the service, Doyle. You want to shoot me too now? Go ahead, pull the trigger, you piece of shit. Waste me like you wasted all your partners.’ He looks up at Doyle, a pain-twisted smile on his face. ‘Yeah, word gets around, don’t it? Finally, people are starting to know you for what you are.’

‘I didn’t kill them. I didn’t kill anyone. If the word’s getting around like you say, then you must know that somebody else is doing this, somebody looking to hurt me. You have any idea who that someone might be?’

Marino tries to laugh, but ends up coughing and spitting out bile. ‘If you’re thinking it’s me, then you go right ahead. Because if it’s not me this time, it’ll be me next time. After what you did to Laura and me, you deserve everything you get.’

Doyle wants so much to pull back his foot and fire a well-aimed kick into Marino’s groin. ‘If I find out you got anything to do with this, you’re a dead man, Marino. You hear me? A dead man.’

Doyle walks away then, holstering his gun. Behind him, he hears Marino getting to his feet amid the jeers from the watching kids.

‘Anytime, Doyle. Anytime. Who’s going to help you now? You got no friends left. You’re a nothing, Doyle. A nobody. Have a nice life, while you still got one.’

Doyle doesn’t look back. He just keeps going until he reaches his car. He opens the door and gets in, then winces as he touches a hand to the swelling on his head.

Well, you handled that just fine, Detective, he thinks. Real nice job, you stupid prick.

Doyle enters the squadroom like a late pupil who’s trying to sneak into class without the teacher spying him. Only when he is convinced that the lieutenant is still out at his meetings does he breathe a sigh of relief and settle at his desk.

At two-thirty p.m., Doyle’s cellphone rings. He plucks it from his pocket and stabs at the answer button.

‘Hello.’

‘Doyle? It’s me. Spinner.’

He sounds excited. Elated almost.

‘Spinner? What’s up?’

‘I think I’m onto something.’

‘So fast? How?’

‘I got a meeting fixed up. Some people I know. They want to talk about who whacked your two partners.’

And two hookers and a pimp, Doyle thinks. But then they don’t count, do they?

‘What people, Spinner? Are you sure about this? What’s in it for them?’

‘Not on the phone. Later. Meet me at the usual place. Five o’clock.’

‘Spinner! Hold on, man. I don’t like the sound of-’

But the line goes dead.

Doyle prays that Spinner isn’t about to go the same way.

He gets to the boxing gym at four o’clock, a full hour early. He sits in his car and waits, his eyes trained on the entrance to the gym. There’s no sign of Spinner entering or leaving, and at four-forty-five Doyle decides to check the place out.

He leaves his car, walks along the block and into the gym. Inside, he takes a good look around, finds the usual assortment of pugilists, trainers and other regulars. But no Spinner.

He leaves the building, goes back to his car and sits there for another half-hour, still watching. At five-thirty he goes back in for another reconnaissance, again with no success. Near the door he hails a man who has a brick-shaped head and no discernible neck.

‘You seen Spinner lately?’

The man has to twist his whole upper torso to shake his head.

‘Spinner? No, he ain’t been in today.’

Doyle leaves and returns to his car.

This ain’t right, he thinks. The whole thing stinks. Why the hell would anyone call in a small-time crook and junkie like Spinner to reveal what they know about a killer on the loose?

And that’s when he really starts to worry.

He worries enough to fire up his engine and take the car screaming around to Spinner’s apartment building.

He worries enough to take the steps two at a time as he races up to Spinner’s floor.

He worries enough to draw his gun and kick open Spinner’s door without even bothering to knock.

And then he stops worrying. Because Spinner is there in his apartment, sitting on his wooden chair facing Doyle. Wearing a big smile.

A red smile.

On his neck.

Worrying won’t help him now.

There’s a lot of blood. A hell of a lot of blood. But that’s not the worst of it. .

Spinner’s head is tilted back and his eyes are open, staring at a spot above the doorway like he has a crick in his neck. The gash in his throat stretches almost from ear to ear, gaping and glistening. His clothes are sopping and sticky with his own blood. The dining table has been dragged from its usual position and set directly in front of Spinner. On it there’s a tape recorder and a microphone. And a hammer.

Spinner’s hand, his good hand, rests next to the recorder. Two six-inch nails have been driven through it, holding it firmly to the table’s surface. All the fingers of the hand have been smashed with the hammer, crushing and flattening them into a single useless bloody mass. Like raw hamburger.

It must have been the ultimate torture for a man like Spinner. For a boxer of such promise to lose the use of one precious hand was devastating enough. To lose the second, there in front of his eyes, would have destroyed any spirit left in the man. Had his persecutor not finished him off, Spinner would probably have done it himself.

Doyle can almost hear the screams, see the agony and pleading in Spinner’s eyes as the hammer crashes down time and time again, destroying his fingers, destroying his hope.

Doyle wants to cry over the waste of it, to rage at the stomach-churning cruelty of it. But what rips at him most is his own culpability.

‘Jesus Christ, I’m sorry,’ Doyle whispers to his friend. ‘I’m so sorry.’

It’s some time before he can put his mind back in order. He knows what he should do now. He should back out of the room, put in a call to Central. Get the experts down here while he protects the crime scene.

What the fuck. He’s in enough trouble as it is. What’s one more transgression going to add to his load?

And so he steps across the sodden carpet. Checks that the rest of the apartment is empty before returning to the body.

He looks again at the tape recorder. Taking a pen from his pocket, he uses it to press the eject button. The player’s door springs open, but there’s no cassette inside.

He frowns, then turns his attention back to Spinner. He leans in for a closer look, and that’s when he sees it. Shiny and wet, it’s tucked deep into Spinner’s throat wound. Doyle takes his pen and pokes it gently into the fleshy chasm, pressing it against the foreign object. Whatever’s in there, it’s wrapped in some kind of plastic material.

Trying to apply the minimum of force, he teases the object out, farther and farther until it’s protruding from Spinner’s throat like some distorted second tongue. He goes off to the bathroom, and comes back with a wad of tissue. He wraps the tissue around his fingers, then uses it to grasp the edge of the object and pull it all the way out. As it comes free, a bubble of blood distends from Spinner’s trachea and pops softly.

With great care, Doyle unrolls the plastic bag. He puts it down on the table and props it open with his pen, then reaches inside with some fresh tissue between his fingers.

What he brings out is a cassette tape. The words ‘Detective Doyle’ are written in pen on its label. The handwriting is Spinner’s.

Doyle slides the tape into the recorder, snaps the lid closed, then presses the play button.

At first he’s not sure what he’s listening to. Some heavy rock music is playing really loudly, but beneath that is also the sound of faint sobbing. Doyle gradually realizes that the killer had turned on the stereo and ramped up the volume to mask what was happening here in the apartment. The crying is Spinner’s.