David Jackson - Pariah

And then: ‘No. No. I won’t do it.’

Doyle wonders what it is he’s refusing to do, but he doesn’t have long to ponder it. The next sound he hears is a bang like a gunshot, followed by a howl of excruciating pain that causes Doyle to leap away from the table and put his hands to his ears.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ Doyle yells to drown out the screams. ‘Sweet fucking Jesus.’

When he can bring himself to listen again, the music has been turned right down and Spinner is talking to him.

‘Cal? It’s me, buddy. I have to read something to you, okay? I have to read this, so here goes.’ There’s a pause, then a slight rustle of paper, and then Spinner talking through his tears again. ‘ “Detective Doyle. You did this to me. You were warned, but you didn’t listen. You were supposed to stay away from everyone you know, but you didn’t. You came to see me. You are the reason I’m going through this right now. It’s all your fault. When will you ever learn?” ’

There is another faint crackle of paper, then the sound of footsteps retreating. Doyle waits for the tape to go dead, but suddenly Spinner pipes up again. His words come out in a rush, like he knows he has little time left.

‘Cal, I’m sorry, man. I let you down. I didn’t want to-’

It’s as far as he gets, and Doyle thinks the recorder’s stop button must have been pressed while he was in mid-sentence. But he’s wrong. There is still sound. A gurgling, choking sound. The sound of a man who’s just had his throat opened up.

Doyle stands in the chaotic, blood-soaked apartment, looking down at his old friend from the Bronx. Listening to his death throes.

He stands there until the tape reaches its end.

And he weeps.

He’s hardly flavor of the month when the crowd arrives. Holden and LeBlanc are okay: the worst they give him are pitying looks and shoulder shrugs that say, You’re under pressure, so we understand why you’re acting like such a rookie dork right now .

The Crime Scene detectives, and especially the photographer, are a different matter. They’re kind of upset that a precinct detective decided it would be okay to go tramping through the apartment, moving stuff around before they’ve had a chance to record the scene and look for clues and shit. They’re funny that way.

Norman Chin takes it to another level again. Anything to do with a dead body, and especially within a dead body, he regards as his domain. He doesn’t like the idea of detectives who don’t know their ass from their olecranon process poking their grubby little retractable biros into the innards of his corpses. And in his own inimitable style, he’s happy to tell anyone who would cross such a boundary what he thinks of them.

And so when Lieutenant Franklin arrives on the scene, the furrows on his face already spelling out the word ‘grim’, and finds that everyone and his brother are united in a ‘we-hate-Doyle’ campaign, it comes as no surprise to Doyle that his boss feels the need to join in.

‘Go outside,’ Franklin orders, his eyes glowering at Doyle.

‘Mo, can we talk about this?’

‘Outside, Detective. Now.’

The use of his job title is a sure signal to Doyle that to protest further would not be the most prudent course of action. With feet-dragging reluctance, he turns his back on the scene and heads out of the apartment.

On the stoop outside, two uniformed cops stare at him as he walks by. He steps down to the sidewalk, huddling into his leather jacket as he stares at the flashing roof lights of the radio cars. Five minutes later, Franklin joins him.

‘Not one of your better days,’ Franklin says.

Doyle glances at his boss. ‘You could say that. You pissed at me?’

‘You want the truth, yes, I am. It’s bad enough I have to spend most of my Saturday afternoon stuck in dreary meetings on the upper floors of 1PP. But when I finally get out in time to meet my wife for some Christmas shopping, my cellphone never stops ringing. First of all from a very irate captain who’s been briefed by a very irate duty sergeant that two of his men have had the crap beaten out of them by one of my detectives.’

‘That’s not the whole-’

‘Then I get a call telling me that despite nobody knowing anything about your location or your actions today, you’ve suddenly phoned in to say that you’re at the scene of a homicide. Of your own CI, no less.’

‘I was trying to be-’

‘And then, when I get down here, I discover that you took it upon yourself to walk all over a crime scene with the finesse of a bulldozer. So, to repeat my answer to your question, yes, I am a tad irritated that a member of my squad has decided to start World War Three without the knowledge or permission of his superior.’

Doyle waits for a moment. ‘Can I talk now?’

Franklin sails an open palm out from his waist. ‘Be my guest.’

‘I admit I didn’t follow procedure up there, but this is no ordinary homicide. This was done to hurt me. It was aimed at me. Spinner’s a buddy of mine. We go. . we went back a long way. His death’s on me. Seeing him like that, what he went through, it hit me kinda hard.’

He gets no show of sympathy from Franklin. ‘And this morning? What was that all about? First you have an unlogged meeting with a CI, and then you go out and beat up two cops.’

‘They started it,’ Doyle says, then realizes how childish it sounds.

‘The way I heard it, not only did you kick the crap out of them, but then you even went so far as to draw your weapon on them. In full view of members of the public, no less.’

‘Mo, it wasn’t as simple as that. Christ, they’re making me out to be some kind of cop-hating vigilante. I went to see Marino to ask him a simple question-’

Franklin stops him with raised hands. ‘I don’t care why you went there, although I can guess. What I care about is how it made you look, and by implication how it makes me look. Jesus, man, I turned a blind eye for you this morning. Against my better judgment I allowed you to stay on the job. At no point did I even hint that you could stop acting like a police officer and become some kind of maverick who thinks he can do whatever the hell he wants.’

‘Mo, I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what else I can say. It’s not like I got up this morning and thought I’d give myself a shitty day or anything. I’ve kinda had my fill of shitty days recently.’

‘Yeah, well, maybe you should do something about it. Take some time to chill out a little.’

‘I don’t need. .’ Doyle begins, then realizes that Franklin isn’t simply offering some friendly advice. He searches the lieutenant’s face for a sign that he’s wrong.

‘You’re taking me off the case.’

Franklin shakes his head, but his expression tells Doyle that it’s not to convey better news. ‘You’re off all your cases, Cal. You’re off the squad. Temporary R amp;R.’

‘Mo, that’s-’

‘The call came through, Cal. I already spoke to the Chief of Ds. The word’s come down from on high. You’re out.’

‘Well, fuck them. If they think I’m going to-’

‘I’m not giving you choices here. For Chrissake, there are people dying all around you. Can’t you see that? How many more do you want on your conscience before you decide to leave it alone? You’re out, Cal. It’s a done deal. And if you want my honest opinion, you’re lucky you’ve still got your gun and shield after the cock-ups you made today.’

Franklin turns then, heads back up the steps of the apartment building.

Doyle calls after him, ‘This case is all about me, Mo. I’m the best chance you have of catching this guy.’

‘Go home, Detective,’ Franklin says. ‘That’s an order.’