David Jackson - Pariah

Paulson continues: ‘Kids of all ages, both sexes. Far as we can tell, the youngest is about six months old. You shoulda seen the look in her eyes. I’ll never forget that look.’

Doyle fills his own mouth with coffee, providing himself with an excuse for not speaking. He gulps audibly and feels the burning run down to his stomach.

‘And you know what the worst of it was?’ Paulson says. ‘The thing that made me want to be there for the collar? The thing that gave me so much pleasure to slap on the cuffs and tighten them so they practically cut off his circulation? It was him, Doyle. In the pictures, in the movie files. It was the cop. The worthless piece of shit who defiled the bodies and destroyed the souls of little children — he once wore a uniform and a badge. Now you tell me which one of us was wrong, Doyle. Tell me which one of us wears the black hat and which one wears the white. Maybe all hats are just shades of gray.’

Almost a full minute passes before Doyle answers. ‘Okay, Paulson, you got me with your little story there. You convinced me that you’re a force for good, that you provide a useful and valuable service. That what you wanted to hear? Feeling good about yourself now? Can we move on? Can I ask my question and get the fuck outta here?’

And then Paulson does something unexpected. He brings his fist crashing down on the table so hard that the coffee cups and plates do a little jig, and the head of every other customer turns to glance at them.

‘Fuck you, Doyle!’ he spits. ‘You want something from me, then you stop acting like a fucking asshole. You stop pretending that everyone can be put into neat little boxes, and you start accepting that some of us do what we do because it’s right, not because it’s easy.’

In that moment, Doyle sees something in Paulson he has never seen before. A spark of humanity. In that flash of emotion, Doyle sees vulnerability, outrage, morality and devotion to a cause, all combining to make Paulson something more than the obsessed automaton he has always appeared. Despite his antipathy, Doyle finds himself no longer able to be so dismissive of Paulson, no longer able to prevent himself from engaging with his old adversary.

‘Because it’s right? You gave me one chapter, Paulson. A few pages where things worked out for once, where you really did end up catching the bad guy. Well done to you. Good catch. But what about the rest of the story? What about all the other times you and your IAB pals made life miserable for cops who never did so much as accept a cookie without paying for it? What about all the cops who ate their guns because of pressure from IAB? What about me? You forget about that? You forget about how you told me I was no better than a cop killer? Saying to me that maybe I didn’t pull the trigger, but I damn well may as well have done? Telling me about how you were going to talk to my wife about all those nasty rumors going around? How you were going to interrogate her about my sex life? Any of this coming back to you, Paulson, or do you have some kind of selective memory in that head of yours, only able to remember the cases that fall right for you?’

Doyle pauses for breath, and notices that the waitress is at his elbow.

‘Guys,’ she says. ‘You mind calming it down a little, please? You’re making the other customers a little uncomfortable.’

The way he feels, Doyle is on the verge of yelling at the rest of the dump’s clientele to mind their own fucking business, but the waitress’s practiced smile defuses his anger. He nods at her, then distracts himself with his coffee, the cup in his hand trembling with the memories that have resurfaced.

When he speaks again, Paulson’s voice is quieter, more reasoned. ‘This is where I say something like I was only doing my job, and you say something about Nazis, right? So let me say this instead. Suppose you had been cheating on your wife. Suppose you had been responsible for the death of that girl.’

‘What?’

‘I’ll make it easier for you. Take yourself out of the equation. Suppose you’d heard that another cop had been making whoopee with your partner Laura Marino. Suppose that same cop had gone into a building with Laura, and he’d come out alive and she’d come out in a body bag. What would you have me do? Should I say to the cop, “Hey man, you’re wearing a badge, so you must be okay, have a good day, officer?” Or, given that your partner’s now six feet under, would you prefer I push him a little bit more than that? What about our Kindergarten Cop? Should I maybe have given him the heads-up? Give him a chance to wipe the porn from his computer because, hey, after all, he’s one of the good guys, right?’

‘Sometimes,’ Doyle says, ‘it’s not what you do, it’s the way that you do it. There are ways and means, Paulson.’

‘Really? I know it hurts, but think back over those talks we had a year ago. Look at them really closely, replay the words in your mind, and then tell me I was any more brutal than you’ve been with perps in the interrogation room.’

‘Difference is, I’m not a skell. I’m a cop. I’m NYPD. And so are you.’

‘And so was a child rapist. All the more reason to have people like me on the job, wouldn’t you say? People who aren’t afraid to squeeze balls just because they belong to another cop. Like I said, I don’t do this to make me Mr Popular. I do it because it’s necessary.’

Doyle drains his cup. ‘Okay, Paulson.’

‘Okay what?’

‘Just. . okay.’

Paulson stares into Doyle’s eyes. It takes a while, but finally he gives one more of his nods. What do you know, Doyle thinks; he finds me as acceptable as his donut.

Paulson says, ‘Your turn.’

‘My turn for what?’

‘To tell me the point of this meeting. I gave you my reasons. What are yours?’

‘I been telling you all along: to ask you some questions.’

‘Must be pretty big questions, you agreeing to meet me here, listen to me preaching like this.’

‘Actually, yes. Finding the guy who’s whacking everyone around me, that’s a pretty big issue.’

‘You’re not even on the case, Doyle. What sort of questions come up when you’re watching adult cable and drinking the contents of your mini-bar?’

‘I got a lot of time to think, and I got more at stake than most.’

Paulson taps his fingernail against the handle of his cup for a few seconds.

‘I think we’re done here.’

‘What?’

‘I said we’re done. Don’t forget to pay before you leave. You’re the host, remember.’

‘What are you talking about? We’re not done. Not until you start answering-’

Paulson brings his fist down again, but with a lot more restraint this time.

‘Damn it, Doyle. I was straight with you, now you start being straight with me. Otherwise this ends now. I called your hotel after you phoned me. They said you checked out in the early hours of the morning. I made them give me the home phone number of the night clerk, and guess what? She said that not long before you checked out, you arrived at the hotel looking hurt and with blood on you. Then tonight you limp in here looking like you’ve been hit by a truck. So cut the crap, Doyle. You’re investigating, aren’t you? You’re working the case.’

Doyle hesitates, but he knows he can’t quit now. ‘Yeah, I’m working the case. I’m about the only fucking one, far as I can tell. And it wasn’t a truck, it was a Lexus.’

Paulson smiles slightly. ‘Pardon me for denigrating the offending vehicle. You mind telling me how you came to be knocked down by a Lexus?’

‘It didn’t hit me; I hit it. Don’t ask — it’s complicated.’

‘You up to something you shouldn’t have been?’