David Jackson - Pariah

He reaches into his inside pocket, takes out Bartok’s present.

A cassette tape. Presumably containing a record of everything said in this room since Franklin arrived home.

Doyle goes over to the tape recorder he left on the table. He slips the tape in, rewinds it a little, then hits the play button. He hears Franklin’s voice telling how he used a nanny cam to confirm his wife’s infidelity, how he was convinced that Parlatti and Alvarez couldn’t be allowed to live after that. And then. .

Nothing.

Just hiss. Nothing about Rocca or Bartok. Nothing about the dirty cop in the precinct.

When a voice cuts in again, it’s Doyle asking what happens next.

So, okay, Lucas, you’re not so stupid after all.

He ejects the tape, holds it in the air and looks at it questioningly. And what, he thinks, do I do with this? Destroy it? Consign it to the fire like the other one?

What the hell. Bartok was right. This tape is the only proof of what really happened. Much as Doyle hates to admit it, this tape saves him. Unless Bartok’s whispered message was a bluff, destroying the tape gains him nothing and could lose him everything.

Sighing, he pockets the tape and reaches for his cellphone.

It’s one of the longest days of his life.

The Westchester County police get him first. They bring in a doctor to look him over. After listening to the parts of the medical assessment that suit their purpose, they pummel him with questions until he feels he’s just gone ten rounds in the boxing ring.

The cops from the city get him next. To the obvious relief of the Westchester guys, who seem overjoyed not to have to deal with such a complicated case, his ass gets dragged down to One Police Plaza, where he undergoes another grueling sequence of interviews. Despite the fact that he’s had no sleep, and that he keeps telling this to everyone he meets, the questioning continues throughout the day. The Puzzle Palace, as the police headquarters is affectionately known, is like a hornet’s nest which has been hit by a big stick. All kinds of people, some wearing polished brass, some just in neat blue suits, keep dropping in on him and asking him the same damn questions, again and again. It’s clear from the consternation that they are worried about damage control. It was bad enough when cops were just victims; but when one of them — a lieutenant at that — turns out to be a serial murderer. .

What’s also clear is that the tape of Franklin’s confession is making all the difference. Without it, Doyle suspects that there would be strenuous efforts to pin the blame on him — or at least to cast doubts on his version of events. Even so, there is a lot of emphasis on certain unanswered questions. They want to know, for example, what Franklin is referring to when he says on the tape that Doyle consorted with known criminals. Doyle’s answer is that he talked to a lot of known criminals in his efforts to unmask his persecutor; other than that, he has no idea what the hell Franklin is babbling about.

So what, they ask him, about Franklin’s death? Who was responsible for his brutal murder, and why? On that one, Doyle pleads ignorance. Obviously, Franklin must have made himself some vicious enemies in the course of his nefarious dealings. A stroke of luck that they caught up with him when they did, hmm?

Lucky also, they remark, that Franklin didn’t notice that the tape recorder was still running when you brought it into the house, him usually being so meticulous and all.

Yeah, says Doyle, I really got the luck of the Irish there, didn’t I? Except for that small malfunction in the middle, the wire seems to have picked up damn near everything.

When it becomes apparent that there are no more answers to be had — at least for today — they tell Doyle he can go. They also inform him that he remains suspended for the time being, and that he needs to remain available for questioning in the next few days.

Doyle nods his consent to one and all. Anything to get out of there.

There’s only one place he wants to be right now.

He puts the key in as slowly and quietly as he can. Pushes the door gently open.

There’s nobody in the living room, but he can hear them in Amy’s bedroom — Rachel helping their daughter out with a tricky part on her Nintendo game.

He softly closes the door behind him. And waits.

When Rachel walks out and sees him, she jumps with the shock, her hands leaping to her mouth. That’s when he thinks maybe the surprise idea wasn’t such a good one, him looking like a man who’s just walked out of a train wreck.

But he forgives himself when he hears her call his name and sees her fly across the room at him and feels her crushing his bruised, battered body until it feels like his organs are about to pop out.

And when Amy pokes her head out to discover what all the commotion is, and sees her Daddy — the man who chases the burglars away for her — she too clings to him with arms too tiny to go all the way around and yet powerful enough to squeeze every last teardrop out of him. Later he will tell her that he has something for her — a huge cuddly toy rabbit called Marshmallow — but right now he doesn’t want her to let go.

He would skip and dance with his wife and daughter like he did all that time ago at the hospital, but he hasn’t an ounce of energy left, so instead he dances with them in his mind, and he pictures himself dancing with them every day from now until at least Christmas, when he will give thanks for the presents that have come slightly earlier this year.

The man in the hospital bed flicks through the pages of his magazine before tossing it with disdain to the foot of the bed. He adopts a more quizzical expression as Doyle comes over and plonks a brown paper bag onto his bed table.

‘You look worse than me,’ says Paulson. ‘I think maybe we should trade places.’

‘This is nothing,’ Doyle says. ‘You shoulda seen me in my boxing days. I was just one big bruise.’

Paulson aims a finger at the table. ‘What’s in the bag?’

‘Coffee and donuts. On me.’

‘I don’t know if I can drink coffee. I think it might come pouring outta the hole in my side.’

‘Saves going to the bathroom, I guess. Maybe you could plug it up with the donut.’

‘Yeah. I might try that. Thanks.’ He gestures at his magazine and frowns. ‘I don’t suppose you thought to bring me any porn?’

‘Hey, have you seen the nurses in this place? Who needs paper when you’ve got it all in 3D?’

‘True. Remind me to pass on your thoughts to the staff before you leave. Especially the hairy one with three eyes and a humor bypass.’

‘How’s the. . the uhm. .’

‘The massive injuries I sustained while heroically throwing myself in front of an assassin’s bullet meant for you? Bearable, I suppose, although I still get twinges when I do too many back-flips.’

‘You seem pretty upbeat.’

‘Yeah, well, ’tis the season to be jolly, and so forth.’

‘They letting you out for Christmas?’

‘I hope so. I’m supposed to be moonlighting as Santa at Macy’s. Good thing it’s a sit-down gig.’

‘No, seriously. You coming out?’

Paulson nods, but Doyle detects a sadness there. Like maybe he hasn’t got much to look forward to when he gets out of here.

Paulson pulls on a happier mask and clears his throat. ‘Yeah. A day or two. I should be back trying to put your ass in jail before you can say Internal Affairs.’

Now it’s Doyle’s turn not to see the funny side. ‘Maybe you won’t have to worry about me.’

‘You planning to deprive me of the one thing keeping me going? What are you talking about?’

Doyle shrugs. ‘I’m not sure the job’s gonna take me back. In case you didn’t hear, I raised a pretty big stink. There are some who think it’ll always follow me around.’