Marked cd-3

by David Jackson

  ‘Yeah?’ says Doyle. ‘That happened to my wife too. At one point I thought I was gonna lose both of them.’

  She narrows her eyes at him. What is this? Whatever happened to Just the facts, Ma’am? Where’s his little notebook, into which he jots down times, places, names? The uniformed cops weren’t like this. The Missing Persons cops weren’t like this either. How is it possible for this man to let his humanity through like this when he has to deal with murderers, rapists and other scum? How can he shoot the breeze about his wife’s pregnancy while contemplating how he’s going to catch a man who has just raped a teenage girl and cut her into little pieces?

  Her voice becomes bolder, less mired in intense sadness. Like it’s the first normal conversation she’s had in days. ‘You should have heard me in the hospital. I thought I was going to be all calm and collected. The model mother-to-be. You know what I do for a living?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I saw that in the files.’

  ‘I’m a midwife. I’ve lost count of the number of babies I’ve delivered. I’ve seen every complication there is. The only thing that worried me about giving birth to my own child was that I would try to tell the other staff how to do their jobs. But boy, once I got my feet in those stirrups it was a totally different story. I lost it. I forgot everything there was to know about midwifery. I just lay there and screamed.’

  She sees that Doyle’s smile has broadened, and realizes that hers has too. And it feels okay. It doesn’t feel disrespectful, because it’s about Megan. It’s about celebrating who she was and how she did things. And that’s fine. She’s allowed to do that. In fact, she believes that the only way she’s going to get through this is by holding on to the happy moments, even though she knows it won’t always be possible.

  ‘That’s what I don’t get,’ she says.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘I bring life into the world. It’s what I wanted to do ever since I was a kid. I get a huge kick out of it. New life — there’s nothing more sacred than that. But this man, whoever he is — this murderer — he enjoys raping and torturing and killing and dismembering. How do such opposites get to exist in the world? How is it possible for a person to enjoy such things?’

  And now Doyle’s smile has gone, and she regrets the fact that she has soured the atmosphere again.

  ‘Because he’s not really a part of this world,’ says Doyle. ‘He’s sick, and I don’t think he can be cured. That’s why he needs to be removed from it.’

  She listens to his words, and it seems to her that Doyle could be talking about a specific person rather than some unknown killer he has never met.

  ‘Can I ask you something else, Detective?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Could you remove this man from our world? Permanently, I mean. Not prison.’

  When Doyle says nothing for a couple of seconds she adds, ‘I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t be asking-’

  ‘If it were up to me?’ says Doyle. ‘In a heartbeat. No doubt about it. If I was sure I knew who had done this to your daughter, and the law allowed me to do it, I would put a bullet in this scumbag’s brain without hesitation.’

  ‘And if the law said no, but you thought nobody would ever find out?’

  She sees the muscles twitch in Doyle’s jaw. It’s a tough ethical question, but she genuinely wants to hear his response.

  ‘I’m a cop,’ he says finally. ‘I have to uphold the law. Otherwise what am I doing in this job?’

  The right answer, she thinks. But the expected answer. She’s not certain that it accurately reflects his position. She knows what Steve would do. Steve would hunt this man down and make him endure as much pain as possible before killing him as slowly as possible — that’s what Steve would do.

  And I bring forth life, she thinks. That’s what I do. That’s what is right.

  ‘Mrs Hamlyn, I should go now,’ says Doyle.

  ‘Please,’ she says. ‘Call me Nicole.’

  He nods, then stands up. ‘There’s a lot of work to be done.’

  She shows him to the door. When she opens it, the noise of the rain suddenly intrudes. They both look out at it.

  ‘You think it’s ever gonna quit?’ Doyle asks.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘In time.’

  Then Doyle steps into it and is gone.

  He drives just far enough to be out of her view, then pulls the car over.

  Damn!

  Why did I even come here? For all I’ve learned in this meeting, wouldn’t a phone call have been just as good?

  And why did I let her get to me? Why do I always have to get so fucking involved?

  Telling her about how we can’t have any more kids. Letting her know that I’d happily cap the sonofabitch killer of her daughter. What the fuck was that about?

  And, to top it all, the lies. Telling her there were still no suspects, when the one and only suspect is sitting at home in his crappy apartment, laughing his ass off at the failure of the police to nail him.

  Doyle sits there for a full five minutes, working through his anger, berating himself for his stupidity.

  But he knows why he came to the Hamlyns’ house. He came because he cares. He cares about the Hamlyns and he cares about their daughter and he cares about finding her killer. He cares far too much, in his opinion. It’s a fault which always tears him apart, and he doesn’t know what he can do about it.

  It’ll be the death of me, he thinks.

  Stanley Proust stands naked in front of his bedroom mirror. His shoulders are slumped slightly because he cannot straighten up. It hurts too much.

  He has managed to staunch the flow of blood from his various cuts, but he still looks as though he has been hit by a train. There are marks and swellings all over his body. His face looks like that of the Elephant Man. One eye is so puffed up it’s difficult to see out of it. His ribs in particular feel like a hot poker is being inserted between them when he breathes. He has taken some strong painkillers, but they don’t seem to be making much difference.

  He puts his tongue in the gap where his tooth used to be, and pushes gently on the cap of congealed blood. Shame to lose a tooth, but he can always get a false one put in.

  But what an experience!

  He has never been through anything like that before. The last time he was punched was in a fist fight in middle school that lasted barely five seconds. He didn’t even get a bloody nose on that occasion. Since then he has often wondered whether it would toughen him up to get involved in a proper no-holds-barred brawl — to find out what it’s really like to absorb a barrage of stinging blows. But he has always been too scared. He has always backed down from any confrontation that has threatened to become physical.

  Well, now he knows. He understands. The pain is nothing. He can transcend the pain.

  And he could go through it again. Now that he has done it once, he could do it again and again. Whatever Doyle throws at him, he can take. And that means Doyle can never win.

  Proust drops his eyes to the tattoo on his chest, still clearly visible behind the bruises. He looks at the image of himself, clawing its way through his flesh.

  That’s me now, he thinks. That’s what I’ve been waiting for.

  I am reborn.

  THIRTEEN

  LeBlanc knows something is wrong as soon as Doyle walks into the squadroom.

  Actually, he suspected Doyle was up to something when he disappeared for the whole morning. Showing up now with that shiner under his eye merely confirms it.

  This is not good, he thinks. This is definitely not going to be something I want to hear.

  He accosts Doyle before he even has a chance to sit down. Before he has even had a chance to remove his jacket.

  ‘Cal, can we talk? In private?’

  ‘What, again?’ says Doyle. ‘This is how rumors start, ya know, Tommy?’

  ‘You mind?’

  Doyle looks around. Only Schneider is staring back at him.

  ‘All right. Come on.’

>   They leave the squadroom and move down the hallway, where Doyle opens the door to an interview room. That is, it’s officially an interview room. Unofficially it’s a dumping ground for anything that can’t be squeezed in anywhere more appropriate. File cabinets in particular seem to end up here. There is hardly an inch of lower wall space that doesn’t have a file cabinet in front of it.

  ‘What is it?’ asks Doyle, and it seems to LeBlanc that there is already a hint of irritation there.

  ‘You mind if I ask where you been all morning?’

  ‘You mind if I ask why you’re asking?’

  ‘Because I’m your partner. I thought you were gonna talk to the Hamlyns.’

  ‘Then you just answered your own question.’

  ‘It took you all morning to do that?’

  ‘I’m nothing if not thorough.’

  ‘Go anywhere else?’

  ‘Hey, Tommy, cut it out, okay? I know we’re in the interview room, but that doesn’t mean you have to get in character. You wanna get some practice in on your Q and A technique, go drag in some skells.’

  LeBlanc breathes out. A long slow breath. This isn’t how he wanted it to go.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m finding it difficult to get used to the way you do things.’

  ‘The way I do things?’

  ‘Yeah. You know, the way you just disappear. The way you don’t always tell me what you’ve been doing or what you’re about to do.’

  He realizes he’s starting to sound a little like an abandoned wife. But he also knows just how close partners can get. They need to rely on each other. They need to trust each other. Each needs to understand precisely how the other one ticks. LeBlanc doesn’t know whether he will ever manage to reach that depth of familiarity with Doyle. Maybe this partnership wasn’t such a good idea. But he’s not going to be the one to give up on it.

  ‘You know what?’ says Doyle. ‘You’re right. I haven’t been telling you everything. Just don’t take it personal. I had some things I needed to do this morning. Stuff that doesn’t concern you, okay? From now on, I’ll try to bring you in whenever I can.’

  ‘Is that how you got the mouse? From these other activities you can’t talk to me about?’

  Doyle touches a hand to his cheek. For a moment it seems to LeBlanc that Doyle’s expression is that of someone who has just been caught in a lie and is frantically trying to manufacture a way out of it. And when Doyle smiles, it seems to come far too late.

  ‘Yeah. Nothing to do with the Hamlyn case. Now can I go, please, Officer? I’m beginning to feel like I should ask for a lawyer.’

  LeBlanc answers with a smile of his own. But it wilts as soon as Doyle leaves the room.

  Fuck!

  He wants to believe Doyle. He wants to trust him. But why does the man insist on making it so damned difficult? Why can’t he at least talk about this, for Chrissake? What’s he got to hide?

  When he leaves the interview room, he doesn’t follow Doyle back into the squadroom. He heads the other way, out of the building.

  Skinterest looks to be all closed up. The blinds are drawn and the lights are off. LeBlanc stands in the rain for a while, telling himself that it’s nothing. The man’s decided to close for the day, is all. Nothing to worry about.

  He thumbs the buzzer anyway.

  He hears nothing, so he buzzes again, then hammers on the door with his fist.

  A light comes on. A shadow appears behind the blinds. LeBlanc hears a fumbling of chains, the drawing back of bolts, the turning of keys. As he pulls open the door, Proust shuffles backwards, maintaining the door as a shield between him and LeBlanc. Only a fraction of Proust’s face is visible, and even that is cast into silhouette by the light behind it.

  ‘Mr Proust? You mind if I come in for a moment?’

  ‘Is Doyle with you?’

  Proust’s voice is faint, croaky and filled with fear. LeBlanc swallows. It worries him that Proust’s first question should be about Doyle. He seems terrified of the man.

  ‘No. No, he’s not. It’s just me. Is that okay?’

  ‘I. . it’s not really a good, unh, time.’

  LeBlanc hears the slight grunt. Like Proust is in pain. Jesus, could he. .

  ‘Mr Proust, I promise this won’t take long. And I’m not here to give you any trouble. A couple of questions and I’m gone.’

  Proust says nothing. Just stands there. Then the door swings open a little wider.

  LeBlanc steps inside. Takes a quick look around. Nothing amiss that he can see. Everything in order. He turns back to Proust, who is closing the door. From the back he seems strangely bent and stiff, like an old man.

  And then Proust faces him.

  LeBlanc gasps. ‘Jesus Christ! What happened? What the hell happened to you?’

  The man is a wreck. He looks as though he has just tumbled from the top of a mountain to the bottom. How is he not on a slab in the morgue?

  ‘I’m okay,’ says Proust.

  ‘Okay? You’re not okay. Have you seen yourself? How did you get like this?’

  Proust limps past LeBlanc. ‘I was, uhm, I was mugged.’

  As soon as LeBlanc hears the explanation he knows it is not true. And then he starts to feel sick with the realization of what the truth might be.

  ‘You were mugged? When were you mugged? Where?’

  ‘Here. Two guys came in this morning. They wanted my money. I told them I didn’t have any. So they beat the shit out of me.’

  LeBlanc says nothing for a while. He doesn’t know what to say. Proust’s story is a crock, but he’s not certain he wants to drag the real one out of him. He watches as Proust sits himself down on a stool, wincing as he does so.

  ‘Have you reported this to the police?’ LeBlanc asks.

  LeBlanc snorts a laugh, then follows it up with a cry of pain. ‘The police? Are you kidding me, man? After the way you guys treated me yesterday? Something tells me I wouldn’t get a whole load of sympathy from you people.’

  LeBlanc looks him up and down. Jesus! This was no ordinary beating. Somebody wanted to give him a message. They probably didn’t even care if he lived or died.

  ‘These men. What did they look like?’

  ‘I don’t remember. They were big and they were mean. That’s all I know.’

  ‘They use fists or weapons?’

  Proust shrugs. Winces again.

  LeBlanc chews his lip. Break through the lies, or leave it be? This is a fellow cop we’re talking about here, Tommy. Do you want to know? Do you really, really want to know?

  ‘Did Detective Doyle come here again this morning?’

  Slowly, Proust raises his head. Turns his battered, misshapen face full into the light. Through half-closed lids, his eyes twinkle as they stare at LeBlanc.

  ‘Detective Doyle?’

  ‘Yes. Was he here this morning?’

  A long pause. Then: ‘No.’

  Except that it’s a no which means yes. It’s a no which says, You’re a cop too and I don’t trust you and so I’m playing it safe, because all you cop bastards stick together and anything I say against one of you is said against all of you.

  All of that in one word. That’s what LeBlanc hears. That’s what shakes him to the core.

  And now he’s not sure what to do. A part of him wants to pursue this. A part of him wants to put the badge away and talk to Proust as another man, another human being. He wants to tell him that he will listen, and that whatever Proust says to him will be treated in the strictest confidence. He thinks that might work. He thinks that Proust might open up to him.

  And then he takes a mental step back. He thinks, I am a cop and Doyle is a cop, and Proust is still a suspect. Despite the apparent fuck-up that Doyle seems to be making of this case and his own life, our roles haven’t changed.

  It is not without some shame that he opts not to side with this man against one of his own, and so he offers to do what he can: ‘Get up,’ he says.

  Again there is fear and suspicion
in Proust’s eyes. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m taking you to the hospital.’

  ‘I don’t need no hospital, man. I’m okay.’

  ‘You might have broken bones. Internal damage. You need to be checked out. Come on, I’ll take you in my car.’

  Proust stares at LeBlanc’s beckoning hand for some time before making a decision. As he gets off his chair, he grimaces. If he wasn’t in so much obvious discomfort, it could almost be mistaken for a smile.

  Doyle sees the glance from the man with the backpack. He knows the guy has seen him. Can tell by the way the man speeds up his rhythmic lope that he’s trying to put as many yards as he can between him and Doyle without it seeming too obvious.

  Doyle pushes himself away from the window of the bodega and takes up pursuit. The man speeds up. Doyle speeds up. The man risks a quick look behind him and increases his pace a little more. Doyle decides he’s not in the mood for burning calories.

  ‘Freeze!’ he calls.

  Coming from a cop, that would usually mean only one thing. It would mean, I have a gun trained on you right now, motherfucker, and if you so much as blink too fast then I’m gonna blow your sad ass off of this planet.

  Or words to that effect.

  On this occasion, however, it doesn’t mean that. The man Doyle is chasing is called Edwin Jones, but nobody other than his mother ever calls him Edwin. They know him as Freezeframe Jones, or Freeze for short. And the reason they call him that is because one of the ways he chooses to scrape a living is by selling pirated DVDs. Doyle knows he’s built up a thriving business over the years. Freezeframe prides himself on always being able to get hold of the latest movies, sometimes even before they hit the theaters. His boast is that he had the first Harry Potter movie before J. K. Rowling had finished writing the book.

  Freezeframe stops and turns, then affects a grin of recognition. He is as tall as Doyle, but gangly with it. He has an angular face, with prominent cheekbones. His arms seem too long for his body, and he has a habit of waving them around with abandon, threatening bodily harm to those who get too close.

  ‘Yo, D! S’up, man?’

  ‘Hey, Freeze. For a minute there I thought you were avoiding me.’