‘Because it can’t. I need to follow something up. Please, Jay.’
Holden sighs. ‘This is your stupid theory again, right? You need to let this go, Cal. Really. People are starting to talk.’
‘The numbers, Jay. Please.’
Another sigh. ‘I’ll call you back.’
‘I’ll hold.’
‘Cal, what the fuck are you-Oh, forget it.’
The line goes quiet. Doyle’s right leg shakes up and down while he waits. A fast beat. It does this when he’s anxious.
Holden comes back on the phone and starts reading out the numbers. Doyle scrawls them in his notebook, then utters a quick thank you and hangs up before Holden can ask him any more questions.
He taps in the first number on his list and presses the call button.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Podolski? It’s Detective Doyle here. I was at your apartment this morning?’
‘Yeah, yeah. What’s up? You get the bastard?’
‘Not yet. I just need to ask you a coupla more questions about Lorna. You mind?’
‘No. Go ahead.’
‘Lorna told you about the baby, right? And she said it hit her hard. Her and her husband.’
‘Yeah. She came to terms with it eventually, but he never did.’
‘Okay, but before she came to terms with it. She was bad, right?’
‘Well, yeah. I mean, who wouldn’t be?’
‘How bad? Did she tell you?’
‘Bad. Real bad. I don’t know what you want me to say.’
‘Bad enough to want to kill herself?’
‘What?’
‘When she told you about this part of her life, losing the baby and all, did she ever say that she got so depressed she thought about committing suicide?’
Come on, thinks Doyle. Tell me I’m onto something here.
‘Well, yeah. She did say that. How did you know?’
Bingo, thinks Doyle. But only if. .
‘What did she say, exactly? Do you remember?’
‘She said. . she said it hit her when she was leaving the hospital. Like a wave of grief. She was walking out of the hospital with her husband. They were heading back to their car, and they had to cross the street. And then this ambulance came screaming along, and she. .’
‘Go on.’
‘She. . she said she wanted to jump out. In front of the ambulance. She wanted to just step out and let it mow her down, that’s how messed up she was. Look, is this necessary? I don’t like talking about this stuff. I’m not sure that Lorna would have-’
‘It’s useful, believe me. I’m not playing with you, Alex. I need to know these things.’
‘Well, okay. If it helps.’
‘It does. Thank you. I’ll be in touch, okay?’
‘Okay. But-’
Doyle hangs up. He almost cannot believe what he’s just heard. It’s coming together too smoothly.
He tries to control his breathing. It’s too early to be counting chickens.
He looks at the next number on his list. Taps it in with trembling fingers.
‘Hello.’
‘Josh Whiteley?’
‘Yeah, who’s this?’
‘This is Detective Doyle from the Eighth Precinct. I’m one of the officers working on the homicide of Cindy Mellish. I just need to ask you one or two questions. That okay with you, Josh?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, I thought you guys were done with me. It wasn’t me, you know. I had nothing to do with it.’
‘I know, Josh, I know. All I want is for you to fill in a little background detail for me.’
‘All right. What do you wanna know?’
‘About when you broke it off with Cindy. You told the other detectives she didn’t take it too well, is that right?’
Whiteley snorts a laugh. ‘That has to be the understatement of the year, man. She flipped. Kept following me around, telling me how much she needed me. I mean, it was getting embarrassing, you know?’
‘She was crazy about you?’
‘She was crazy, period. I mean, I liked her and all, but I needed some space, you know? Every time I turned around the girl was there, sucking up my oxygen. She-’ Whiteley breaks off, as if realizing how this is starting to sound. ‘But this was a long time ago, man. She was out of my life way before-’
‘I know, Josh. Trust me, I’m not looking to jam you up here. I’m just trying to get a handle on her state of mind. You cool with that?’
‘I guess.’
‘Good. So Cindy refused to let go. She was desperate. She would have done anything to make you change your mind, right?’
‘Yeah. That about sums it up.’
‘So did she resort to emotional blackmail of any kind?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean like threatening to hurt herself if you didn’t take her back?’
There it is, thinks Doyle. The big question. Come on, Josh. I need a big fat yes here.
‘Yeah, she did that.’
Doyle punches the air. He has to stop himself from releasing a cry of triumph. It would sound a little disrespectful given the topic under discussion.
‘How, Josh? What exactly did she say she would do?’
‘Like, all kinds. Taking an overdose. Jumping off a building. Like I said, she was nuts.’
No, no, no. Wrong answer, Josh. Think again.
‘Anything else? Did she make any other specific threats to self-harm?’
‘Well, yeah. But it was lame. She was just trying to get to me.’
‘How, Josh? Why was it lame?’
‘One night, she called me up. Said she was going to cut her wrists.’
Doyle hears his phone creak as his grip on it tightens.
‘Go on. What happened?’
‘I told her to go ahead and do it then. I mean, I don’t want to sound unfeeling or anything, but she was seriously bugging me. What you have to understand is-’
‘I understand, Josh. Tell me what she did. Did she cut herself?’
‘No. What I mean is, not really. The next day she showed up with a coupla scratches on her arm. I’ve had worse from my cat. When she showed them to me, I just laughed. I know I shouldn’t have — I mean, the crazy bitch probably needed help — but, well. .’
Doyle knows that Josh Whiteley is waiting to hear more words that will help him feel good about himself, but Doyle is past caring about his welfare. He presents him with some prime bullshit instead: ‘Josh, you’ve been a great help. Knowing something about how Cindy’s mind worked could help us figure out what happened to her.’
‘Okay. Just as long as you don’t think it was me. I’m in the clear, right?’
Doyle ends the call without answering the question. Let the kid stew if he can’t be concerned about anyone but himself.
And then he allows himself to start believing.
Another box has been ticked. It all seems so simple now. So fucking obvious. How the hell could he not see this earlier?
There is one more number on his list. He enters it on his cellphone. This will be the litmus test. The confirmation of what he already knows to be true.
His call is answered, and he launches straight into it. Time is not his to waste.
‘Miss Friedrich, it’s Detective Doyle again. I have another question for you.’
The rush of his words causes her to hesitate. Then: ‘All right. Go on.’
‘You need to bear with me. It might sound a little off-base.’
‘Detective, I think we’ve already established your level of eccentricity. Whatever you ask now won’t surprise me.’
‘You told me that Dr Vasey wasn’t as badly disturbed by the break-up of your relationship as he claimed. Is that right?’
‘That’s what I believe, yes.’
‘Not affected enough to cause him extreme mental distress or to make him seek counseling.’
‘That’s right. I think I’d come to know him well enough to determine when he was just being theatrical
.’
‘Okay, but he did claim that he was devastated? Whatever he actually felt about you, he tried to make you feel that you were ruining his life?’
‘Yes, but as I say-’
‘What form did that take?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘What words did he use? What did he say to try to make you feel bad?’
‘Well, I. . I don’t recall exactly. He ranted and raved, that’s all I remember. I was used to him doing that, so I tended to tune him out. Is it important?’
‘It could be. Let me help you. Did he ever threaten to harm himself?’
The silence is long enough to give Doyle his answer. When she speaks again, she is subdued.
‘How did you know that?’
‘Then he did?’
‘Yes. Yes, he did. He threatened to commit suicide.’
Praise the Lord, thinks Doyle, but decides not to say.
‘How? How was he going to kill himself?’
‘He. . he said he was going to string himself up. Hang himself. But it was bluster. I knew he had no intention of doing anything like that.’
‘No. But he said it anyway?’
‘Yes. That’s what he said. But I don’t. . Detective Doyle, I’m starting to find this just a little bit too creepy. What’s going on here?’
‘I don’t know. Not fully. And what I do think could be wrong.’
‘But you’re not wrong, are you? You know something. You’re not as crazy as the other cops believe, are you?’
‘Maybe. We’ll see. Watch this space.’
‘Oh, I’ll be watching. Prove them wrong, Detective. And prove to me you’re not the asshole I thought you were.’
‘Tall order. I’ll see what I can do.’
When he gets off the phone, he brings all the pieces together in his mind. Watches them slot neatly into place.
It was thinking about Tabitha that provided him with the first clue. How she decided to commit suicide by jumping into the East River, and then the irony of her being killed by drowning. It led him to think about the other victims, and in particular what Sean Hanrahan’s wife had said about him being on a sure route to the graveyard. Vasey’s case files also contained notes about discussions with Hanrahan regarding possible thoughts of suicide. It was a natural thing to ask him about. He had lost his partner. He was depressed and drinking heavily. The signs were all there of a cop who might be on the verge of killing himself.
And how would Hanrahan have committed the act? Why, the same way most other suicidal cops do it: by eating his gun. And how did he finally meet his end? That’s right — a gun blast to the head.
It could have all been coincidental, of course.
But not anymore. Not after what Doyle has just heard in those phone conversations.
Cindy Mellish, the bookstore girl. Loses her boyfriend and makes a feeble attempt at cutting her wrists. How does she die? By having first her wrists, and then the rest of her, sliced wide open.
Lorna Bonnow, the nurse. Lost a baby and felt like throwing herself in front of a moving vehicle. Dies when a car mashes her into pulp.
And then Vasey. Threatens to hang himself. Ends up with someone doing it for him, and in spectacular fashion.
That’s the connection. Has to be. The killer’s warped view of helping people is not limited to contacting Doyle and giving him pointers to the next victim.
It’s also about helping people to die.
Doesn’t matter how serious they were about it. If they said it, they must have meant it. And the killer sees it as his moral duty to provide them with the assistance they need to fulfill their destinies.
Son of a bitch.
That’s why Tabitha had to be drowned. When the perp found her at Gonzo’s apartment he could have shot her, stabbed her, smothered her or finished her off using any one of countless other methods. But he chose drowning. Or rather, there was no choice to be made. Death by drowning was the fate she had already earmarked for herself.
But what of Repp? Where does he fit into this? What fate did he unknowingly select?
Doyle wishes he knew. But there’s no time left in which to find out.
He consults the dash clock again. It’s after seven-fifty. In a few minutes Doyle will have to enter Repp’s house. In a few minutes more he may have to confront a serial killer.
He feels uneasy. He tells himself it’s only natural, given what may be about to occur. But he knows there’s something more.
He still believes it was too easy, working out that Repp is next. But what else could the clues mean?
The digital recorder is still in Doyle’s pocket. He takes it out and switches it on. He listens again to the music and then the killer’s voice.
‘Certainly raining a lot on you lately, huh, Cal? If it carries on like this, you’ll need to get yourself a hat. Protect that brain. It’s the only thing that’s going to get you out of this mess.
‘I don’t want you making any mistakes on this one, Cal. You don’t have a good record so far. It must be breaking you up inside. How do you cope with that? All those mistakes? It must affect your behavior, your relationships. Maybe I should ask your wife. She of all people must sense something is wrong.
‘What’s the matter, buddy? Nothing you want to say to me? I understand. You must have a lot on your mind right now. As if all these people dying wasn’t enough. You’ve got the distractions too, right? All that small stuff that just gets in the way. The little irritations that you could do without. It’s all raining down on you, right, Cal?’
Those references to the distractions, the small stuff getting in the way. Who else could that be but Repp? And then the music. Definitely by Travis. From the album ‘The Man Who’. Rachel was certain about that.
And yet. .
The earlier stuff. Was that just meaningless preamble? That advice about protecting his brain with a hat was pretty random. And then the next bit about mistakes and his wife. .
Oh fuck.
Fucking hell.
Doyle fires up the engine. Slams the lever into drive. Powers the car away from the curb.
Because it’s not Repp. He got it wrong.
Horribly, horribly wrong.
THIRTY
‘You fucking idiot!’
This from Doyle. Yelling at himself as he drives. Not caring a jot whether anyone sees him yelling at himself as he drives.
‘I told you it was too easy to be Repp. Why would he make it so fucking easy?’
He drives like he has no concept of either danger or courtesy. He squeezes his car through spaces that don’t look big enough, nearly taking the wing mirrors off several vehicles. He spends most of the journey with his hand firmly glued to the car horn.
It should be a drive of only a few minutes, but it seems to be taking him an age to get there. Every time he glances at the clock another minute of his precious time has been eaten away. Doubts keep assaulting his mind. They tell him he’s not going to make it. But he has to make it. Even if he were to put in a call to Central they couldn’t get a car there any faster.
And even if he had oodles of time — and bang, there goes yet another minute on this fucking hyperactive clock — what would he tell the cops? That he’d just figured out what that phone call meant — the one from the killer? Or maybe he could just make up an emergency to get the sector cars to respond and then explain it all later, perhaps while the killer is busy telling the cops all about his special relationship with Doyle, and what he knows about his past deeds. Wouldn’t that be a neat ending?
At the intersection with Second Avenue, the lights go to red. Doyle grits his teeth and floors the gas pedal. He leans into the car horn again as he weaves past a truck and then screeches around the corner. He can’t stop now. He can’t fail. If he does, another life is lost and the killer is once again at large.
That can’t be allowed to happen. Not again.
He flits the car from lane to lane, ignoring the protests of the drivers he cuts up. Powers right onto
Ninth Street. Tries to do the same when he gets to Stuyvesant, but overlooks the fact that Stuyvesant is about the only freaking street in this part of the city that doesn’t stick to the standard grid layout, and which therefore has an angle of intersection much less than ninety degrees. Doyle has to fight with the car as it slews to the left, missing a collision with a parked vehicle opposite by a fraction of an inch.
There are no parking spaces left on this short street that are big enough to take his car. At least not lengthways. Doyle drives forward between two sedans, feeling the jolt as his car bumps onto the sidewalk. A man who was about to walk that way jumps back in fear for his life, then starts gesticulating wildly at Doyle.
Doyle ignores him. He’s more interested in his clock, which tells him it’s one minute to eight. He prays that the killer’s watch is slow.
He practically falls out of the car, slamming the door behind him before he races up the steps in front of the house. It all looks so quiet here, so tranquil. A spark of optimism arcs inside him.
But when he tries the door and finds that it’s unlocked, when he steps inside and his nostrils are assailed by the stench, his hopefulness shudders and dies.
The killer is here.
It was Rachel who gave him the vital information. Only he didn’t realize it. It wasn’t the fact that the song was by Travis. It was the name of the album: ‘The Man Who’. Taken from the title of a well-known book.
All that crap the killer said in his call. It wasn’t nonsense at all. It carried every key word he needed.
The stuff about needing a hat. And then his mistakes, and his wife.
Put it all together and you’re back to the book again.
The Man Who Mistook his Wife for a Hat.
And why is that important? Because of who wrote it.
Oliver Sacks.
The next victim is Mrs Olivia Sachs.
Very clever. Ingenious, even. Especially with that leaving open of the trap for the unwary: the fairly obvious link to Repp. A trap which Doyle was careless enough to fall straight into. Hell, he practically dived in there at the first opportunity.
But now he knows better.
Repp hasn’t been the only ‘distraction’ from the murders. Mrs Sachs has been a distraction too. And, of course, she fits the pattern. Only too well.
The Helper cd-2 Page 28