Cry Baby

by David Jackson

  ‘Who?’ he gasps through his laughter. ‘You want to know who I want killed? That’s great, Erin. That’s wonderful.’

  And then he continues to laugh.

  And she doesn’t understand why.

  11.23 PM

  ‘So,’ says Doyle. ‘Shall we start with some names here? I think that’d be good, don’t you?’

  It’s not clear to Doyle that the man seated on the other side of his desk has heard the question. He seems distracted, his eyes snap-glancing at different points in the squadroom. Doyle knows this isn’t going to be easy. The eye-rolls that the uniforms gave him when they brought the guy up told him he had his work cut out with this one.

  So be it, thinks Doyle. Kills some time, if nothing else.

  ‘What do you think?’ he prompts. ‘Some intros?’

  The man’s gaze flickers across Doyle’s face, but moves on again.

  ‘My name’s Doyle. Callum Doyle. I’m a detective here. You know what a detective is?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says the man, and it’s the first word Doyle has heard him utter. ‘Like a cop.’

  ‘Well,’ says Doyle. ‘Not just like a cop. I am a cop. I investigate crimes.’

  ‘Crimes, yeah. I did a crime. Aw, Jeez. Jesus-Cheeses. It’s bad. Are you gonna kill me?’

  Doyle flinches in surprise. ‘What? Kill you? No. Why would I… No. Nobody’s gonna kill you, okay?’

  ‘Have you got a chair up here?’

  ‘A chair? Yeah, we got chairs. You’re sitting on one.’

  The reaction is unexpected. The man leaps off his seat, then spins to look down at the chair he has just vacated. His hands grasp the hair on both sides of his head as he stares in horror. Doyle jumps to his feet too, ready to tackle this guy if he his actions become more extreme.

  ‘Is that it?’ yells the man. ‘Is that the chair?’

  ‘What chair?’ says Doyle. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The chair. The electric chair. Bzzzz. Are you gonna fry me? Like bacon? Like sausages?’

  ‘No. Look, it’s just a chair. Like mine.’ Doyle gestures to both chairs, then picks up his visitor’s and shows him the underneath, feeling a little ridiculous at the need to do this. ‘No wires. See? It’s not electric. Now, could you sit down again for me, please?’

  Another brief glance. ‘Not electric?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No sizzling?’

  ‘Nothing like that.’

  Slowly, the man edges toward the chair. He starts to sit down, then changes his mind and stands again. He performs another visual inspection to satisfy himself, then lowers himself cautiously.

  Doyle looks behind him. Sees that he’s attracted an audience, including LeBlanc, who now has a huge smirk on his face. Doyle realizes he’s just become one half of a double act.

  He turns back to the man. ‘Let’s start over, all right? I just wanna ask you some questions. Nobody here is gonna hurt you.’

  ‘No sizzling.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about lethal injection? Or gas? Or firing squad? Or—’

  ‘No! None of that. Just questions. Simple questions. That’s my job. I find things out. I help people.’

  ‘You said you’re a cop.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘So do you help criminals?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘I’m a criminal. You won’t help me. You’ll probably shoot me. I see it all the time on the TV. Cops shoot criminals. Or they lock them up. That’s what you’ll do to me.’

  Jesus, thinks Doyle. This is going nowhere.

  ‘One step at a time, all right? I don’t even know if you are a criminal yet. All I know is what you told the sergeant downstairs. You remember talking to him? To Sergeant Wilson?’

  ‘One-three-seven-one.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sergeant Marcus Wilson. Nine-one-one. Lots of primes. He has candy. Prime candy.’

  ‘Uh, yeah,’ says Doyle, feeling lost.

  The man flicks a hand toward Doyle. ‘You don’t have a number.’

  ‘A number? I’m not sure what you—’

  ‘You got a bent nose, though.’

  Doyle starts to lift a hand to his face. It’s true, he does have a slight kink in his nose, a legacy of his boxing days. Not many people have the effrontery to point the fact out to him, though.

  ‘Okay, so you know about my nose, you know my name, you know what I do for a living. How about we even things up a little? Let’s start with your name.’

  The man resumes his random search of the squadroom. His leg begins to shake, and he starts tapping the fingertips of his hands together.

  Doyle tries to head off another flare-up: ‘You don’t want to tell me your name? Why’s that? We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends tell each other their names.’

  Nothing doing. The man doesn’t so much as turn his head toward Doyle.

  ‘Why won’t you give me your name?’

  Doyle decides to wait it out. He sits and watches, but the man says nothing.

  ‘Look,’ says Doyle, a little too firmly because he can feel his irritation building, ‘if you want me to help you—’

  ‘You’ll put me in jail,’ the man blurts out. ‘If I tell you who I am or where I live, then you’ll know, and you’ll see what I did, and you’ll lock me up.’

  ‘But isn’t that why you came here? To tell us what you did? Why did you do that if you don’t want to give me more details?’

  ‘My mom.’

  ‘Your mom. What about your mom?’

  ‘She said I should always say when I’ve done something bad. She made me promise. I always keep my promises.’

  Doyle sits back in his chair and watches the man eyeing up the squadroom like a pigeon scanning for crumbs.

  Great, he thinks. A guy fesses up to murder, but he won’t tell me who he is or where he lives.

  Just great.

  11.48 PM

  He wouldn’t allow her to shower.

  It would have meant removing the brooch and surveillance equipment, and he wouldn’t permit that. Instead, she had to wash in the hand-basin, doing what she could to clean the vomit from her hair, and then re-apply her makeup.

  ‘Very nice, Erin. Very pretty.’

  His voice sickens her. She doesn’t want to be told how she looks. Not by this monster. She doesn’t feel attractive. She thinks she still looks like shit.

  ‘What now?’ she asks.

  ‘Now? Now we go out.’

  ‘Out where? I still don’t know where you want me to go. Is it somebody’s home?’

  A chuckle again. ‘Could be.’

  ‘I don’t understand. How am I supposed to know where to go if you don’t tell me?’

  ‘You mean you haven’t figured it out yet?’

  Figured what out? What’s there to figure out? He wants me to kill someone, and he won’t tell me who. What am I supposed to deduce from that?

  ‘No. Tell me.’

  ‘It’s perfectly simple, Erin. I’m leaving it up to you.’

  ‘Leaving what up to me?’

  He laughs. ‘The choice, stupid. The choice of victim.’

  She stands there in shock, staring at her own open-mouthed reflection. How many times is this man going to surprise her?

  ‘W-what?’

  ‘You heard me, Erin. You can decide. Should be easier that way.’

  Easier? How is it easier? If he tells me who to kill, then I go and do it. But this? Deciding who should die at my hands?

  ‘No. Please. Don’t ask me to do that. I can’t pick someone to die. Killing someone is going to be hard enough, but I can’t decide who that will be. You have to do that.’

  ‘What’s the problem? This way you can choose someone you hate. Someone you always wanted out of your life. A boss who made your life hell, maybe. A boyfriend who cheated on you. A school bully. There must be lots of people you wouldn’t mind getting a little revenge on.’

  ‘NO! We’re not talking about putting a lax
ative in someone’s drink, for God’s sake. This is about killing them. I don’t want anyone to die. Nobody has hurt me badly enough for me to want them dead.’

  ‘Well, then, you’ll have to pick someone at random. Frankly, Erin, I don’t give a fuck. Pick who you like. As long as you kill them, that’s all that matters.’

  ‘Why? What do you get from me reducing the human race by one? Because that’s what it amounts to. I could understand if you wanted me to kill your worst enemy, or you were trying to make some kind of statement by taking out a politician or a religious leader, but it’s not even that considered. So why? For kicks? Is it just to experience the power of controlling another human being so completely? Is that all this is to you?’

  When it comes, the response gives her no answers: ‘You’re wasting time, Erin. We need to get moving. Your baby needs you.’

  Georgia again. Always he is there with the reminders about Georgia, and with them, the underlying threat to her existence. Not that she needs reminding. Georgia is her everything – always at the epicenter of her thoughts. He knows this, and he will continue to use it against her.

  But now she’s having second thoughts again. How in Christ’s name can I select a victim? What gives me the right to do this? Who would I choose? Where would I find them at this time of night?

  ‘Erin. Get your ass into gear. Let’s go.’

  The voice startles her into action. She leaves the bathroom. Back into the living room. She doesn’t know what she’s going to do or how she’s going to do it. The only thing she does know is that she cannot defy this man any longer. She will have to wing it. Go along with his plans for as long as she can, hoping that something will crop up, something will go her way for once, because God knows everything’s been against her so far. Talk about victims – well, yeah, here’s one, the biggest victim of them all, and when are you are gonna give me a fucking helping hand here? Please, somebody, help me.

  She moves toward the apartment door. Goes to open it.

  ‘Uhm, Erin. You planning to use your hands?’

  She pauses, perplexed. How else would she open the damned door?

  ‘Duh! To kill, Erin? Are you going to strangle them to death, or do you think maybe you should take a weapon of some kind?’

  A weapon. It hadn’t crossed her mind. Generally, the idea of using weapons never crosses her mind. Why would it? Her life now consists of looking after her baby. What connection could that possibly have to implements of pain and death?

  Unless, of course, your baby is snatched violently from you and hurt. Hurt so bad it screams for you to intervene.

  Oh, yes, she thinks. Put me in a room with that guy, and give me a weapon. In fact, no weapon needed. I will tear him apart with my bare hands. I will gouge out his eyes and bite off his ears and stamp my heels into his—

  ‘ERIN! Get with the program. Are you signed up for this or not?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. A weapon. Uhm…’ She looks helplessly around her.

  ‘The kitchen,’ he says in despair. ‘Something sharp maybe?’

  She goes where she is told. Slides a huge carving knife out of the wood block on the counter.

  ‘That’s a bad-ass knife, all right. But a little impractical, don’t you think? What are you going to do, walk around the city looking like you’re Norman Bates’s mother?’

  She returns the knife to the block. Takes out a smaller one. Black plastic handle, five inch blade, sharp serrated edge.

  ‘That’s fine. Don’t worry, it’s more than capable of doing the job. Now put it in your pocket and let’s get out of here.’

  Again she’s slow to respond. She stares down at the knife. The last time she held it, she was cutting into tomatoes. It’s hard to imagine herself thrusting it into the flesh of a human being. And is thrusting best, or do you slash? Or chop? How much force is required for such an act? Do you have to be strong? Or does it part flesh easily, like slicing through a soft peach? Do you hold the knife in the usual way, with its blade upward, or do you hold it the other way round, ready to plunge it downward into your victim, again à la Norman Bates’s mother?

  ‘ERIN!’

  She jumps. ‘All right, all right.’ She’s nowhere near ready for this. She doesn’t know how to kill, has no inclination to kill.

  She hurries to the door. Hurries because she senses she has pushed her baby’s kidnapper to his limit, and not because she is eager to carry out his bidding.

  She slips the knife into her pocket. Pulls open the door to her apartment.

  She lets out a small cry when she sees the man standing in the hallway, staring right at her.

  Wednesday, January 5

  12.05 AM

  Says Doyle, ‘You eaten recently? You want something to eat? A drink, maybe? You want a soda?’

  ‘Do you have Seven-Up?’ says the man.

  ‘Uhm, I’m not sure. I could go take a look if you like.’

  ‘I like Seven-Up. Especially from the Seven-Eleven. Seven is prime. Eleven is also prime.’

  ‘They are, huh?’ says Doyle, trying to hold the attention of this man by feigning interest on a topic he knows nothing about.

  ‘Yeah. Seven is also a lucky number. Thirteen is unlucky, but it’s also prime. Thirteen is made up from four plus nine, both unlucky in Japan. In Japanese, the word for four sounds like the word for death, and the word for nine sounds like the word for pain. Very unlucky. Very bad numbers.’

  ‘And let me guess,’ says Doyle with mock enthusiasm. ‘Four and nine are both prime, right?’

  Doyle thinks he’s hit on something when the man actually lets his eyes alight on Doyle’s face for more than one second. At last, he thinks, I’ve made a connection.

  But then the man turns his head aside, as if turning to an invisible companion next to him. He jerks a thumb in Doyle’s direction and says to his imaginary friend, ‘You hear that? He thinks four and nine are primes. You believe that? Ha!’

  Doyle feels instantly ridiculed. Jesus, how am I letting a guy like this make me feel two inches tall?

  He says, ‘So … they’re not primes?’

  ‘Ha! Not primes. Of course not. They’re squares. No number can be both a square and a prime, but it can be a square of a prime. Four and nine are squares of primes.’

  Doyle’s head is whirling now, and he’s starting to feel like this is going really off-topic. That in addition to making him feel like the class dunce.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘I’ll make you a deal. You tell me your name, and I’ll go fetch you that Seven-Up. Whaddya say?’

  What he says is nothing, and Doyle’s frustration level climbs ever higher.

  ‘I gotta call you something,’ he says. ‘If you won’t give me your real name, I’ll have to give you a nickname of some kind. Is that okay with you?’

  The man’s not interested. Doesn’t appear to be listening. Doesn’t appear to be in this room, mentally.

  ‘How about Rainman?’

  This from Schneider, languishing at his desk across the squadroom. He is a large, square-framed man with an equally square head topped by close-cropped steel-gray hair. Schneider looks like the type of cop who would crush a suspect first and ask questions later. He takes no prisoners with Doyle either, and makes no secret of the fact. The animosity has been present ever since Doyle joined the Eighth squad, and Doyle long ago abandoned any hope of extinguishing it.

  Schneider presses on: ‘You should take him to Atlantic City. Get him counting cards in the casinos. What with his proficiency with numbers and your luck in getting away with things, you’d clean ’em out.’

  This is nothing new to Doyle, Schneider not being one to waste an opportunity to cast a shadow on his past. It is Doyle’s hope that, even if Schneider never tires of it, others will, and someone will eventually tell him to shut the fuck up. All Doyle needs to do in the meantime is to keep his nose clean – something that, unfortunately, doesn’t always come naturally to him.

  He does now what he has found work
s best with Schneider, which is to ignore his jibes. Doyle’s suspect, on the other hand, has already formed an opinion and is less reticent in keeping it under wraps. He leans conspiratorially toward Doyle.

  ‘I don’t like him. He’s mean. And he looks like Spongebob Squarepants.’

  Doyle can’t prevent himself from laughing out loud, and as he does so he looks over at Schneider, who seems to sense that he is the butt of a joke and is muttering angrily to himself.

  Doyle returns his attention to the stranger on the other side of his desk. He is starting to warm to this guy.

  Which is probably not the best attitude to have toward someone who may have just disemboweled his own mother.

  12.06 AM

  She wasn’t expecting to meet anyone in the hallway at this time of night. She certainly wasn’t expecting someone to be right in front of her apartment door. As if he’d been about to knock.

  Or as if he’d been listening.

  She wonders how long he’s been standing there. How much he’s heard.

  ‘Who the hell is that?’

  The voice sounds so loud in her ear that it makes her wonder if her visitor can hear it too. She reaches a hand to her hair to make sure that it’s hiding the earpiece.

  ‘Mr Wiseman!’ she exclaims in surprise, but also answering the question.

  Mr Wiseman is in his sixties. Short, slim and slightly stooped over. As if in apology for the absence of hair on his head, his eyebrows have bloomed to form a shelf of thick, lustrous gray. He lives in the adjoining apartment, apparently with his son Leonard, although she has never seen or heard the latter. According to the elder Mr Wiseman – and here she’s a little fuzzy on the detail because she never listens to his stories properly – his son was hit by a car about twenty years ago and broke his spine. Wheelchair-bound ever since, he refuses to leave the apartment, relying on his father to do everything for him.

  When Erin moved here just a month or so ago, Mr Wiseman was the first to knock on her door and say hello. Since then she has chatted to him several times in the hallway. Mostly mundane stuff, but in spite of his own family burdens he has always seemed peculiarly concerned for her welfare.