Marked

EIGHT

This should be an oasis of calm. Here, at home. With his wife. In their beautiful apartment in the Upper West Side.

But it isn’t. He knows how tense he is. Everything he says or does seems loaded with pent-up energy. Earlier, when he tripped on the corner of a rug, he felt compelled to kick the damn thing across the room. And when he went to sit at the table and found that the leg of his chair was caught up in one of the other chairs, he almost turned the whole set of furniture upside down in an effort to get himself seated.

He wonders if he’s going through a mid-life crisis. If he is, then he’s going to have a short life. It should be way too early for one of those.

Maybe he’s hormonal. A problem with his thyroid or whatever. It’s playing havoc with his system. Yeah, that’s it. He’s ill. He can’t be blamed for the way he’s been acting lately. People need to be more understanding.

He’s not ill.

He’s obsessed. Which, he realizes, could also be classed as a form of illness. Except that he’s obsessed for the right reasons. His obsession is justifiable. He’s not some kind of irrational stalker. He just wants to put a killer behind bars. Is that so weird?

Rachel comes out of the kitchen, carrying his meal in an oven mitt. Note to self, he thinks: don’t touch the plate.

She sets it down in front of him. Some kind of pink fish. He has a love-hate relationship with fish. He loves the taste, but hates picking out the bones. He can’t bear to have even those flimsy little bones in his mouth. Rachel never seems to notice them. She just swallows them. Doyle doesn’t understand how she can do that.

He turns the plate.

‘Shit!’

‘It’s hot,’ says Rachel. She holds up the oven mitt for emphasis.

So much for my fucking mental notepad, he thinks. When was that — all of five seconds ago? The fish on this plate probably had a better memory than mine.

He picks up his knife and fork. It’s supposed to be a fillet. Maybe it won’t have bones.

Rachel removes the mitt and sits at the table. She tucks some wisps of her dark hair behind her ears, then puts her chin on her hand and waits for him to start eating.

He cuts into the fish. Pulls a piece away. Sees the bones spring into view like the prickles of an agitated hedgehog.

He wants to sigh.

‘How’s the case going?’ asks Rachel.

He’s told her about it. On the phone this afternoon. He let her know he would be home late, and he let her know the reason. Didn’t give her all the details, though. Nothing about Proust, for example.

‘Okay,’ he says. Which is giving her nothing. It’s a shitty response. He knows it, and yet he can’t help it.

He leaves the fish alone and takes up a forkful of potato instead.

‘Did you identify the girl?’

He nods while he chews. ‘Yeah. Her name was Megan Hamlyn. She lived out in Queens. She was only sixteen.’

He thinks, There, see? You can do it. You can have a proper conversation.

‘Oh, God,’ says Rachel. ‘Sixteen. That’s so young.’

She lapses into silence for a while as she contemplates this. Then: ‘You got anything to go on?’

‘A few things. We’ll get him.’

She waits for more. Doesn’t get it.

‘Is that just you giving yourself a pep talk, or do you actually have something concrete?’

He ventures another assault on the fish. Tries teasing out those menacing white barbs. He just knows he’s not going to get them all. One of the little bastards always manages to bury itself deep. It’ll lurk, just waiting for its chance to jump out and impale itself in his cheek or, even worse, lodge in his throat. Why do fish need so many damn bones anyway?

‘We’re close,’ he says.

‘Well, how close? You know who did this? You know where they are? What?’

The answers are in the affirmative. Yes, he knows who did this, and yes, he knows where he is. But if he tells Rachel what he knows, then she’ll go all negative on him. She’ll tell him to back off. She’ll remind him of how it went last time. And he can do without that right now.

‘Rachel, can we change the subject, please?’

He waits for her to snap at him, which she has every right to do. But she doesn’t snap. She sits there, more calmly and patiently than he deserves.

‘How’s the fish?’ she asks, which is certainly a change of subject. Makes him feel guilty, though. He knows she really wants to talk about big, weighty matters, but he has diluted her conversation to the point of dealing with trivia.

‘Bony,’ he says, and then wonders if he has a death wish. He should have said the fish was fine, even though it isn’t. Instead, he has to go and mix it up. That’s the sort of self-destructive mood he’s in today.

Rachel leans across and peers at his dinner. ‘They’re not bones.’

He jabs at his food with his fork. ‘Look.’

‘What, those puny little things? You make it sound like the dinosaur exhibit in the Natural History Museum. You won’t even notice them.’

He begs to differ. He already has noticed them. And if he allows them into his mouth he will notice them even more. But for once he makes the right decision and keeps his objections to himself. Time for another change of topic. Who’d have thought a fish dinner could be the cause of such friction? Bones of contention, if you will.

‘How’s Amy?’

‘Oh, she’s all right.’

Even in his distracted state of mind, Rachel’s tone is not lost on him. It’s a tone that says, Well, actually, she’s not so great.

‘Something happen today?’

‘Yeah. I yelled at her.’

Her voice is tinged with regret, and Doyle blinks in surprise. Rachel almost never loses her temper with Amy.

‘You yelled at her? Why?’

‘She had some things. In her schoolbag. Things that don’t belong to her.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘Pens, erasers, rulers — that kind of thing. I think they belong to the school.’

‘Did you ask her about them?’

‘Of course I did. I sat her down and I asked her. I gave her every opportunity to explain how they got there.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘She said she didn’t know they were even in her bag. Said she’d never seen them before.’

‘Okay, so maybe somebody else put them there.’

Rachel shakes her head. ‘No. She wasn’t telling the truth, Cal. Amy’s a terrible liar.’

Doyle puts down his fork. ‘Rachel, have you heard yourself? You’re calling our daughter a liar and a thief. How can you say such-’

‘I didn’t say she was a thief. I said she knows more about this than she’s saying. And I’d like you to back me up on this, please.’

‘Back you up how?’

‘By talking to her. By asking her how she got hold of that stuff.’

‘She’s seven years old, Rachel. She’s not a criminal mastermind. She doesn’t need me giving her the third degree over some little mistake she’s made.’

‘She’s old enough to know right from wrong, Cal. And when she gets confused over that, it’s up to us to set her straight.’

‘Okay, tell you what — why don’t I haul her into the station house and take her fingerprints and stick her in the cells? You think that’ll teach her?’

Rachel slumps back in her chair, her mouth working like she doesn’t know what sounds to make with it next.

‘Why are you being like this? I’m asking you to have a quiet word with her. Father to daughter. It doesn’t have to be a confrontation. I just want you to-’

‘There’s no evidence, Rachel. She says she’s done nothing wrong, so I think we should believe her. I can’t go accusing her just because-’

He stops then. Stops because he realizes things are getting all jumbled up in his head. He’s talking to Rachel about Amy, but in his mind he’s working on the murder case. He’s saying things that Rachel would probably say to him if he told her how he was going after Proust. That’s how much of a hold Proust has on him. He knows things won’t be normal again until he nails that sonofabitch.

He pushes his chair back and stands up. ‘I gotta go out.’

Rachel stares at him. ‘What do you mean? Why do you need to go out all of a sudden?’

‘I just do. Something I forgot to do on the case.’

‘And now it comes to you? Right in the middle of your dinner? Right when we’re having a conversation about something important like this?’

‘I won’t be long,’ he says.

He starts to head out of the room. Behind him he hears Rachel muttering something about how he should eat more fish because it might do his stupid brain some good.

The rain has subsided to a light drizzle. Doyle is glad, because it will make it easier to see. To make doubly sure, he winds down the window of his car. Then he kills the engine. Then he waits.

It’s not the same, he tells himself. Proust and Amy. Two totally different kettles of fish — there we go with the fish again. Amy has made an innocent mistake of some kind. No big deal. It’ll be cleared up in no time.

Proust, on the other hand. .

See, you had to be there. You had to be the one who spent hours talking to Proust. Getting into his head. Getting to know how his mind works. Getting to understand how an apparently normal guy could commit such a heinous act. Explaining this to other people doesn’t cut it. You can tell people what you believe as many times as you like, but they’re never going to be convinced. Not without further proof.

And, if he’s to be honest, why should they accept his word? Would he act any differently if it were another cop laying down conclusions like this?

But they weren’t there. They didn’t see.

They didn’t see the bloated naked body of Alyssa Palmer, draped over the river-washed rocks below the Henry Hudson Parkway. They didn’t see the heart-splitting expressions on the faces of Alyssa’s parents when he had to inform them that their daughter had been found. Dead. Tortured. Raped. And they didn’t see the coldness in Proust’s eyes when confronted with these facts, these images. When Proust looked down at the photo of Alyssa, there was no recoil — not even a grimace or an out-breath of sorrow. Doyle knew then that this was his man.

But how do you explain all that to someone? How do you tell them it was all there, in the man’s eyes, his body language, his lack of emotion? How do you convince them without more concrete evidence?

They looked for it. Of course they looked. They must have talked to every tattoo artist in the city. Only one of them felt right, and that was Stanley Proust. An artist extraordinaire, all right. But no matter how hard they looked, they found nothing to prove Alyssa had ever visited Proust. They found nothing to suggest that Proust was into the S amp;M scene. They found nothing to substantiate Doyle’s opinion that this seemingly mild-mannered individual was in fact a deranged homicidal maniac.

The most disturbing and yet exhilarating piece of evidence that landed in their laps was the Internet video. But even that fizzled into nothing. Other than the presence of some blurry tattoos, it provided no connection to Proust. They never even located the basement in which it was filmed.

But it did play a more unexpected role.

Doyle remembers it vividly. He’d pushed and pushed at Proust, but had gotten nowhere. Despite being warned by his superiors to cool it with Proust, he continued to hammer on the man’s consciousness.

‘Take a look, Stan. Look at the photos. Look at what you did.’

‘I didn’t do nothing. That wasn’t me. I didn’t make that video.’

And then the pause. The long pause while Doyle and Proust stared at each other, the truth suspended between them.

‘Who said anything about a video, Stan? And who suggested you were the one who made it?’ He tried to backtrack then, of course.

‘You did. You said these were stills taken from a video.’

‘No, Stan. I never said that. Why would you think it was a video?’

‘Well, somebody said it. One of the other cops, maybe.’

‘No, Stan. That came from you. You just put yourself behind the camera too.’

‘No, I. . you’re putting words in my mouth. You’re twisting things. I never meant. .’

‘You were there, weren’t you, Stan? You did things to this girl. Maybe not all of it, but some of it. Tell me, Stan.’

‘No. NO!’

That was the closest he got. Proust’s biggest slip. Doyle pursued it, of course. As doggedly as he could. But Proust got a lot more tight-lipped after that. Stuck to his story that somebody must have mentioned a video to him.

And he walked. To Doyle’s fury, Proust walked away a free man.

He wonders now why he didn’t mention this episode to LeBlanc, but doesn’t have to wait long for the answer to come to him.

He was frightened.

He was scared that LeBlanc, cynical young pup that he is, would have ripped any meaningful content of that conversation to shreds. He would have refused to interpret it as the undeniable proof of Proust’s guilt that it so obviously is.

Because it is proof, thinks Doyle. You don’t understand, Tommy, because you weren’t there. None of you understands.

The Alyssa Palmer case would have continued to haunt Doyle anyway, but fate decided to lend her ghost a helping hand. Following the fireworks surrounding the death in service of his female partner, Doyle transferred to the Eighth Precinct. For which the station house is situated just a few blocks from Proust’s place. Doyle has driven or walked past it countless times since then, and every time the sight of it has taunted him. Each time, it reminds him of how he failed the Palmers.

And now the gods have decided to ratchet up Doyle’s torment further by making him relive the nightmare all over again. The circumstances of Megan Hamlyn’s case are almost identical to those in the Palmer case. The young dead teenage girl. The griefstricken parents. The untouchable Mr Proust. Identical except for one thing, thinks Doyle. This time the outcome will be different. This time, Stanley, you pay for what you did.

He looks out of the half-open car window. Cool rain spits into his face as his eyes read and re-read the sign.

Skinterest.

An interest in skin. An interest in flesh. You got that all right, Stan. Young, innocent skin that you put your mark on. A permanent mark. You mark them for life. You mark them for death.

Movement catches his eye. From inside the shop. A huge shadow, gradually shrinking as its owner gets closer to the door. And Doyle is parked right in front of that door.

The shadow is replaced by solidity. The scrawny frame of Stanley Proust, standing behind the glass panel.

Doyle hears a key being inserted and turned, then the sound of bolts being drawn.

That’s when Doyle switches on the interior light of his car.

Proust stops moving for a second. Then Doyle sees him press his nose against the rain-spotted panel as he peers out.

Doyle doesn’t do a thing. Just sits there and stares back. Lets Proust know that this is how it’s going to be from now on. Lets him know that this is what he’s prepared to do, for as long as it takes. He will stay on Proust’s back until the man can take the weight no more and he buckles. He will break him. He will do this for Alyssa Palmer and for Megan Hamlyn and for their families. He promises all this in the intense stare that he sends Proust’s way.

Slowly, with trepidation, Proust reaches up and lowers the roller blind into position.