The Helper

TWENTY-NINE

A song by the Black Eyed Peas comes on the car radio. Doyle turns it up and hums along.

He’s parked on West 13th Street. Travis Repp lives on the first floor of a three-story apartment building. The stoop of the building is separated from the sidewalk by a gated fence that encloses a small, well-kept garden containing lots of shrubs. Doyle got the address from a copy of Repp’s application for a private investigator’s license.

He checks the clock on the dash. Six-thirty. An hour and a half before the killer is due to strike, but Doyle is taking no chances. He wants to see everyone who enters and leaves that building from now on. Hell, he wants to check out anyone who so much as glances at that building. He’s gonna catch this son of a bitch.

He’s going to catch him here because Repp is the next victim.

We know that, don’t we, Doyle?

Don’t we?

The name of the band is Travis. The killer talked about people who are distractions or irritants. Well, there’s no bigger irritant than Travis Repp. Who else could it be?

But on the other hand. .

Doesn’t it seem just a little bit too easy?

The caller knew that Doyle would check out the song. He knew that Doyle had failed to do so properly before, and that it had cost a life, so there was no doubt that he would check it out fully this time.

So why would he make it so easy?

And this idea of psychologists linking all the victims together. Isn’t it just a little bit tenuous? They all saw a shrink. All except Vasey, who, it seems, didn’t consult a shrink. But he is one, so that’s okay. That ties it all up in a nice pink bow.

Yeah, like hell it does. For one thing, what about Repp? Did he ever have a need for therapy?

Doyle doesn’t know the answer. He knows next to nothing about Repp, let alone why he’s been selected as the killer’s next target.

A car slows as it passes Doyle, then pulls into the curb just outside Repp’s building. Doyle sinks down low in his seat and watches as the driver gets out. It’s Travis Repp. He doesn’t even glance in Doyle’s direction. Just goes straight into his building and closes the door.

‘It’s okay, man,’ Doyle mutters. ‘I’m watching your back. Scumbag that you are, I’m gonna keep you alive.’

A song from the cast of Glee comes on the radio. Doyle turns it right down again.

Almost seven-forty. Doyle is getting antsy. The only sign of anything possibly happening was half an hour ago when another car pulled up in front of Repp’s, and a suited guy got out and pushed through the iron gate. But he was quickly joined by the car’s passenger — a woman who was yelling after her partner — and it became clear to Doyle that they were just a bickering couple who lived in the same building. Since that brief flurry of excitement, nobody has ventured anywhere near Repp’s place. Nobody has given it the once-over. Nobody has pulled up in a car and sat there waiting. Other than Doyle himself, that is — a fact which is starting to make him distinctly uncomfortable.

He has given himself a deadline. Five minutes to eight. At that time, he will march up to Repp’s building and sound his buzzer and demand to come in. He will enter on the pretext of wanting to talk about the scam that Repp is running. In reality, he will be there to save Repp’s life. Even if it means revealing his presence to the killer, Doyle knows he can’t stay out here on the street when there’s a man in there who is about to die.

And if the killer shows, great. Who knows? Maybe he’s already inside the place. He could have been waiting in there all day, just waiting to pounce as the clock strikes eight. Go for it, thinks Doyle. Give me the chance to plug you, you piece of shit.

There’s a complication, of course. It has nagged at Doyle several times, but so far he has refused to think about it too hard. What if the killer decides to go quietly? What if he puts his hands up and surrenders and invites Doyle to take him in, giving him the opportunity to spill everything he knows about Doyle? How prepared is Doyle to let that happen?

Because if he’s not, his only other option might be to take the life of a man who is no longer a threat. Sure, he deserves to die. No doubt about it. For Tabitha and all the others, he should take a bullet. Doyle could repeat that to himself any number of times after he fired his gun. But would that be enough to make it right?

Doyle shakes his head. He can’t worry about such things. He has to just let it play out, and worry about the consequences later.

But he would so like to take that man off this earth. He has never felt so strongly about eliminating someone before now. With him gone, the whole city would breathe a sigh of relief. There would be one less cause of misery in the world.

As if the victims hadn’t suffered enough already. Tabitha, especially, when she lost her parents. But also Hanrahan, with his partner being killed in that shoot-out. Look what that did to him. And then there was. .

Wait a minute!

Doyle tenses up so much he feels as though all his ligaments should snap. Ants crawl along his scalp. His mind has already worked something out, but he’s not sure what it is yet.

Okay, start with Cindy Mellish, the bookstore girl. She was dumped by her boyfriend, and it really messed up her head. Ditto Lorna Bonnow when she lost her baby. And Vasey. .

Yes! It fits.

Vasey was kicked to the curb by the delectable Anna Friedrich. She revealed as much to Doyle only hours ago.

Loss. Could this be about loss?

Could it be that it’s not about the fact that these people were connected with psychologists, but about what drove them to seek help in the first place? Is that what this is?

Doyle runs the notion through his head again and again. It feels right. Only. .

Repp. What’s his loss? His failing business? Some girlfriend or wife in his past?

Doyle once more curses the fact that he knows zilch about Repp. Doesn’t know whether there’s a Repp-shaped hole in this puzzle or not.

Slow it down, Doyle. Think it through some more.

They all suffered some kind of loss. A deep loss that affected them profoundly. At least in most cases. According to his wife, Vasey claimed to be devastated, but probably wasn’t. But maybe that doesn’t matter. It’s what the killer believed that matters.

So what did they do because of this loss? They went to see a shrink. Yeah, but. .

Maybe that’s not it.

They were suffering, or claimed to be suffering. Tabitha was hurting so badly she even decided to commit suicide. Pretty ironic when you think about it, the way she was planning to end it all.

Oh sweet Jesus.

Surely not?

Doyle’s heart hammers against his chest. His brain feels as though it could burst with the blood that is surging through it.

He takes out his cellphone and selects a number from his contact list.

‘Eighth Precinct. Detective Holden.’

‘Jay? It’s Cal. Can you do something for me?’

‘No, is the answer that jumps to my lips. And that’s even before I’ve heard what it is you want. That’s what you’ve done to our relationship, man. I hope you’re satisfied.’

Doyle ignores the sarcasm. ‘I need some numbers.’

‘Yeah? How about six-six-six? There’s something not totally right about you lately, like you’re possessed or something.’

‘Seriously, man. Some phone numbers. Can you get them for me?’

‘Whose numbers?’

Doyle reels off the list.

‘Uh-huh,’ says Holden. ‘Pardon me for asking, but why can’t this wait till tomorrow, when you can come in and get them your own self?’

‘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.