Cry Baby (6 page)

12.12 AM

They observe from a distance.

Doyle is at LeBlanc’s desk. Hunched over, talking to LeBlanc in a low voice. They both have their eyes on the man who has confessed to murder and nothing else. The nameless suspect is sitting at the water cooler, looking sidelong into a paper cup and muttering.

‘So what do you think?’ LeBlanc asks.

Doyle digs deep into his knowledge and experience of human behavior and comes up with, ‘I think he’s a little… special.’

LeBlanc nods. ‘Good special or bad special? You make him for a killer?’

‘Who knows?’ says Doyle as he observes the man dip his index finger into his cup of water and swirl it around. ‘Like this, no. But I haven’t pushed him real hard. Every time he goes near the edge, I feel I have to back off. I don’t know what he’s capable of if I really lean on his whacko button, and I’m not sure I want to find out.’

‘You got an ID on him yet?’

‘Nope. Guy won’t give me nothing except he offed his mother. I got no victim, no crime scene, no witnesses. He won’t even tell me how or why it happened. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?’

‘You could try a mind meld.’

Doyle shifts his gaze to LeBlanc. ‘A what?’

‘You know. Like Spock. Where you put your fingers to his noggin and listen in to his thoughts.’

‘Thanks, Tommy. You’re a great help. I can see now how you made detective. Besides, I’m not sure I want to start moseying around inside this guy’s brain. I might never find the exit door.’

LeBlanc glances at his watch. ‘We’re getting near end of shift. What’s your plan?’

Over at the cooler, the man is now on his knees, trying to peer up the spout of the water dispenser. Doyle can’t help but smile. He feels there’s a million miles between them, but that, given time, he could build a bridge across that gulf. He could make a connection. There was another guy once: he didn’t have the same mental problems as this one, but he was a challenge in his own idiosyncratic way. A guy called Gonzo…

Doyle shakes his head. ‘He’s gonna have to become somebody else’s problem. Someone who knows how to talk to people like this.’

‘Who? Psych Services? You won’t get them out at this time of night.’

‘I know it,’ says Doyle.

A sense of failure runs through him as he leaves LeBlanc’s desk and heads over to the cooler, where the confessed murderer is tinkering with the spigot. To Doyle he looks so harmless, so childlike. It’s hard to imagine him viciously spilling the blood of another human being. But Doyle knows only too well that appearances can be deceptive.

‘Hey!’ he says. ‘Whatcha doing?’

The man gets up from the floor and holds out his paper cup. ‘You drink this stuff? It tastes funny.’

‘Come on,’ says Doyle. He nods toward the hallway, then starts walking in that direction.

The man puts down his cup and starts to follow. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Downstairs. I have to put you somewhere while we find someone to talk to you.’

‘Why can’t I talk to you?’

‘We’ve been talking. You won’t tell me anything. I still don’t even know your name.’

They start down the stairs, side by side. Doyle can see the worry on the man’s face. He sees the twitching start up, the fingers tapping together. Doyle feels sorry for him, but what choice does he have?

They get to the bottom of the stairs. The man hesitates on the final step.

‘Come on,’ says Doyle. ‘Not far now.’

‘Albert,’ says the man.

‘What?’

‘Albert. You can call me Albert.’

Doyle brightens. Is this it? Is this the breakthrough?

‘Your name is Albert?’

‘No.’

Shit.

‘So… why did you pick that name?’

‘Einstein. I like Albert Einstein. He was good with numbers.’

Doyle sighs. Not the breakthrough he was hoping for. A name, yes, but not this guy’s name. It’s not enough.

‘Let’s go, Albert.’

He leads him around to the front desk. Since we’re now into the midnight tour for the uniforms, Marcus Wilson has gone home, and has been replaced by a portly, round-faced sergeant called Costello. In many ways he resembles his namesake, the comedian Lou Costello, but unfortunately that doesn’t extend to his sense of humor. This Costello is about as entertaining as hemorrhoids.

‘Whaddya got, Doyle?’

‘Guy says he killed his mother.’

Costello looks Albert up and down, then returns his attention to Doyle. ‘And did he?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t get anything else out of him.’

Costello stares down at Doyle in a way that suggests he’s less than impressed with his powers of interrogation.

‘So you wanna book him or not?’

Doyle shakes his head. ‘Not yet. I need help on this. Someone who can get through to him. What I’ll do, I’ll write it up, put in a request to get an expert out here first thing. Meantime, we’ll have to put him on ice. You mind doing that for me, Sarge?’

There’s a sneer on Costello’s face. Like he thinks this is a huge imposition.

The man who has called himself Albert leans toward Doyle and whispers. ‘He ruined the candy.’

‘What?’ says Doyle.

‘The candy. He ate some. One blue, one red, one yellow. No more primes.’

‘What’s that?’ says Costello.

‘Nothing, Sarge,’ says Doyle.

Costello stares his contempt. Several seconds elapse before he deigns to turn his head and call over his shoulder.

‘Presley. Get in here!’

Albert speaks to Doyle again: ‘Elvis Presley. Jailhouse Rock.’

Doyle starts to smile, but Costello snaps another glare at him. Doyle shines back a look of wide-eyed innocence, but feels a little like a mischievous schoolkid.

One of the uniforms appears from a back office, a crumb of food on his chin.

‘Another guest for the night,’ says Costello. ‘Put him in our presidential suite. And don’t forget to turn down his sheet and put a chocolate on his pillow.’

Presley beckons toward Albert. ‘Okay. Come on, bud.’

Albert stays where he is. ‘Aw, Jeez,’ he says.

Says Presley, ‘What are you waiting for? Let’s move it.’

‘Aw, Jeez,’ Albert says again.

Doyle looks at the man next to him. He can see the agitation building up in him again. This won’t go well.

Obviously not the patient type, Presley abandons his warm invitation and starts to close the gap between him and Albert. Albert starts to fold in on himself, making himself as small a target as possible.

‘Nine-one-one. One for the money. I’m all shook up. Whole lot of shaking going on. This is bad, this is bad.’

Before Presley can turn this into the riot it doesn’t need to be, Doyle shows his palm, halting the cop’s advance.

‘It’s okay. I’ll bring him down. All right?’

Presley looks to his sergeant for advice, who in turn shrugs his indifference. Presley steps aside and sweeps his arm in front of him in a be-my-guest gesture.

‘Come on, Albert,’ says Doyle. Everything’s cool. There’s nothing to worry about here. I’ll come with you, okay?’

Albert taps his fingers together again. His eyes dart around the room, like he’s a frightened animal desperately seeking an escape route.

‘It’s all right,’ says Doyle. ‘Come on. Walk with me.’

He puts a hand to Albert’s elbow. Slowly guides him toward a staircase that leads down into the bowels of the building. Albert shuffles along uncertainly, and Doyle senses that Presley is becoming irritated at the snail-like pace. But he’s not going to allow Albert to be bullied into losing his tenuous hold on things.

They start to move down the stone steps. The stress emanating from Albert is palpable.

‘Green mile,’ he says. ‘Dead man walking.’

‘No,’ says Doyle. ‘Nothing like that. We’re just gonna put you somewhere for the night. Somewhere you’ll be safe. Tomorrow we’ll bring you out again and get somebody to talk to you.’

They get to the bottom of the steps. A corridor stretches ahead of them, painted in a drab gray. The lighting is fluorescent, and one of the strips in the ceiling keeps flickering. On each side of the corridor are the grim bars of the holding cells. Although Doyle’s night has been quiet, down here it’s a veritable social club. Somebody is singing Danny Boy; another is telling him to shut the fuck up; another is belching; a drunk is explaining to anyone who can hear how he once met the Queen of England in
Times Square.

There are smells here, too. Of vomit, of alcohol, of piss. And underlying all that, the odors of decay and dankness and human misery. This is not a pleasant place. It’s old, and it has witnessed too much. Another wash-down with detergent – even another coat of battleship gray – will do nothing to lift spirits in here.

Albert wants to move no farther, and Doyle can’t blame him. Presley, though, seems to feel no such compassion.

‘C’mon, fella. I ain’t got all night.’

Albert is trembling visibly. He looks down the corridor and his mouth opens and closes and he shakes his head and his eyes are wide with fright.

Doyle tries telling himself it’s for the best. This is a goddamn suspect. He says he killed his own mother. You wanna feel sorry for someone like that? You wanna treat him as a special case, just because his brain is wired a little differently? Lots of killers have loose connections. What makes this guy such a charitable cause? Lock him up, Doyle. Lock him up, type your report, and let the morning shift worry about him.

Presley’s thoughts seem to be running along exactly the same lines. Only he’s more willing to put those thoughts into action. He grabs hold of Albert’s arm.

And that’s the flashpoint.

That’s what causes him to turn into a whirling dervish, screaming and slapping at Presley. Driving the cop backward with his frenzied attack. Causing him to fall to the floor and then landing on top of him, still screaming and hitting.

Doyle pounces on Albert. Grabs him around the ribcage and yanks him away from Presley. Doyle loses his footing and hits the floor himself, dragging Albert down with him. A few feet away, Presley gets up, a murderous expression on his face.

‘You fucking piece of shit,’ he says. He advances on Albert. Gives him a good kick to the stomach. Reaches for something on his belt. Pepper spray.

‘No!’ Doyle cries. He releases Albert and jumps to his feet, then barrels into Presley, forcing him backward until he slams into the wall.

‘What the fuck, Doyle? He’s a lunatic. Look at that crazy fuck.’

Doyle follows Presley’s gaze. But he doesn’t see what Presley sees. He doesn’t see a raging maniac, filled with hatred and violence and a desire to destroy.

He sees a cowering, frightened man, curled into a ball, his arms tightly wound around his head while he sobs and shakes and rocks and mutters to himself.

Doyle goes over to him. Kneels down. Rests his hand gently on Albert’s shoulder.

‘It’s all right,’ he says. ‘It’s okay. We’re not gonna put you in a cell, okay?’

He continues to talk. Calm, soothing words that he hopes will find their way through to this man who is doing his best to close himself off from the world. A man who struggles to come to terms with this confusing world at the best of times.

Now what? thinks Doyle.

Now what do I do with him?

12.40 AM

She doesn’t feel safe.

She came here from
Brookville, Pennsylvania, where she worked as a payroll manager for a lumber company. That’s where she met Clark Vogel, who worked in the company’s export division. She fell in love with him instantly. Tried to play hard to get, because that’s the way she’d been brought up, but her desire got the better of her. She surrendered to it, and within six months they were married.

The child was not so quick.

They tried for two and a half years. They told themselves it was fun trying, and at first that was true. At first they believed it was normal to have to wait patiently for the miracle of conception. But time stretched and their belief didn’t. Their enjoyment began to be pushed out by the fears and the doubts and the stress. Making love became a chore, at least for Erin. It became a means to an end – an essential but almost tedious procedure to be endured for the sake of what she really wanted. Clark felt this, of course. As much as she did her utmost to issue all the right noises and actions, it was obvious to her that he sensed her detachment and discomfort. Slowly but surely she felt him being turned off, like a dimmer switch gradually being lowered until all that remains is a cold wintry twilight.

She could not have this. Her want of a baby became a need and then a mission. She had to use every trick in the book – some of which would have been unthinkable to her once – to keep him aroused and at her service. She knows now how selfish she was, but at the time she was beyond reasoning with. The child was everything, and the fact that it seemed increasingly beyond reach only made it more of a cherished goal.

Her attitude was nearly self-defeating. Clark was not immune to the pain of being relegated to secondary status. When they weren’t having sex they argued furiously, or spoke not at all. He turned to the bottle, and to be honest she was glad of it, because it made him more susceptible to being taken advantage of in the bedroom. But the cracks in the marriage were widening, its foundations crumbling. She knew that the end of its short life was on the horizon, and the sadness of that knowledge was immeasurable.

And then it happened.

The baby. Georgia.

She timed her appearance in the womb to perfection. No better cliffhanger was ever written. Her tiny barely-formed hands took hold of that relationship and drew it back from the precipice.

Erin metamorphosed. Her fear and her irascibility dropped away. She apologized to Clark. Explained to him that her irrational behavior had been out of her control. She pleaded for a new start, and tried her best to become the loving wife she once was. All was fine again.

For a while.

When Georgia arrived, Erin found a new focal point for her love. She was the best mother ever. Clark, on the other hand, was forgotten about again. He became a hovering presence in the background. When she casts her mind back to those times, she realizes how badly she treated him. And when the marriage finally succumbed to the rot that had seeped insidiously into its structure, and collapsed around them, she was not surprised. Not even particularly saddened. She had her baby, and that was enough.

Coming to
New York was meant to be a fresh start. She knew little about it other than it presented a profound contrast to her existing lifestyle, and that’s what she needed. Something different. Something new. An escape.

But now she’s afraid, and not just because of what’s happened to
Georgia. She has heard countless times that New York is one of the safest cities in the country now. That even this part of the East Village – once one of the most violent, drug-infested neighborhoods in the city – has been tamed.

But…

That’s what they add. A big fat but.

But watch what you do and where you go and at what time, they say. Don’t act like an easy target, they advise. Be aware of your surroundings, they warn.

Doesn’t make a girl feel safe.

She passes a group of three Hispanic men coming out of a bar on Avenue C – a street they would probably refer to as
Losaida Avenue, the name being a Latino corruption of ‘Lower East Side’. The men leer at her and beckon to her and make lewd suggestions to her. But she keeps her gaze fixed on the tall buildings looming ahead, her chin uptilted, acting proud and streetwise and unafraid.

When their drunken voices fade into the distance, she releases a sigh of relief. And then she laughs.

She laughs because she has just realized where the danger lies on these streets. It is here, in her. She is the one carrying the weapon. She is the one seeking a victim. She is the one carrying the promise of death to anyone who appears in her sights. And it is only as she acknowledges this that she senses it is time to leave this wide, sprawling avenue with its lights and cars and people. It’s time to become unseen, a shadow amongst shadows.

She turns left at the corner of the next block, onto one of the side streets just a couple of blocks short of the Stuyvesant projects. There are no bars here. No nightclubs. No reason for most people to venture this way. It is much darker here, and that absence of light makes it seem colder. The bitter frosts have not yet arrived in this city, but looking into that tunnel of blackness ahead of her makes her shiver.

But she walks. She takes a deep breath of the cold air and starts walking.

Perhaps, she thinks, someone will try to attack me. He will come at me out of a doorway or from behind a dumpster. He will leap at me and try to put his hands on me and he will give me an excuse. He will give me a reason to kill him – something that I can use to tell myself that it was a justifiable action on my part. He attacked me and I killed him in self-defense, and that’s an end of it. I will be able to live with myself if that happens. I will not feel guilt every time I look into the eyes of my baby.

‘Good choice, Erin,’
says the voice in her ear.
‘Dark up here. Deserted. Nobody will see what you do. You’ve got all the makings of a great killer.’

She doesn’t want to hear this. Doesn’t want to be told what an emotionless hunter she’s becoming. I’m doing this because I have to, she thinks, not because I want to. There’s a difference. A world of difference.

And then she becomes aware of a presence. Across the street. A clatter of something metallic, followed by some tuneless male singing. She halts and tries to make her eyes see through the gloom.

From out of the shadow of a tree he appears. A homeless guy, looking big and burly in the many layers of old clothing he wears. He’s pushing a shopping cart ahead of him, piled with all kinds of crap.

Erin glances up and down the street, checking for onlookers. Nobody is here to see. She steps off the curb. Starts to walk toward him. He continues to shuffle along, one leg moving more stiffly than the other. As she gets closer, she realizes he is singing lines from ‘Camptown Races’:

‘I bet my money on a bob-tailed nag, someone bet on the gray.’

It is only when she steps onto the sidewalk that he notices her. He stops moving, stops singing. Just stares wide-eyed at this figure homing in on him from out of the darkness.

When she gets within a few feet of the man, she is able to get a better look at him. He is black, somewhere in his sixties. His round face is cracked and grainy, like old leather. There is a tuft of white hair on his chin, and he wears a baseball cap. His bulky coat is tied up with TV cable, its frayed ends showing the metal core.

‘Oh, yes,’
says the voice.
‘Now you’re talking. Perfect, Erin. Absolutely perfect.’

She continues to stand and watch the man, and he stares back.

‘What could be better? Nobody will miss him. Plus, you get to rid the streets of another vagrant. That’s so great, Erin. I admire your thinking.’

She says nothing. She wants to say no, this isn’t the one, and then to move on. But she can’t. She can’t because part of her is thinking yes. If I have to kill someone, if I really have no choice in that matter, then shouldn’t it be someone who has no attachments? Someone who makes no contribution to society? Someone who is, in fact, a nuisance and a blight on this city? I could keep on going. I could walk all night long and not find a more suitable candidate. Isn’t this a no-brainer?

The man opens his mouth. ‘I bet my money on a bob-tailed nag,’ he sings to her, but in a more subdued voice now. ‘Somebody bet on the gray.’

‘Camptown Races,’ she says.

He narrows his eyes. ‘Some know it as Camptown Ladies.’

‘Yeah?’

He nods. ‘Because of the way it goes. The Camptown Ladies sing this song.’

‘Doo-dah. Doo-dah.’

He nods again. ‘You know it?’

‘I know it.’

She thinks, Why am I doing this? Why am I even speaking to this guy?

But she knows why. She knows what beginning she is creating here, and what ending it will surely give rise to.

‘Who are you?’ asks the man.

‘Just a passing stranger,’ she answers.

‘’Cept you’re not passing. You’re here, on my doorstep.’

‘Your doorstep?’

He gestures at the space around himself. ‘It’s the only home I got.’

She reaches up and pushes an imaginary doorbell. ‘Ding-dong.’

He pulls his head back in surprise, then gradually lets his neck muscles unwind again.

‘What you doing out here, girl?’

She shrugs. ‘Walking. Thinking. Dreaming.’

‘Dreaming ’bout what?’

‘Getting my family back.’

She knows it’s a surprise answer, and she watches him chew on it for a while.

‘That’s a good ambition. Family’s important. Prob’ly the most important thing on this earth.’

‘You got family?’

He pauses again, then looks up to the sky. When he lowers his eyes again, she can swear they are glistening.

‘Once. Long time ago.’

‘What happened?’

‘
Erin, what the hell are you doing? Waste the stinking hobo, and let’s get you the fuck out of there.’

‘I forget,’ says the homeless guy, but it’s obvious that he hasn’t forgotten. He reverts swiftly to his questioning: ‘Girl, what are you doing?’

‘I… I needed someone,’ she answers. ‘And then you came along.’

‘Me? I can’t help you. I can’t help nobody. You should go now. Leave me be.’

‘What if I think you can? What if I say you could be the only person on this earth who is able to help me?’

The man looks at her, long and hard.

‘Girl, I don’t know what troubles you. All I know is that I am what I am because I’m no good. I was no good to my family, and I can’t do no good for you either. Now go home, before you make me angry.’

He moves off, wheeling his collection of items that are of meaning to him alone.

‘You’re losing him, Erin. There goes your chance of seeing Georgia again. Maybe your only chance tonight.’

‘Wait!’ she calls. She jogs after the man, then puts a hand on his shopping cart to stop him. He halts, but turns worried eyes on her hand. She pulls it away.

‘I want to show you something,’ she says. She is almost breathless, and not because of the jogging. It’s because she has decided.

‘Show me what?’

‘Show you how you can help me.’

‘I told you. I can’t help nobody.’

‘Yes. Yes, you can. Two minutes of your time, that’s all I’m asking.’

He studies her, and while he does so it seems to
Erin that a bubble has enclosed them. It is just the two of them in the world now, debating moves that will lead to life or death.

‘You’re a strange one,’ he says.

‘How so?’

‘Asking me for help. Normally it’s the other way round. Me asking folks for stuff. Money, food, a drink. Something I can sell.’

‘Must be hard.’

‘It’s all I know. What I don’t know is people be asking me for things. Makes me feel…’

‘What?’

‘Special.’

No, she thinks. Don’t say that. Don’t turn this into something it’s not. Don’t make me feel guilty about this.

‘Then maybe you should help me. Maybe it’s an opportunity you shouldn’t waste.’

‘Excellent, Erin. Nice move.’

The man pulls on the wisp of white chin-hair.

‘Two minutes?’ he says. ‘I guess I can find two minutes in my hectic schedule. What’s on your mind, girl?’

‘Not here,’ she says. ‘Over there.’

She nods at the building to her right. It’s a huge apartment building in brown brick. It’s only about ten stories high, but it has a massive footprint. The ground floor level is set back, the upper stories being supported at the building’s perimeter by thick brick columns. The passageways running behind those columns are shrouded in darkness.

The man turns his head slowly, following her gaze. ‘You want me to go over there with you? Why?’

‘That’s where it is. What I want to show you.’

‘Yes, Erin. Brilliant.’

She finds the voice intrusive. She doesn’t need his fatuous remarks. She just wants to get this over with.