The Helper (42 page)

Kravitz is a cop. More specifically, he’s a member of the Manhattan South Homicide Task Force – a mouthful that is usually condensed by his fellow cops to the more memorable Homicide
South. Doyle bears no grudge against this cue-stick of a man; it’s his partner – a more meagerly proportioned individual called Folger – who is the one to watch. Doyle’s
last run-in with the poison dwarf is still fresh in his mind.

Steeling himself, Doyle moves toward the center of the activity. Kravitz is the first to notice Doyle’s arrival, his eyes turning on him from his lofty position like a lighthouse scanning
the seas.

‘Well, well. Hello again, Detective.’

Doyle looks around him. ‘Where’s Tom Thumb? I didn’t step on him, did I?’

Kravitz smiles. ‘You mean Detective Folger? We had a parting of the ways. We didn’t see eye to eye.’

‘More like eye to crotch, huh? You get sick of him poking his nose in your business?’

Still Kravitz smiles, and Doyle feels he’s doing so in apology for what has gone before. He decides he should stop being so hard on the guy. At least for now.

Kravitz gestures to the man standing next to him. ‘Meet my new partner. This is Detective Fenster.’

Fenster nods, but doesn’t proffer his hand. He seems to be studying Doyle intently. Probably wondering why Doyle is smiling.

The reason Doyle is smiling is not because of anything pertaining to Fenster’s physical appearance. Whereas the man’s predecessor was massively challenged in a vertical sense, and
played an important part in amusing his fellow officers by merely standing next to his cloud-scraping partner, Fenster’s own build is unremarkable. In fact, aside from a slight reddish tinge
to his hair that only the cruelest of jokesters would refer to as a disability, his looks present negligible entertainment value. No, Doyle is smiling because he knows that Kravitz is often given
the nickname Lurch, after the ugly tall butler in The Addams Family. And because Doyle remembers that in that family was also an ugly bald guy called . . .

‘Fester?’

So much for not giving the Homicide boys a hard time. Hey, how many opportunities get handed to you on a plate like this?

‘Fenster,’ says Kravitz sternly, obviously already acutely sensitive to the likelihood of this comparison.

‘Not Fester?’

‘No.’

‘Ah.’

Fenster continues to stare at Doyle. ‘Have we met before? You look awful familiar.’

Before Doyle can answer, Kravitz chips in again: ‘You’ve probably seen him over breakfast.’

‘Huh?’ says Fenster.

‘In your newspaper. Or on TV. This here is the famous Detective Callum Doyle of the Eighth Precinct. The Eighth Wonder, as I like to think of him. You remember that serial killer we had a
few months back? Only nobody knew we even had a serial killer?’

‘Oh,’ says Fenster. ‘Yeah. Doyle. I remember that one.’

‘Of course you do. Doyle solved it all by himself. He was the only cop in the whole city who realized the murders were connected. It was uncanny. I still haven’t figured out how he
did it.’

Doyle remains silent. It’s clear to everyone listening that Kravitz is suggesting that Doyle must have been privy to more information than he ever revealed at the time. And the reason
Doyle fails to respond is because he accepts the accusation is true. He knew a lot more. And he still feels the pain every time he thinks back to that case. The guilt over deaths that should never
have happened. Deaths he might have been able to prevent if only he’d acted differently. He has tried telling himself that he shouldn’t dwell on thoughts involving ‘should’
or ‘ought’. But still it hurts.

He says, ‘You’re right. It was a little weird. I guess I was just thinking outside the box. I mean, I’m just one cop in one small precinct. It’s not like I got a wider
picture of things. Not like, say, the boys in Homicide . . .’

Doyle’s targets glance at each other, and then Kravitz says to his partner, ‘You should know that Doyle here is not a man to be crossed. He’s upset a lot of cops in the past,
not least my previous partner, with whom he had a little altercation.’

‘Is that so?’ says Fenster, and again he stares at Doyle.

Kravitz continues, ‘But then Doyle knows what it’s like to lose a partner. Ain’t that right, Detective?’

Same old same old, thinks Doyle. It always gets dredged up. I miss my partners more than anyone, yet still some people insist on trying to taint me with their deaths. How much longer am I going
to be haunted by it?

For a few seconds the three men stand in strained silence. Then Kravitz says, ‘Speaking of partners, you wanna complete the introductions?’

Doyle suddenly remembers that LeBlanc is standing behind him.

‘Uh, this is Tommy LeBlanc. He’s gonna be working this with me.’

‘Pleasure, Detective,’ says LeBlanc, moving in front of Doyle and thrusting his hand out. Doyle rolls his eyes, while Fenster regards the younger man with disdain until he sheepishly
drops his outstretched arm.

‘You been on a homicide before?’ asks Fenster.

LeBlanc shrugs. ‘A couple. Nothing like this, though.’

It’s only then that the four men turn their collective gaze on the reason they are all here. The head is that of a blond girl. No more than twenty, and probably pretty too. Once. Devoid of
blood, of life, of spirit, her wavy hair matted with food, her white skin blotted by injuries – it’s difficult to imagine how she appeared in life. Impossible to imagine how she ended
up like this.

‘You think she’s dead?’ asks Kravitz.

‘Hard to say,’ answers Fenster, ‘us not being medical experts. I’d hate to make such a pronouncement and then be proved wrong when the ME gets here. What idiots
we’d look then.’ He glances up at his partner. ‘You know about chickens, right?’

‘Chickens?’

‘Sure. Those bastards can live for some time even without a head. There was this one chicken, lived for months that way. Its owner would put food into its gullet with an
eye-dropper.’

‘Really? Where’d you learn about such a thing?’

‘Ripleys. You know? The Believe-It-Or-Not people? ’Course, what we got here ain’t exactly the same. We got the head, and I don’t think the chicken’s head stayed
alive.’

‘Maybe not. Although we humans are more highly evolved than poultry. I’ve yet to see a chicken program a computer or drive a racing car. Hell, those fat feathery fucks can’t
even fly for shit. Who knows how long we could live without heads if we put our minds to it?’

‘We certainly are the master race, all right,’ says Fenster as he puts his finger up his nose.

Doyle is grateful when the door opens again and another figure breezes in. The man is Chinese, but he’s not here for a meal. He wears spectacles with lenses so thick they magnify his eyes
to cartoon proportions. He is wearing an overcoat that looks several sizes too big, and he is carrying a large black bag.

After taking his bachelor’s degree and then a PhD, David Jackson became a full-time academic. He is married, with two daughters and a menagerie of animals.
Pariah
,
his first novel, was Highly Commended in the Crime Writers’ Association Debut Dagger Awards. This is his second novel.

By David Jackson

Pariah

The Helper

I’d like to thank all of my family and friends who have supported and encouraged me in my writing. I think I have surprised them, and many of them in a good way!
I’d also like to thank the staff at Pan Macmillan for their incredible work. In particular, though, I will be eternally grateful to Will Atkins, the man who gave me my first break as a
novelist, who offered me my subsequent contract, and who has played an invaluable part in making my books what they are.

First published 2012 by Macmillan

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Copyright © David Jackson 2012

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