Cry Baby (16 page)

8.31 AM

‘DOYLE!’

Crap, thinks Doyle. What have I done now? He looks up to see Cesario summoning him into his office. Whatever happened to courteous invitations?  A cheery note would be nice: ‘Lieutenant Cesario would appreciate your company at a little get-together at his place; bring cakes’ – that type of thing.

Doyle gets up from his desk and heads toward his boss’s lair. Cesario hasn’t been in the job all that long, and Doyle feels he hasn’t really figured the man out yet. Sometimes he seems okay; other times he acts like a complete asshole. In the past he has given Doyle breaks when things haven’t been going well, but he has also landed on him like one of those cartoon ton weights when he’s decided that Doyle has pushed things too far. Which, Doyle admits, he is somewhat prone to do.

So let’s be positive. Maybe this is one of the give-the-guy-a-break moments.

‘I just had a very interesting conversation with a guy at the water cooler,’ says Cesario.

Then again, maybe it’s not.

‘Uh-huh,’ says Doyle. Because a little chat with Albert could be about any one of a billion things, selected at random.

‘About numbers mostly. But also about why Oreos are the wrong shape. You wanna tell me about him?’

‘Uhm, yeah. He’s a suspect.’

‘For what?’

‘A homicide.’

‘A homicide.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And who do we think he might have killed?’

‘His mother.’

‘His mother. Okay. And did he?’

‘That’s the thing. We don’t know. He says he did it, but that’s all he’ll say. He won’t give us his address. He won’t even tell us his name. I call him Albert because he’s a fan of Albert Einstein. You know, the scientist?’

‘Yes, Doyle. I have heard of Einstein. Believe it or not, some of the bosses in the NYPD actually went to school. So how did he come to be a collar?’

‘He just walked into the house. Gave himself up. There was blood all over his shirt.’

‘So what’s his status now?’

‘Pending, I guess. I’m trying to get somebody from Psych Services to come in and talk to him. I’m also trying to find out where he lives, but, well… he ain’t exactly top priority right now.’

Cesario nods. Leans back in his chair. Here it comes, thinks Doyle.

‘Okay,’ says Cesario. ‘So far so good. Now here’s the thing that’s bothering me. What the hell is he doing by the water cooler?’

Doyle shrugs. ‘It fascinates him. And he likes playing with the cups.’

‘He’s a homicide suspect, Doyle. You just told me that. Since when do we leave homicide suspects sitting by the water cooler?’

‘It’s not like he’s gonna poison it, Lou. I got nowhere else to put him.’

Cesario pulls a face like he thinks Doyle is the village idiot. ‘How long have you been a detective, Detective? This guy may have just wasted his own mother, and you think he should be left to roam around a police station house? Hell, he’s not even cuffed. What were you thinking? You know the rules. Get enough on him to charge him, then get his ass down to Central Booking. Until then, lock him up, just like we do
with all the suspects. With everything that’s going on right now, we haven’t got time to be chasing after people who decide they want to play games. Now get him outta here. I don’t want him hanging around my squadroom anymore. Got it?’

Doyle nods. ‘Got it.’ He turns, then halts in the doorway. ‘By the way, what’s wrong with the shape of Oreos?’

He sees Cesario raise a warning finger, then decides not to wait for an answer.

He goes and finds Albert, who has seemingly tired of examining plastic cups and is now bent right over and staring down at his shoes – the sneakers with the laces wrapped all the way around them.

‘Albert?’

Albert doesn’t look up. His head twitches as he flicks his gaze from one foot to the other and back again.

‘Whatcha looking for, Albert?’

‘I’m checking.’

‘Checking? Checking for what?’

‘Balance.’

‘Balance?’

‘Yeah. They have to be the same, or my balance goes kooky.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t want for your balance to get all kooky. Is that why you tie your laces all the way around your sneakers like that? To help your balance?’

‘No, that’d be ridiculous. It just holds them on better.’ He ventures a glance across at Doyle’s shoes. ‘You should try it. Yours don’t look very secure at all. How do you run after criminals with loose shoes like that? Plus, they’re dirty.’

Doyle checks out his shoes. ‘You got me there, Albert. I should definitely do something about my slack footwear here. Listen, you mind coming with me?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What, yes you mind, or you don’t mind?’

‘No.’

Unsure as to what answer he’s been given, Doyle makes it less complicated: ‘Come on, Albert. Walk this way with me.’

‘Walk this way,’ Albert sings. ‘That’s by Run DMC. Of course, they didn’t tie laces in their sneakers at all. Not at all. That’s crazy. They could get hurt.’

‘Foolhardy,’ Doyle agrees. ‘What kind of role models are they, huh? Come on, Albert.’

He leads him down the hall, and then into one of the interview rooms. The one containing what the detectives call the cage – actually an area on the far side of the room, penned off from the rest by steel mesh. In the center of the room is a table and chairs, and along one wall is a large, two-way mirror.

‘Take a seat for a minute, will ya?’ says Doyle.

Albert lowers himself warily onto one of the plastic chairs, but keeps twisting his head toward the cage.

‘Okay, Albert, here’s the deal. You can tell me where you live and exactly what happened, and then we can clear up this whole mess. Or – listen to me here, Albert – I have to lock you up. Now what’s it to be?’

‘The water cooler. I like it by the water cooler. It makes funny noises.’

‘No, Albert. The water cooler is not an option anymore. Are you gonna tell me where you live, so we can see what happened to your mother?’

Albert looks at his feet again. ‘I think I need to re-tie my laces. I feel a bit kooky.’

Doyle sighs. ‘All right, Albert. Get on your feet.’

‘Aw, Jeez. Don’t wanna go, don’t wanna go.’

‘Albert, it’s okay. Chill. I’m not gonna take you downstairs again. Not to the cells. I know how you hate it down there, and I wouldn’t do that to you. But here’s the thing. My boss says I gotta put you somewhere safe, and that means putting you into this little room here. You see it?’

Doyle points toward the cage, and Albert ventures another glance at it.

‘In there? That’s for people? It’s not for dogs, or rabbits?’

‘No, it’s not for animals, although I’m not so sure about some of its previous occupants. What do you think? It ain’t exactly the Waldorf Astoria, but would you mind sitting in there for me? I’ll keep checking on you. Later I’ll bring you something to eat, maybe a soda. How’s that sound?’

‘Seven-Up. I like Seven-Up.’

‘Seven-Up it is. You cool with this?’

‘No dogs?’

‘No dogs.’

‘A rabbit would be okay, though. I like rabbits.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. Go ahead, Albert. Try it out.’

Albert gets off his chair. He shuffles into the cage and looks around at his new surroundings.

Gently, so as not to alarm his prisoner, Doyle closes and locks the door. ‘All right in there, Albert? I’ll be right back. Make yourself comfortable on the bench there.’

Albert sits himself down on the extreme end of the wooden bench that is bolted to the floor.

‘Monkeys,’ he says. ‘This place would be good for monkeys.’

10.15 AM

This is proving more difficult than she thought.

It was never going to be easy anyway, but the streets are busier now. Much busier. It was even worse during the rush hour, but it’s still bad enough.

She has been wandering the street for over two hours now. Trying to figure out how she’s going to do this.

For one thing, it’s got to be someone she dislikes. Hates with a passion, preferably. That creep in the car was so much easier to deal with than Vern. It was almost a pleasure to dispatch him. Well, no, not a pleasure. Let’s not get carried away here. It could hardly be called a pleasure to open up any human being like that. But let’s just say it wasn’t such a hardship – not after what he tried to do to her. He was sick. A stain on humanity. Who did he think he was, treating me like that? Where did he get the idea that—

Okay, Erin. Calm down. He’s the past, and now we have to think about the future. Move on.

So, back to the point. Which is that she’s still massively upset about Vern, and she’s not nearly so saddened by the demise of Mr Creepy. Conclusion – she should stick to people she wouldn’t be inclined to piss on if they were on fire.

Problem is, where do you find people like that? If you’re new to a city, and you don’t really know anyone well enough to like or dislike them, where the hell do you start? Night-time was different – that’s when all the disease-ridden cockroaches come out to play. But now? It’s just a sea of people. Normal people. People who are going shopping or dining or to get their hair done or to place a bet or to meet friends. People who don’t even notice me and who have no opinion about me. People who, in particular, harbor no thought of copping a feel or trying to make me gag on their genitalia.

She has tried to come up with a mental list of suitable candidates. In her head she scribbled a title: ‘People I Could Willingly Kill.’ Then her imaginary pen moved down the page and…

… and that’s as far as she got. She toyed with the idea of adding the woman who works in the drugstore, but being a little snotty with customers doesn’t really count as a capital crime. Then there was that guy who was leering at her through her window when she was in her underwear. Okay, so maybe not leering. And yes, he did have an excuse to be there, seeing as how he was the window cleaner. And actually, he was kinda cute… Okay, so what about that coffee vendor who called her a bitch? Sure, except that he might have been saying that she must be
rich
, because she forgot to pick up her change. His pronunciation wasn’t so good.

See? See my problem? Encountering people to hate isn’t easy, even when you’re on a mission to seek them out. All these people, and not one of them with a victim sign hanging above their heads.

All these people. Which is, of course, another problem. She needs to be around people to pick out the rotten apples, but she needs to be away from people so she can do what needs to be done. It’s a Catch-22 situation. How the hell can she walk up to someone and bop them on the head with a hammer, and then expect to get away with it?

She’s beginning to think she should have gotten it over with during the hours of darkness. A mad dash around the
East Village, decimating its population of undesirables and ne’er-do-wells. There are some who would give out medals for such community spirit. She could be Gotham’s next caped crusader.

Listen to me, trying to make light of this. What am I thinking? I have a hammer and a knife in my purse. I’m the grim reaper. Could that be any more serious? Someone – maybe you, or you, or you – is about to die at my hands. How can I be so cavalier?

Because I have to be. It’s precisely because this is oh so fucking serious that I can’t give it the serious consideration it deserves. If I did, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t even be able to step out of my apartment building. I would stay in my bedroom and I would crumble and I would lose my baby.

And in that realization, it seems to her that the people around her take on a new dimension. They mutate from a milling collection of innocents into a seething mass of distrustful and cynical beings. They sense her anxiety and her predatory nature. They are a herd of wildebeest, alert to this lioness on their territory, waiting tensely for her to pounce. They know, and they are ready for her, and they will fight with every fiber they possess to protect themselves. And somewhere out here, somewhere in their midst, is…

‘I’m getting bored, Erin.’

Yeah, him. He’s out there. Maybe not far away. A mile? Yards? Feet?

You. Yeah, you. The guy with the headphones. Is that really music you’re listening to? And that iPod or whatever it is you’re holding, is that picking up the video feed from this ugly piece of crap fastened to my coat? And what have you done with Georgia? Where have you left her?

Aargh! This is crazy! I’m losing it. This torture is frying my brain, and soon I won’t be able to function at all.

‘Did you hear me? I said I’m getting bored.’

He checks in every few minutes. Just to let her know he hasn’t gone away. Just a gentle reminder that he’s with her at every step. Like a toothache that keeps flaring up.

She puts a hand over her mouth as she speaks. Just in case anyone should think she’s mentally unbalanced. They shouldn’t think that. A serial murderer is all she is.

‘What do you expect me to do about it? Why don’t you go put the TV on or wash your socks or something? I can’t rush into this.’

‘Just saying, is all. I thought you were more decisive than this.’

‘Yeah, well that just goes to show how you don’t really know me at all.’

‘Oh, I think I know you well enough, Erin. Better than you know yourself, in some ways.’

There he goes again. His claims to supernatural knowledge of my mental processes. Well how about this, Svengali? See that picture in my mind of a hand flipping you the finger? See that, asshole?

She walks some more. She’s pretty tired of walking, and she’s actually feeling hungry. She didn’t think she’d be able to eat anything today, but now her stomach is rumbling. She spies a small coffee shop just up the street, and heads toward it.

As she draws level, she realizes that it’s a tiny place. Three tables in the window, with two chairs apiece, and a counter along the far wall. But every chair is taken, there’s a line for service, and the staff have big smiley faces. Good enough. She enters, and waits her turn.

‘Erin, what are you doing?’

She can’t answer, not in here. So she just beams him some more telepathic messages. Like: Go fuck yourself.

‘Wasting time, Erin. Wasting valuable time.’

She rummages in her purse. Takes out the cellphone that she has hardly used since she came to
New York. She types a text message on its screen, then holds it up in front of the brooch. It says
:
Hungry. Leave me alone.

She puts the phone away, then stares through the glass counter at the muffins and the cookies. She can hear the bubbling and the spouting of steam, and the smell of coffee on the air is potent. But then another noise catches her ear. Nobody else notices, but
Erin does.

A gurgle. Not of a coffee making machine, but of a baby.

She cranes her head and looks up the line. Sees that the woman at the front is carrying a baby in a papoose. It’s tiny, almost lost in all the layers of clothing it’s wearing. Its face is all scrunched up and its eyes tightly closed.

The pang of loss stabs
Erin in the heart. That should be me, she thinks. Doing stuff with my baby. Ordinary stuff like wandering into coffee shops, and then maybe later going shopping for baby clothes. Watching the faces of people as they coo over the baby and ask questions about her. Does she sleep well? What’s her name? Where did you buy that adorable hat?

That should be me. That
was
me.

He ruined it. He took it all away. He cut us in two.

Then she sees the man. He’s big and dark and grim-looking. Dressed in a leather jacket, jeans and black Doc Martens. He marches in off the street and straight up to the front of the line. No apologies or explanations. Just pushes right in there.

‘Excuse me,’ he says, but then doesn’t even give the staff time to reply before he adds, ‘Hey! You!’

Behind the counter, a young Hispanic girl turns to look at him. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to wait in line.’

‘No,’ he says, loudly so that everyone in the shop can hear. ‘I did that already. What’s wrong with your memory? It was only about a minute ago.’

Another Hispanic staff member bustles across. ‘That was me, sir. I’m the one who served you. Is there a problem?’

He looks at her as if to say,
How dare you have a similar appearance to that other girl? You got a policy of trying to confuse your customers?

‘A problem? Yeah, there’s a problem.’ He holds aloft the paper cup he’s carrying. ‘This is a latte, and I ordered a cappuccino.’

‘Actually,’ says the girl. ‘I’m pretty sure you ordered a latte.’

‘Well, pretty sure ain’t the same as absolutely sure, now is it? You got it wrong, sister. I know what I ordered. It was a cappuccino. But that’s not what you gave me. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?’

He says his last sentence slowly, as if to imply that the girl is either stupid or lacking in her comprehension of English. He also keeps his volume up, because clearly he’s a man who enjoys an audience.

‘Yes, sir,’ says the girl. ‘I understand perfectly. Would you like me to exchange it for a cappuccino?’

‘Yes, I would. I would like a cappuccino. Like I freaking well asked for in the first place. But now that you’ve admitted it was your mistake, I think you should give me my money back too.’

The woman shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I can’t do that. I can give you a cappuccino or I could give you your money back, but I can’t do both. I don’t think that would be fair.’

Erin looks around. Everyone in the place has been stunned into an anxious silence. Waiting to see what happens. Hoping this will be settled amicably and the man will take his coffee and leave them in peace. Hoping that it doesn’t get any nastier than it already is.

‘Fair? What do you mean, fair? You messed up, sister. All I’m asking is that you make a little restitution for your mistake. A little compensation. That’s what I think would be fair. Is that so much to ask?’

‘Sir, would you like me to make you a cappuccino? Is that what you’d like me to do?’

The man sighs. A deeply exaggerated expression of his unhappiness. ‘Why is this so hard for you to understand? Am I talking in Swahili here?’ He turns on his heel, sweeping his hard gaze across the other customers, none of whom seem capable of meeting his eye. ‘Anyone else here think this is so difficult to grasp?’

He turns back to the girl, who is trying to stand her ground but is looking more and more like she’s about to run away in tears. ‘One more time. I’ll speak nice and slow, just for you. Give me my fucking money back, get me a cappuccino, stick this latte up your fat ass, and then everyone is happy. All right?’

‘Sir, I’m sorry—’

‘NO!’

The slam of his palm on the countertop is like the sound of a firecracker. The girl takes a whole step backward.
Erin notices that the baby also jumps at the sound, and then it opens its mouth to scream.

‘No,’ the man repeats. ‘No excuses. You’re already in my bad books for fucking up my day, so don’t make it any worse for yourself, okay?’

And that’s when the mother decides to step in. It was an uncomfortable enough situation already, but now her baby has been alarmed, and that’s a step too far. That’s over the line.

‘Hey,’ she says, ‘would you mind cooling it a little? You’re upsetting my baby.’

The man rounds on her, eyes blazing. ‘For one thing, I wasn’t talking to you. For another, why the fuck do you bring a baby to a coffee shop if it’s peace and quiet you want? Why don’t you take it to a fucking church or a library or something?’

‘Woo-hoo,’
says Erin’s commentator.
‘Which charm school did this bozo go to?’

As if responding to the verbal assault, the baby steps up its crying. The woman starts to stroke its back and bounce it gently while she sends hushing noises at it.
Erin can feel her own anguish building. This baby is younger than Georgia, but still she can picture her own child making these screams. This is like an attack on herself and her baby, and she finds herself being inexorably drawn into this conflagration.

Says the woman, ‘The girl told you what she can do. She made you a good offer. She didn’t even have to do that. It’s a cup of coffee, for crying out loud. What’s the big deal?’

And now the man is squaring up to her. Straightening up and showing her how tall and broad and immovable he is. Demonstrating what a fine specimen of testosterone-fueled manhood he is.

‘Oh, shut the fuck up, bitch. This ain’t none of your business. You or your ugly little rug-rat. Keep your big nose out of it.’

The baby screams louder. The sound drills into Erin’s skull and sets her brain on fire. Through the flames she sees images of Georgia. Sees her lying on her back, fists clenched and cheeks red-hot as she throws every ounce of her little might into pleading for her mother’s help.