Cry Baby

by David Jackson

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s just that… I heard noises.’

  His voice is gentle and filled with concern, which does not go unnoticed as it carries over the microphone.

  ‘Great. A do-gooder. Tell the Jew bastard to fuck off.’

  She feels the urge to snap. She wants to bring the brooch to her face and yell into it. What stops her is the realization of how crazy she’d look.

  ‘Noises?’ she says, because she has no better answer at the ready. She racks her brain for even the feeblest of explanations.

  Wiseman cranes his neck to look past her and into her apartment. She tries to act casual in the way she steps toward him and pulls the door almost closed behind her.

  ‘Yes,’ says Wiseman. ‘Noises. Crying. And yelling.’

  ‘Tell him to keep his huge prying schnozz out of your business.’

  ‘Maybe it was the TV? I did have it on a little loud tonight. I’m sorry if—’

  ‘No. Not the TV. It was your voice, Erin. You were shouting, and you were really upset. I just wanted to check if everything was all right.’

  ‘Sure, Samuel. Everything’s fine. No problems.’

  ‘Samuel? You’re on first name terms with this Hebe? Christ. Like I said, Erin, you need to tell the kike to take a hike.’

  The venom of this racist sickens her. She hates him even more than she did before, if that’s possible. She guesses he’s probably homophobic too. Guesses he’s probably anti-everything. She doubts that a more detestable creature has ever walked this earth.

  Wiseman continues to look at her for answers. ‘So… the yelling?’

  She struggles for an answer. The voice in her ear makes it even more difficult to concentrate.

  ‘I just thought of something, Erin. Yeah! This guy! He could be your victim.’

  ‘What?’

  The shock of the suggestion forces the word from her mouth. Wiseman blinks at her, obviously wondering how it’s possible that she didn’t hear his question. Then he narrows his eyes, which almost disappear as his bushy eyebrows collapse in on themselves.

  ‘Are you all right, Erin? Is there someone…’ He nods at the door behind her, then lowers his voice. ‘Are you in some kind of trouble?’

  Trouble? Am I in trouble? Other than my baby being snatched and me about to commit murder, what kind of difficulties could I possibly be in?

  ‘He’s on to us, Erin. Waste him. You don’t even need to step out of the building. You could get this over with right here and now.’

  She tries to laugh. Tries to make light of the scenarios being thrown at her from all directions. But what comes out of her mouth is a humorless bark.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘Nothing like that. Look, if you must know, I was having an argument with my ex. Over the phone. Things got a little… heated.’

  Wiseman stares, and his stare is filled with suspicion.

  ‘He doesn’t believe you, Erin. What are you waiting for? Kill the Jew bastard.’

  ‘Heated?’ says Wiseman. ‘More like a raging inferno, I’d say.’

  She gives a little shrug and an attempt at a smile. ‘What can I say? I picked the wrong guy.’

  Wiseman nods sagely. ‘It happens. I was fortunate. My Esther was with me for forty years before she died. Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Yeah. Get ready to join your dead bitch in hell, Samuel.’

  Shut up, she thinks. Shut the fuck up, you loathsome piece of crap.

  ‘No. Thank you, but I just need some space, you know?’

  Wiseman nods, but she can tell he’s not wholly convinced. He continues to stand there, awaiting her next move. And she’s not sure what that should be.

  He says, ‘Going out somewhere?’

  ‘Out?’ she says, but how can she deny it? She’s coming out of her apartment with her coat on, for Christ’s sake. ‘Uhm, yeah. For a short while.’

  ‘He’s too fucking nosy, Erin. Whack him now.’

  ‘At this time of night?’ says Wiseman. He tries to look over her shoulder again. ‘Are you sure…’

  She reaches behind and grabs the door handle. Pulls the door firmly shut behind her. Wiseman stares at her again, eyes saying, Tell me the truth now, Erin. If you’re in trouble, I can help you.

  But you can’t help me, Samuel. Nobody can help me. I have no choice in what I’m about to do.

  She puts her hands into her pockets. Recoils slightly as the fingers of her right hand encounter the knife.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I’m meeting up with some friends. They just got into the city.’

  ‘Erin, do you know what time it is? It’s after midnight.’

  Another shrug. Saying, What’s the big deal? Why shouldn’t a woman go out after midnight?

  ‘I was supposed to meet them earlier. For a meal. But then … well, that’s when it all blew up with my ex. So… so I’m catching up with them at a club.’

  ‘A club,’ he repeats, but in a much flatter tone. He looks her up and down, and she knows he’s thinking that she’s hardly dressed for partying.

  ‘I didn’t have much time to get ready,’ she explains. ‘And if I don’t go now, I won’t see them again for a long time. So if you’ll excuse me…’

  She starts to move past Wiseman, heading for the staircase.

  ‘Erin,’ says Wiseman. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

  She halts. Why do people keep asking me if I’ve forgotten something? What the hell can it be this time?

  She turns to Wiseman. Questions him with her eyes.

  ‘Your baby?’ he says. There is an earnestness to his voice now.

  ‘Uh-oh. I told you, Erin. This Hebe won’t give up. Do yourself a favor. Do Georgia a favor. Why make it any harder than it already is?’

  She tries not to listen, but she finds her fingers closing around the handle of the knife.

  ‘What?’ she says. ‘Oh!’ She laughs. ‘No, it’s okay. She’s with a babysitter.’

  Wiseman takes a step closer. Her grip on the knife tightens. Would it be so hard? Couldn’t I just whip this knife out now and stick it in him? All these questions of his, all this suspicion. I could end it with one swift move. I could get my Georgia back.

  Wiseman points at her door. ‘A sitter? In your apartment?’

  She tries to think. Every time she comes up with an answer, Wiseman finds something else to query. The lies are growing. He’s going to catch me out. I’ll say something inconsistent with what I said before, and he’ll latch onto it. Please don’t do that, Samuel. Please don’t make me kill you.

  ‘Do it, do it, do it!’

  It’s like he knows what I’m thinking. As well as seeing and hearing what I see and hear, he can read my mind. He knows I’m crumbling.

  ‘Uhm, no,’ she says. ‘Another friend. She’s looking after Georgia at her place.’

  ‘She’s staying with her? Overnight?’

  She hears his incredulity. And why wouldn’t he be surprised? Georgia is six months old. Who the hell lets their six-month old baby do a sleepover? What kind of fucking stupid tale are you weaving here, Erin?

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘Sounds crazy, huh? But Lois is a real close friend, with young kids of her own. Georgia will be fine. I wouldn’t do this normally, but like I say, this is my only chance to see my friends.’ Another thought occurs to her – a way of allowing her to bring some of the threads together: ‘Of course, my ex doesn’t see it that way. That’s what the argument was all about. He seems to think I should spend twenty-four/seven with Georgia, even though he’s out of her life for good, the prick.’

  She’s pleased with that. She’s especially proud of the way she has included a subtext that warns, Only a complete asshole would accuse me of being a bad mother.

  But Wiseman seems to have other thoughts on his mind. He moves even closer to Erin. Dangerously close. Less than an arm’s length away. A dagger thrust away.

  ‘Who’s Lois? You’ve never mentioned her. In fa
ct, I thought you said you had no real friends in New York.’

  Please, Samuel. Don’t do this. Don’t push me like this. Don’t give me an excuse.

  She can feel her arm muscles tensing. Ready to bring out the knife. Ready to drive it home. One brief jab. That’s all it will take to bring Georgia back again.

  ‘Do it!’

  ‘I, uhm … did I say that? Oh, yes. I meant Manhattan. Lois lives on Staten Island. That’s what I meant.’

  Everything seems to freeze then. Wiseman and Erin staring at each other, not moving, hardly even breathing.

  He knows, she thinks. He can sense there’s something badly wrong here. He’s going to do something about it. He’s planning to go back to his apartment and call the cops. I can’t let him do that. I can’t let him jeopardize Georgia’s life.

  Her right arm starts to move, seemingly of its own accord. She can’t prevent it. It’s bending at the elbow. Her hand is coming out of the pocket, still clutching the knife. The knife with the five inch blade and the serrated edge. The knife that means the difference between having Georgia and not having her. It’s coming, it’s coming…

  ‘Now, Erin! Now!’

  And then it stops coming. It stops because Wiseman has reached out and grabbed her forearm. Not in any attempt to defend himself – he has no idea what imminent danger he’s in – but in a warm, benevolent way. It’s a touch of friendship.

  ‘You know,’ he says, ‘that I’m always here, don’t you? If ever you want me to look after Georgia for a couple hours. I’m pretty good with kids.’

  ‘Ha! I’ll bet he is, the old pervert.’

  Erin drops her gaze to the floor. She cannot look Wiseman in the face any longer. Oh my good God, she thinks. What am I doing? Was I really about to take the life of this innocent selfless man?

  She wants to answer. She wants to tell Wiseman everything. She wants to cry and to let him know of the trouble she’s in and to plead for his help.

  And the only way she can prevent herself from doing all that is to get the hell out of here.

  ‘I gotta go,’ she mutters, still looking at the floor.

  She turns and pulls away. Scurries to the stairs and descends as quickly as she can, never looking back. She doesn’t want to see the expression on Wiseman’s face. Cannot bring herself to look again into the eyes of the charitable neighbor who so nearly became her sacrificial lamb.

  If I could do that to Samuel, she thinks, if I could contemplate hurting a gentle soul like him…

  … then what could I do to a complete stranger?

  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.’