Cry Baby

by David Jackson

  She puts down the knife on the counter, then bends to pick up the hammer. She hefts it in her hand. It’s heavy. Those two vicious-looking claws sweeping back from the solid head as if it has been streamlined for maximum momentum. In the wrong hands – and her hands couldn’t be more wrong – it could do some serious damage.

  ‘Happy now? Sure you don’t need to go to Central Park to pick up a few boulders?’

  ‘It… It won’t fit in my pocket.’

  ‘Then take a fucking purse! Jeez, do I have to do all your thinking for you? Put it in your purse along with your tissues and your lipstick and all the other crap you women carry everywhere you go.’

  She closes the cabinet. Turns to head back to the bedroom.

  ‘Oh, and Erin… Take the knife along too. You’re still gonna need it. For what comes later, you know?’

  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 t
o 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.