Cry Baby

by David Jackson

‘Ketchup.’

  Doyle reaches into the paper bag for some sachets. ‘You want ketchup? I got ketchup.’

  ‘No. I’m checking there’s no ketchup. I don’t like ketchup on my food. Ketchup is made from tomatoes, which are technically a fruit. Why would I put fruit on potatoes?’

  Yeah, thinks Doyle. How stupid am I? Ketchup is for fruit salads, right?

  He allows Albert to eat for a while, then says, ‘What’s your favorite meal, Albert?’

  ‘Lasagna. I like lasagna.’

  ‘Yeah? Do you buy it in, from the supermarket, or does your mom make it?’

  ‘My mom makes it. Nobody else can do it like my mom.’

  ‘I’ll bet. She’s a real good cook, huh?’

  ‘The best. She can do cakes and pies too. And ice cream. And toast.’

  ‘Toast, huh? That’s pretty good. What else does she do for you?’

  ‘She washes my clothes. She helps me to read books. Lots of things.’

  ‘Sounds like a wonderful woman. Sounds like the perfect mother.’

  ‘She is. And her birthday is on the seventeenth day of the eleventh month. Those numbers are both prime.’

  ‘Even better. I don’t believe there are many mothers who could be all those things.’

  ‘No. She’s special.’

  Doyle smiles and nods along. Sorry, Albert, he thinks, but I have to do this…

  ‘So why would you kill her?’

  Albert halts in mid-chew. He sets down the remains of his burger on its greaseproof paper. Then he reaches into his mouth and takes out the partly masticated sphere of food and puts that on the paper too. It’s as though he has suddenly lost all appetite, as if the very thought of food is enough to make him balk.

  Doyle knew what he was doing. A standard interrogation technique. Take the suspect along a comfortable path, something about which they are happy to wax lyrical. Get them into a steady flow. Then suddenly throw in a curve ball – something that comes so hard and fast they are unable to make the mental adjustments required to deal with it. That’s when they slip up.

  He had taken Albert into the zone. The poor guy couldn’t even see beyond the present tense that Doyle insisted on using. Far as he was concerned, his mother was still on this earth, still tending to his needs, still loving him.

  And then the whammy. The big fat reminder that she has gone. That, in fact, her absence is down to him. This is all his fault, and what has he got to say about that?

  Doyle sees how the shock has registered with Albert, and he hates himself for taking such an advantage of the guy. But this is a last-ditch attempt. These are emergency measures. Sometimes you gotta be cruel to be kind.

  And so he presses on: ‘Tell me, Albert. Please, explain it to me. You’ve told me nothing bad about your mother. Everything you’ve said about her makes her sound like a saint. She did everything for you. She cooked for you, cleaned for you, helped you to learn stuff. Why would you hurt someone like that? What possible reason could you have?’

  It starts then. The flitting gaze, the tapping fingers, the scratching behind the ears. Doyle finds himself growing irritated. He knows he shouldn’t allow that to happen. Albert can’t help it. And yet the actions are starting to feel like those of an annoying brat who sticks his fingers in his ears and sings loudly to avoid having to communicate.

  ‘Did you really kill your mother, Albert? Really? I don’t think so. I don’t think you did it. I don’t think you’re giving me the full story, are you?’

  Albert is humming now. Muttering. Legs trembling.

  ‘Why don’t you just end this now? Tell me your real name. Tell me where you live. Tell me what really happened to your mom.’

  ‘I… I told you what happened.’

  ‘No. No, you didn’t. Not in any detail. Maybe it’s not as bad as you think. But if your mom is hurt, don’t you think we should go to her? Don’t you think you should tell us where she is, so that we can help her?’

  Albert starts slapping his head. ‘It’s bad, it’s bad. She’s dead. You can’t help her. Nobody can help her. I killed her.’

  ‘How, Albert? How did you kill her? What did you do?’

  ‘I-I-I-I…’ he says, as if stuck in a loop. And then the ‘I’ sounds become longer, more drawn out. They turn into whines, and then cries of pain. Something is boiling up inside him that threatens to explode.

  Enough. Doyle resigns himself to the fact that this isn’t going to work. It was his final attempt, and it hasn’t worked. Today ends with another failure in a long of string of them.

  What a shit day.

  ‘All right, Albert. No more. I’m not going to ask you about it again. I can’t make you tell me what you refuse to talk about. We’re done here. Okay?’

  Gradually, Albert calms down. His tics recede. He finds some peace in his tortured mind. Doyle observes the settling of these troubled waters and finds it strangely soothing himself. He is drained, and watching the extreme agitation leave Albert makes him crave the relief that sleep offers him.

  Doyle stands. Grabs up his paperwork. He still has a DD5 to finish typing up. LeBlanc had offered to do it, but Doyle told him to go home. Still, it won’t take long. And then to bed. Oh, yes.

  And then something occurs to him.

  What the hell, it’s worth a try. What harm can it do?

  He opens up his manila folder. Slides out a sheet of paper.

  ‘One thing, Albert. Before I go. You mind if I ask you something?’

  He gets a grunt from Albert that could mean anything. Yes, no, go fuck yourself – anything. But Doyle has no inclination to clarify the meaning. He’s going to ask it anyway. He’s got nothing to lose. It’s not like there’s a risk of destroying any kind of trust-based relationship here.

  He places the sheet in front of Albert.

  ‘Do you know what these numbers mean, Albert?’

  He doesn’t expect much of a response. He got little last time, and will probably get the same now. A simple no, perhaps, or a shake of the head. Maybe a quick glance at the sheet and then a comment on a totally unrelated topic. Nothing useful.

  So it surprises him when Albert starts rocking. Starts scratching and humming again.

  ‘Albert? What’s the matter? These numbers mean something to you?’

  The anxiety building. Albert folding and unfolding his arms.

  ‘They mean something, don’t they? What do they mean, Albert? Please. I could really do with your help here.’

  No answer. Not in words, anyway. But the body language says everything. Albert sees something in this pattern of numbers. Something nobody else has seen.

  ‘Albert. What is it? What’s in the—’

  ‘You lied!’

  The accusation is flung in Doyle’s face, before Albert turns his face away again. Doyle tries to make sense of it. What has he done to upset the guy?

  ‘Lied about what, Albert? What did I say?’

  ‘You said… You said you wouldn’t ask me any more questions about what happened. But now you’re trying to trick me. You’re trying to catch me out. So you’re a liar, that’s all. Pants on fire.’

  Doyle replays their conversation in his mind. What am I missing? These are two separate things. Albert and the serial killer aren’t connected. They can’t be. So how do these numbers relate to my questions about what happened to Albert’s mother? What possible link can there be?

  Gotta play this carefully.

  ‘I’m sorry, Albert. I just had to ask, ya know? The numbers were on my mind. I got talking to you, and that just made me think of them again, so I had to ask. Numbers like these, they’re everywhere, right? We can’t get away from them.’

  He sees that Albert is starting to relax again, but he leaves the sheet of paper on the desk in full sight.

  Come on, Albert. Reach out a little. Pull me out of this quicksand I’m flailing about in.

  ‘I had no idea it would upset you so much. The numbers, I mean. I shoulda thought about it more. I shoulda b
een more considerate. Of course it would upset you. These numbers… your mother…

  Pick up, Albert. Take up the thread. Show me where it leads.

  ‘I should’ve realized the connection. You saw it straight away, didn’t you? Of course you did. Even when I only had three of the numbers, you saw it for what it was. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m just a dumb cop. It wasn’t obvious to me.’

  Laugh at me, Albert. You have my permission. Agree that I’m stupid, but then tell me where I went wrong. Ask me how I could possibly fail to see the message in these stupid fucking numbers. But at least tell me what the fucking message is!

  ‘Where’s the other one?’ says Albert.

  Doyle stares at him. ‘What? What other one?’

  ‘The other one. There are only five here. There should be six.’

  It’s one of those moments. The hairs on your arms and your neck standing on end. Your whole scalp prickling.

  ‘Six, Albert? Six numbers? Why? Why should there be six?’

  But Albert is done talking. He gives Doyle a look that seems almost pitying. As though he feels sorry for the poor idiot of a cop who can’t even figure out why there should be six symbols here, let alone work out what they mean.

  And then Albert is on his feet and shambling back to the cage, leaving the cop staring speechlessly and wondering not only who the sixth victim will be, but what happens after that.

  10.20 PM

  She has picked a bar close to home. Just a couple of minutes away, in fact. There are too many cops on the streets for her to venture any farther. They are like hornets from a disturbed nest, buzzing angrily as they search for the cause of their unrest. She doesn’t know how much information they have, but she guesses they have at least worked out that their prey is a lone female, wandering the streets with a deadly weapon in her purse.

  And so here she is. The Wunder Bar, it’s called. A well known haunt for guys looking for girls and vice versa. Which makes it perfect. She can’t afford to piss away the little time she has left. She has just over an hour and a half to get this done. That’s not a lot of time. It would certainly be difficult in that short period to find someone of the level of despicability of her last few victims.

  Fortunately, she’s not going to do that.

  She has shifted the goal posts. No choice in the matter. She has decided to sit here, on a barstool, looking alone and in desperate need of a screw, until he comes along. Whoever he might be. She doesn’t care. She has killed five people now. Count ’em – five people! She wasn’t lying when she told Georgia’s captor that he has turned her into a hardened killer. This is easy now. She could kill a priest or even a disabled guy – that’s how detached she has become.

  Better if they have at least something she can disapprove of, though.

  Treating her like a piece of meat is good enough. Thinking they can come in here and simply assume – yes, assume – that she is here for the taking, here to serve them and satisfy their disgusting carnal desires, here just as an outlet for their sexual energy. Like some kind of socket – just plug yourself in and let it all out, why don’t you? Because that’s all I am to you, aren’t I? Just a plaything, a device, an object.

  ‘Quiet in here tonight.’

  And here he is. That didn’t take long. In different surroundings I would probably be pleased at being able to attract male attention so quickly. But not here. This makes me feel cheap. This makes me feel like a hooker. You hear that, fella? You know what you’re doing to me?

  He’s not bad looking, actually. She saw him watching her as she slid onto the barstool, and she wondered whether he would be the one. She would have preferred someone a bit less clean cut, a bit more swarthy and villainous. But he will have to do. Beggars can’t be choosers.

  ‘People still recovering from the holidays,’ she says.

  ‘What about you? You don’t need to recover?’

  ‘I’m there already. I have a sturdy constitution.’

  He smiles, and it’s an attractive smile. Don’t let it fool you. He’s a bastard underneath. Must be to be hitting on me like this.

  He gestures toward the barstool next to her. ‘You mind?’

  She smiles back. She thinks her own smile will look pleasant to him too. He won’t know that she’s smiling because she sees right through him. Sees exactly what he wants, what his plan is.

  ‘My mother warned me never to talk to strangers. Especially those who are hairier and have more testosterone than me.’

  ‘You should stay away from my mother, then,’ he says, and laughs.

  She joins in with the laughter, and has to tell herself not to let her guard down. Don’t start to enjoy this. Don’t let him disarm you with his witty, easy-going nature, this sonofabitch with a hard-on. He is the enemy. And he is also Georgia’s savior. Don’t allow yourself to like him.

  ‘How about this?’ he says. ‘We exchange names, and then we’re not strangers. Would that work for you?’

  She swirls the ice cubes in her glass, loving the tinkling noise they make.

  ‘It’s a novel idea. Some might even say a bold one. I guess we could give it a try. My name’s Erin.’

  ‘Erin? As in Erin Brockovich?’

  ‘As in Erin Vogel.’

  Her real name, but what does it matter? He’s not going to be able to reveal it to anyone.

  The man puts out his hand. He is young and he is handsome and he is about to make the first intimate contact that will lead to that most intimate of moments. His death.

  ‘Tommy,’ he says. ‘Tommy LeBlanc.’

  10.44 PM

  So this is goodbye.

  It’s not the most satisfactory of endings. A guy comes into the station house and confesses to a murder. We ask him some questions, get nowhere, and send him home again.

  Not that it’s so unusual. People come in here all the time saying they did things they plainly didn’t. Some have assassinated the president. Others have the dead body of Elvis in their basement.

  But this is different. Albert’s story is amorphous: it has no precise shape that Doyle can perceive, and yet he feels that it overlaps regions of truth in a number of places. There is something to it that feels right. And yet so much about it that seems wrong.

  He escorts Albert down the stairs. Albert says nothing, and Doyle cannot read his mind. In the twenty-four hours he has known Albert, Doyle feels he has not gone an inch further in understanding what happens in this man’s head.

  They get to the first floor. Step past the desk in the lobby. When he notices the huge frame of Marcus Wilson behind the desk, Albert brightens a little.

  ‘One-three-seven-one,’ he says.

  Wilson smiles. ‘Yeah. That’s me. You might want to know I topped up the candy too. Got back to those prime numbers you like. Gonna keep it that way from now on. Looks right, somehow.’

  Anyone else might smile back, give a nod of appreciation – something. Albert just stands there and scans the area. His eyes alight on the steps leading down to the cells, and he shifts his gaze away hastily.

  ‘Come on, Albert,’ says Doyle.

  Albert doesn’t move.

  ‘Albert. Let’s go, man.’

  ‘I don’t want… I don’t like it down there. I—’

  ‘Albert, I’m not taking you down to the cells, okay? Is that what’s worrying you? You’re not going back down there.’

  ‘Yeah. Okay. Good.’

  Albert turns and starts heading back to the staircase he just descended.

  ‘Wait, Albert. Hold up. Not back that way either.’

  Albert halts, looking confused. Doyle steps up to him.

  ‘You’re going home, Albert. I’m sending you home.’

  Albert shakes his head. ‘Can’t go home.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I told you. I did a bad thing. I killed my mom. That’s bad. I have to tell the police when something bad happens.’

  ‘Well, now you’ve told us. It’s all going in my report, okay?
You did your duty, and now you can go home.’

  Albert’s eyes dart. Doyle can sense the anxiety building again. Shit, why is nothing straightforward with this guy?

  ‘I… I can’t go home. My mom’s there. She’s dead. I can’t go back there.’

  Doyle is surprised to see that, for the first time since Albert arrived here, there are signs of tears forming in his eyes.

  Don’t do this to me, Albert. Don’t turn on the waterworks. I hate it when people start crying.

  ‘You’re not giving me a choice, Albert. You’ve tied my hands. You won’t tell me where your mom is. If you did, I could check it out. I could figure out what really happened. But you won’t, and I can’t keep you here.’

  ‘I want to stay here. With you and one-three-seven-one. I like it here. You didn’t shoot me or put me in the electric chair. You gave me Seven-Up and you gave me food, even though it had tomatoes. You didn’t let them put me downstairs. You looked after me.’

  Doyle sighs. This is hard. This is like the scene in that movie where the dolphin is sent away, or when ET finally goes home. Shit, kid. Don’t do this.

  ‘We look after everyone who comes in here, Albert. We’re not the bad guys. We just want to help people. I want to help you, but you won’t let me. And when people won’t let us help, there’s nothing we can do about it. If you don’t want us, Albert, then you have to go.’

  Albert reaches up with both hands and grabs fistfuls of his hair. ‘But… but… but…’

  Doyle beckons to him. ‘Come on. Let’s get you out of here.’

  Albert stays where he is. He’s like a child who really doesn’t know what to do, and can’t handle the emotions that are bundled with not knowing.

  ‘But… but… that’s not helping me. You said you’d help me. Pants on fire. You didn’t help.’

  ‘You won’t let us help, Albert. You won’t tell us where you live, you won’t tell us what your real name is, you won’t tell us what happened to your mom…’

  And then Albert says something that possibly opens up a door.

  ‘The numbers.’

  Doyle is suddenly wide awake again. ‘What about the numbers, Albert? What’s that got to do with this?’