Cry Baby

by David Jackson

  She thought about calling it off. Cops are a no-no. You can kill vagrants and hookers and drug dealers and street scum – they’re all fair game. But not cops. That’s when you turn the full machinery of the state against you. They will not rest until they find you, and when they find you they will throw the book at you. You will be history. Georgia will be history.

  But the time…

  She had glanced at the clock on the car’s dashboard. Saw how late it was. She was Cinderella, and after midnight the gig was over. No opportunity to find another Prince Charmless in the time available.

  So here she is. In his apartment. A cop’s apartment. Which, actually, is not the scummy den of iniquity she expected it to be. It’s tidy and it’s clean and it has modern, expensive furniture – not like a typical bachelor’s crib at all. She also sees now why he owned up to his true employment: if he hadn’t, the various photographs of him in uniform would have given it away.

  See, Erin, he’s not a nice guy at all. He lied to you, and he abandoned his deception only when he was left with no alternative. He is after one thing, and will do whatever it takes to get it. That’s why he was in that sleazy bar. Did he have the excuse that he was using it merely as a rendezvous point? No, he did not. Was he ignorant of the nature of that bar? No, he was not. He knew exactly what he was doing, and what he was seeking. He’s a predator, and he deserves all that’s coming to him.

  As these thoughts pass through her mind, she is also dimly aware that she is repeating a process she has executed many times today. Seeking justification – that’s what she is doing. Arguing herself into a state of mind that will make it easier to do what is necessary.

  It’s coming. It will happen soon. Georgia, are you listening? You’re coming back to me real soon. There are only minutes separating us now. Minutes, that’s all. We can last that long.

  And so she chats to this cop, and she accepts his offer of a gin and tonic, even though she has no intention of drinking it – because wasn’t this supposed to be about coffee and not something that could get her drunk and defenseless? – and she rests her arm on her lap with her sleeve pushed up slightly so that she can see her watch, and she counts away those minutes that are the only thing separating her from her baby, and she waits for her moment to end this ordeal, waits for that sweet, sweet time when she can declare this day, this nightmare, officially over.

  He talks to her as usual. The man in her ear, not the cop, although he is speaking too. He goes through his same tired routine: Kill him… What are you waiting for? … This is the last one, Erin. Number six… You’ll soon have your baby back in your arms again… yadda yadda. But she’s not really listening, to him or the cop. They are both just noise. Her entire focus is on finding an opportunity, an opening. Her purse is on the floor, next to her foot. Within easy reaching distance. She could reach in and grab a weapon in one swift motion. Lunge at this guy before he knew what was happening. But the timing has to be right. Yes, he is unsuspecting, and yes, his reactions must have been dulled by the alcohol he has consumed. But still, he’s a cop. He must have been in physical confrontations lots of times. He has been trained to deal with such situations. Get it wrong, and he will break her arm, take the weapon off her and shove it up her ass.

  She decides that it has to be the knife this time. It will do the most damage. Even if she can’t kill him with the first stab, he will see the blood gushing out of him and he will panic and she will have the advantage. She can always get cleaned up in his bathroom before she leaves. Yes, it has to be the knife. Bruce’s knife, in fact – the one she took from his apartment because he made her drop her own in that derelict tenement.

  So clinical. Selecting the most appropriate murder weapon. Like she’s some kind of professional assassin. It should sicken her, but it doesn’t. Not anymore. Five victims or six – it really doesn’t make a huge difference. In such a compressed time period they kind of all blend into one, anyway. They become an amalgam: one huge mass of blood-soaked flesh. She has lost the ability to see them as individuals with feelings and thoughts. She won’t refrain from killing this handsome blond cop. All she needs is the opportunity.

  She thinks she gets one when he stands up and turns away from her, still blathering on about something or other. She starts to reach into her purse, her eyes fixed on his back. Jump up quickly, she thinks. Push the knife into his ribcage, where his vital organs are. Now. Do it now.

  But then he shuffles off his jacket and she sees it. The gun, on his hip. A big dark cannon of a thing. It puts her own armament to shame. Her puny hammer and tiny knife wilt in comparison. She cannot take her eyes off that weapon.

  He glances at her, and seems to detect her unease. ‘Tool of the trade,’ he says by way of apology. And then he unhooks it from his belt and places it on top of a bookcase. Which, she notices, houses some surprising reading. Classics rather than cheap trash.

  So he’s cultured. What of it? Doesn’t make him a good guy. Hitler liked opera music, didn’t he?

  She breathes a sigh of relief when he moves toward her again. Denuded of his gun, he is hers now. His big ugly friend on the bookcase is out of reach. It’s just her and him and what’s left of the night. Tick-tock.

  He stops in mid-stride when his cellphone rings. Erin’s heart jumps, first in alarm, but then in realization that this could be it. This could be the perfect opportunity.

  He smiles at her and shrugs – another gesture of apology – then goes back to where he left his jacket folded over a chair. He reaches into the pocket, takes out his cell and answers the call.

  Erin watches.

  And waits.

  11.47 PM

  When he sees who’s calling him, Tommy LeBlanc’s face lights up. It’s Doyle. Perfect timing, Cal. Just wait till you hear my news. I might even toss a casual question her way while I’m on the phone. Just so you can hear her voice. Got all the proof you need then, Cal. Ha!

  ‘Hey, Cal!’ he says.

  He flashes her a smile as he says this, and she smiles back. She looks a little nervous, but that’s understandable. This is a guy’s apartment. A cop’s apartment. She probably never got this close to a cop before. He hopes the sight of his gun didn’t scare her too much.

  ‘Hey, Tommy,’ says Doyle. ‘You weren’t in bed yet, were you?’

  Not yet, he thinks. Could be soon, though. And maybe not alone either.

  ‘No. How come you’re still up?’

  ‘Had a stroke of good luck. Wanted to tell you about it.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, things aren’t going so bad for me either.’

  Another smile at Erin. Let her know how grateful he feels to have met her. Show her what a lucky guy he is. Not that he’s going to get any luckier tonight. That would be too much to ask. They barely know each other, and Erin just isn’t that kind of girl. They will have a drink or two and then he will walk her back to her apartment. He will ask if he can see her again, and maybe she’ll agree. He hopes so. He just needs to make sure he doesn’t make a complete idiot of himself between now and then.

  ‘Glad to hear it, Tommy. Anyways, I just wanted to tell you about a break I got on the case.’

  LeBlanc chews his lip. It irritates him that Doyle didn’t pick up on his subtle hint. Doyle should have asked him why things weren’t so bad. He should have read between the lines. Should have pictured the nod and wink hiding behind his buddy’s words.

  And because he is irritated, he makes the decision that he doesn’t want to hear about work right now. He doesn’t want to hear about whatever it is that Doyle managed to discover about Albert. There are other things in life, Cal. Like, for instance, relationships. Would you like to hear about my relationship, hmm?

  ‘Uhm, I can’t really talk about the job right now,’ he says. There you go, Cal. That one’s loaded with implication. Get your mind off the job and focus, why don’t you?

  ‘You can’t? I thought you—’

  And then it seems to hit home. The pause suggests that Doyle has
finally cottoned on.

  Says Doyle, ‘Wait. You got company?’

  LeBlanc can see the big smile on his partner’s face, and he cannot stop one creeping onto his own.

  ‘Uhm, yeah,’ he says.

  ‘Female company?’

  ‘Yes,’ says LeBlanc, a little crossly.

  A laugh from Doyle. Then: ‘Are you sure? Have you checked yet?’

  LeBlanc shakes his head. He should have expected nothing less from this idiot.

  ‘I gotta go now, Cal. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?’

  ‘No, wait. I’m fooling with you, okay? Have a great time tonight. If you can stay awake, that is.’

  It occurs to LeBlanc that staying awake could be a big problem. In spite of his visitor’s charms, sleep has become a distant memory. Add to that the sedative effect of alcohol and…

  ‘I’ll cope,’ he says. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Dead on my feet,’ says Doyle. ‘Heading home soon, though. I’ve done the hard work. Let somebody else do the mopping up.’

  ‘So you figured out Albert’s story, then?’

  ‘What? Oh, yeah, yeah. But I was referring to our numbers killer.’

  And now Doyle has got him. This is the big story. The one LeBlanc thought would run for a while yet. Maybe the killings would stop, and maybe not. Either way, LeBlanc believed the perp would remain at large for some time. And now Doyle is telling him that he has solved the case? What the fuck? LeBlanc can’t put the phone down just yet – not after a bombshell like this.

  And so what he does is turn his back. On Erin. The woman who is sitting on his sofa, looking so nervous and yet so alluring. He turns his back on her because he needs to hear this. Needs to get the skinny on just what has happened since he left the squadroom. Needs to ask some questions. Needs to know.

  He turns his back.

  ‘You got her?’ he says. In a whisper, of course, because he doesn’t want to frighten Erin away. The gun was bad enough. She didn’t like the look of that. She certainly won’t want to hear him talking about a series of gruesome murders he’s been investigating. Won’t want to know that he’s been spending all day dealing with mutilated corpses. What kind of picture would that paint of him? A delicate flower like Erin, she couldn’t cope with knowing that kind of information about him. It would be like telling her he was a mortician or something. Nobody wants to start a relationship with someone who spends so much time steeped in death. Certainly not someone of Erin’s sensibility.

  ‘Well,’ says Doyle. ‘Not quite. But I got an ID. I got a name.’

  ‘Yeah? How come? How’d you do that, supercop?’

  ‘Long story,’ says Doyle, a little teasingly. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow. Get back to your conquest, stud.’

  But LeBlanc can’t let this go. Not now.

  ‘Come on, Cal. How’d you do it? Who is it?’

  A heavy sigh from Doyle. Teasing again. Saying, If you really must drag this out of me…

  ‘You sure your girl there can wait?’

  ‘I’m sure. Now who is it, damn it?’

  ‘All right, Tommy. Chill. Before your friend starts worrying about you. Her name’s Erin Vogel.’

  A laugh explodes from LeBlanc’s lips, but it’s propelled by surprise rather than humor. And then the confusion washes in. His alcohol-fogged brain tries to make new connections to deal with this unexpected information. Is this a prank? Is that what this is? The guys have set him up with this date as a joke? How else would—

  ‘How do you know that?’ he asks.

  ‘That’s what I was about to tell you.’

  ‘No. I mean about my… who I’m with?’

  A pause. Confusion abounds now.

  ‘What? Tommy, what are you talking about? Are you drunk? I’m trying to tell you about the perp. Erin Vogel.’

  This still doesn’t make any sense. There are two different people being talked about in the same conversation here. Two totally unconnected people.

  Unless…

  His mind is working slowly tonight. If he had time, he would blame his tiredness or the alcohol or both. Or maybe simply the fact that he’s allowing his lust to override his normally pin-sharp judgment. But his mind doesn’t get that far. It gets only as far as telling him that he should turn around now. He should stop listening to Doyle and start checking out things closer to home. Turn around now, Tommy. NOW!

  It’s a good thought. Wise advice.

  But a fraction of a second too late.

  He sees her. But she’s not sitting on the sofa, looking demure and desirable and innocent. She’s here, right on top of him, rushing at him. And there’s an expression of jaw-clenched, wild-eyed determination on her face that is not at all attractive. It is frightening in its intensity, and what makes it worse is that she is causing him pain.

  Pain?

  Yes. Here, in my ribs, where she is hitting me. Why is she hitting me? What have I done to deserve this change in her? And why all the redness? All the…

  Blood.

  He tries to fight then. He drops the phone and he lashes out at this whirlwind of a woman who is giving him pain and taking away his blood. Not a fair exchange at all, he would decide if he had time, which again he doesn’t because there is no time anymore. There is just flailing of arms and gnashing of teeth and pain and blood and yelling and terror and adrenalin, all mixed together, all blurring into a measureless event that defies human comprehension.

  Time has no meaning here.

  11.51 PM

  Doyle knew he was doing wrong when he made the phone call.

  He was driving when he called Tommy. On his cellphone, while driving. That’s against the law. As a police officer he should have known better.

  But he had to call. He was so proud of himself for cracking the case. Okay, maybe it wasn’t such a stroke of genius. Anyone else would have made the same leap of logic. Even a kid would have seen it. But…

  Well, hell, Doyle. Allow yourself some credit. Others didn’t do it, did they? It was you. Crow about while you can. Tell someone, before everybody starts talking about how obvious it was and your ability to capitalize on this moment sinks without trace.

  And who better than your partner?

  Who, he thought at the time, is probably in bed, fast asleep.

  But still. Worth a try.

  That’s what he thought when he made the call.

  And now? How do you feel now, Doyle? Now that your conversation with LeBlanc has been brought to this unexpected conclusion? Now that all you can hear over the phone is what sounds like your young partner being attacked without mercy? Now that LeBlanc’s earlier friendly banter has been replaced by his screams of terror and his pleadings for his attacker to stop? Now that there is only one name coming out of his lips, that name being Erin?

  How does that make you feel?

  Well, what it makes Doyle feel is sick to the core. Sick and scared and filled with just one thought: to save his partner.

  He had been on his way home. He felt he had done his part. Cracked the case like the maestro of detection he is, then handed over the remains for others to pick at. He had felt good, and he had felt wasted, and he had decided he had earned his sleep.

  But now he has only one destination in mind, and a determination to get there in the fastest possible time. He can be at LeBlanc’s place in just a couple of minutes. Knowing this, he crushes the gas pedal into the foot well, ignoring the screams of complaint of his car’s engine as he urges the vehicle onward like it’s a racehorse. He yells and curses at it, pleads with it, begs of it.

  When he gets to LeBlanc’s apartment building, he practically falls out of his car and takes the stoop in almost a single bound. He leans on the intercom buzzers, pressing all of them except LeBlanc’s. Keeps pressing until some gracious soul permits him entry. And then he is leaping up steps again, sailing over them two at a time until he gets to LeBlanc’s floor. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t assess the risks to himself. He just pulls his gun and launches him
self off the opposite wall, smashing his foot into the door – once, twice, three times before he manages to get it to fly open. And then he’s in the apartment, gun outstretched in front of him. He sees LeBlanc slumped on the floor, his head against a gray radiator, and he’s covered in blood, so much blood. His shirt is soaked in the stuff, and it still pours from the wound carved into his forehead, and he looks dead. And all Doyle can think is please, please don’t let him be dead. He’s thinking this even though there are other things that are demanding his attention, other matters that need to be taken care of before he can go to his young partner’s aid.

  Like the woman. Erin. Standing there pointing LeBlanc’s gun at him.

  11.58 PM

  ‘Shoot the fucker. NOW! Shoot him! Before he shoots you.’

  She wants to obey. She thinks she should obey. She has done everything that has been asked of her. Her mission is over. Accomplished before the midnight deadline. She just needs to get out of here. Needs to get rid of this last obstacle blocking her escape route.

  And so she raises that heavy, heavy gun, and her finger tightens on the trigger, and…

  ‘Don’t do it, Erin. Drop the gun.’

  My name. He knows my name. Who is he? How does he know my name? Who else has he told?

  ‘It’s over, Erin. You don’t have to do this anymore. No more killing.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him. He’s trying to trick you. Get you to lower your guard. You need to get rid of him.’

  And then the other voice again: ‘I know everything, Erin. I’ve been to your apartment. I’ve spoken with Mr Wiseman.’

  What? My apartment? Samuel Wiseman? This man here has done all this? He knows things about me?

  ‘Erin. Fire the fucking gun. Don’t let him ruin it now. Your baby is here. I can give her to you. Just come and get her.’

  ‘Shut up!’ she says. And then to the man in the doorway: ‘Who are you?’