Cry Baby (18 page)

‘Again, Erin! Again! Hit that motherfucking sonofabitch!’

So she hits him again. Harder this time. And now the thwack is accompanied by a higher-pitched note that definitely suggests something is breaking. It’s like the magnified sound of an egg-shall being cracked open. And this time he does go down. He grunts and he drops, but he’s not dead because now he’s making all kinds of curious noises that don’t even sound human, and worse than that he’s reaching a hand out toward Erin – sliding it along that filthy, dusty elevator floor toward her ankles, and she can’t allow that, she can’t allow him to put his disgusting, women-hating hands on her again, because that would be a violation, that would be all the things in the lyrics still beating into his thick cracked skull, it would be him making women into worthless objects and him making babies cry and him just being a hateful piece of shit that deserves to…

‘DIE!’

Thwack!

Down goes the hammer. And
in
goes the hammer. Yes, actually in. She has swung it so hard this time that it has actually penetrated his cranium. It has smashed its way through his bony armor and found his spongy, hate-filled brain. And so now he’s flapping about on the floor like a wounded bird, and she wants to vomit and get away from him, but the hammer is stuck, held fast in his head, as if his brain has taken hold of it and refuses to let go in case she strikes again, and while this tug of war goes on, what should happen but for the elevator door to start opening, because this is the seventeenth floor, where this guy lives, welcome home. And her worry now is that there might be other people on the other side of the door, standing there in the hallway, waiting to climb aboard this death capsule. When this door – which, hallelujah, is finding it a struggle to get its aging mechanism to cooperate – finally yawns open and offers up this gruesome spectacle, won’t they suspect that all is not quite as it should be?

In her panic, she puts all of her might into freeing the hammer, and away it comes with a sickening crunch and an upheaval of skull fragments that erupt through the man’s undulating scalp. Her momentum carries her back-pedaling into the wall of the elevator, and the shuddering of the box seems to act as the kick the door needs to spur itself into action. It opens.
Erin pants and stares and waits and tries to decide what she should do next.

There is nobody there.

She is staring into an empty hallway. There is hardly a sound out there. A waft of warmer air carries to her the smell of over-cooked cabbage and stale food. Erin breathes out hard, both to release her tension and to blow away that nauseating smell, and the breath becomes a bark of laughter when she realizes she is holding the hammer out of sight behind her back. How ridiculous is that? What was I going to do – say he was like this when I got in? Say that he turned his music up so loud it blew his brains out? Oh, and this in my hand? Well, I always carry it with me in case there are things need fixing, you know?

Her light-heartedness is fleeting. At her feet, the man twitches, prompting her to raise the hammer in alarm. It has to be a death-throe. Doesn’t it? I mean, he can’t still be alive. Not after what I did to him. And just look at what I did. Look at that hole in his head where there isn’t meant to be one. Look at that red goo and icky stuff inside the hole. Why did I think this would be so clinical, so clean?

‘Way to go, Erin! That’ll clear his head, dontcha think?’

The voice laughs then. Like this is all just good fun. Like he’s watching a TV show. And maybe that’s how he sees it. It’s just a show, put on for his personal entertainment.

The door starts to close, and panic pulses through her again. Does it always close after a while, or has somebody called the elevator? Are we about to scare the life out of some old lady on a lower floor?

She shoots a hand out and grabs the door’s inner edge. It continues to push against her, and for an anxious moment she worries it will crush her fingers into the recess. But then it seems to recognize her resistance, and reluctantly it pulls back.

Okay. So far so good. Now what?

‘Drag him out,
Erin. Dump in the hallway, then take the elevator down again.’

She considers this. ‘I was going to leave him here and take the stairs.’

‘Really? As soon as you step out of that elevator, somebody might call it. You think you can make it down seventeen stories before someone finds the body?’

It’s a good point. For once he’s actually being helpful.

She wipes the head of the hammer on the man’s pants, leaving an oozy red trail there, then puts the hammer back into her bag. She steps into the doorway and bends to grab hold of the man’s ankles, then starts pulling. He’s heavier than she imagined, or else she’s weaker than she believed, and he doesn’t move easily. As if with growing impatience, the door attempts to close several times, but each time decides it is not up to the task of cutting through the mass of flesh and bone in its path.

Erin
starts to perspire as she heaves the body out. The rap music sounds even louder to her now, as if it’s leaking out of the aperture in his skull. Eventually she gets him out of the elevator, and she makes a move to get back in.

‘Hold up,
Erin. Aren’t you forgetting something?’

Shit. Not this again.

But she knows she has no choice.

She gets the hammer out again. Places it in the doorway to prevent the door closing. Then she takes out the kitchen knife. Swallowing back her distaste, she does what needs to be done.

Heading back down in the shaky elevator, she meets nobody. And it’s not until she’s well away from the building that she allows herself to picture some unfortunate person encountering the grisly corpse at the end of their hallway.

12.07 PM

Seventeen floors is a lot of stairs.

There are two elevators in this building, but one is out of action because it’s always on the fritz, and the other is out of action because it’s now a crime scene and has been halted on the seventeenth floor. That means anybody who wants to get anywhere in this building has to walk. And that includes ace detectives such as Doyle and LeBlanc, who get no special dispensation. As fit as they are, they are huffing and puffing by the time they get close to their destination.

‘Aren’t you younger than me?’ Doyle asks, looking down the steps at his trailing partner. ‘Why aren’t you racing ahead?’

LeBlanc halts, his hands on his hips as he tries to fill his lungs. ‘I’m holding back, old man,’ he pants. ‘Trying to let you feel good about yourself.’

‘Uh-huh? Well, for your information, I feel pretty good already. Least I can climb a few stairs.’

‘A few? There’s at least a million. If I have a coronary, I’m gonna sue.’

‘If you have a coronary, it’s because you’re outta shape. No wonder you never get the girls.’

‘Oh, here we go again with that. I shoulda known you weren’t done.’

‘Just thinking of you, Tommy. Young, single guy like you should be crawling with babes looking to get hit by the Tommy Gun.’

LeBlanc laughs breathlessly. ‘The Tommy…? Shut the fuck up, Cal. Just because you’re old and married and have no future, it doesn’t mean you can try to live your life through your younger, more handsome partner.’

Doyle turns and carries on up the stairs. With his face now hidden from LeBlanc, he allows his smile to break through.

‘Just saying, is all, Tommy. You don’t have to get so defensive.’

‘Defensive? Who says I’m being defensive?’

‘Well, sounds to me like you’re protesting a little too much there, pal. It’s okay, you know. This is the twenty-first century. You can be whatever you want to be.’

‘What?’ says LeBlanc, his tone rising in pitch. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

Doyle doesn’t answer. His grin is wide now and threatening to break into a laugh, and he doesn’t want to put an end to his sport just yet.

They eventually come through the doors on the seventeenth, and both of the detectives have to lean against the wall while they get their breath back.

It’s pretty crowded in the narrow hallway. Crime Scene, precinct detectives, homicide detectives, photographers, uniforms and the Medical Examiner all vie for space here. Even though the uniforms are making sure that the area is kept clear of nosy residents, and that potential witnesses on this floor remain inside their apartments until the detectives need to talk to them, it’s still a hive of activity. It doesn’t help that word has already spread amongst the cops that this is possibly the latest in the string of ‘number victims’, meaning that everyone wants in on what is potentially a high-profile case.

Norman Chin breaks away from the swarm of people buzzing around the corpse and wanders over to join Doyle and LeBlanc. Unusually for him, he’s wearing a smile.

‘Join the party, guys,’ he says in his solid Brooklyn accent. ‘What, a few stairs too much for you? When I was your age, I coulda run up here without breaking a sweat.’

‘Don’t you start,’ LeBlanc mutters.

Chin looks at Doyle and jerks a thumb toward LeBlanc. ‘What got up his keister?’

‘That’s a very good question,’ Doyle answers. Feeling the burn of his partner’s glare on him, he changes the subject. ‘What’s that on your face, Norm?’

Chin brings a hand to his cheek. ‘What?’

‘Sorry. My mistake. I thought it looked a little like a smile.’

‘Ha! You guys. Always with the joking around.’

Doyle narrows his eyes. ‘Are you feeling okay, Norm? Sure you’re not coming down with some kind of winter virus or something?’

‘I’m fine. Never better. Which is more than I can say for you two.’

‘Why?’ LeBlanc asks. ‘What’s wrong with us? I know you’re a medic, but that’s the quickest diagnosis I ever heard of.’

‘Ha!’ Chin exclaims again. ‘What I’m trying to say is I’m concerned for your mental wellbeing.’

LeBlanc seizes his chance to take some revenge on Doyle. ‘Well, I already knew that about
Cal here.’

Doyle glances at him, then shifts his puzzled gaze back onto Chin. ‘Norm, what the hell are you talking about?’

‘Brain fatigue. Maybe not now, but when you see this guy. I hope you like puzzles.’

‘Puzzles? No, I hate puzzles. I like my cases straight. If there’s a body, I like to see somebody standing over it with a smoking gun.’ He looks over to the knot of people along the hallway. ‘Is this our numbers killer or not?’

Chin laughs again. ‘You tell me. You’re the detectives. Why don’t you come over and take a look for yourselves?’

He leads them across, still chuckling. Doyle and LeBlanc exchange mystified glances and pull on their latex gloves.

‘Make room! Make room!’ says Chin to the row of backs in his way. ‘The Eighth Wonders have finally graced us with their presence. Let them see and pronounce judgment.’

Doyle notices how LeBlanc reddens a little at this further embarrassment. Chin always has been a master of making the cops around him feel about two inches tall.

Doyle looks down at the body. Male. Leather jacket and jeans. Music phones in his ears. Hole in his head.

‘What is that? Gunshot wound?’

Chin shakes his head, still wearing his smile. ‘Blunt force trauma. Somebody hit him with something heavy.’

‘And that was the sole cause of death?’

‘Far as I can tell here, yes.’

An uneasy feeling creeps into Doyle. If this is a lengthening of the string of victims, then the change of MO is unusual. Worrying, even.

‘But this is the next in the sequence, right? This is number four?’

More chuckles. More shaking of the head. And now Doyle is starting to get irritated.

‘Norm, I asked you back there if this was our guy. Why the hell didn’t you just give it to me straight?’

Chin holds a finger up. Wait. And learn.

‘That was a different question,’ he says. ‘Now you’re asking if this is number four.’

Squatting, Chin takes hold of the body and turns it, just enough for the onlookers to see the number carved on its forehead:

‘Like I said – I hope you like puzzles.’