Cry Baby (21 page)

‘Yeah.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘Whaddya think?’

‘About what?’

Jeez. This is like pulling teeth.

‘Okay. One step at a time. Two is prime, right? And three – also prime. What about the one? Is one a prime number?’

A quick look of disdain. ‘No.’

Doyle is starting to feel a little stupid. He feels he should know this stuff, but it went out of his head long before he became a policeman.

‘Remind me,’ he says. ‘What’s the definition of a prime number again?’

‘A prime number is any number that is divisible only by one and itself. You know, this doesn’t make a great changing room, even with the mirror. For one thing, there are no clothes hooks.’

‘No. You’re right. But about these primes. Doesn’t the number one fit the description you just gave me?’

Another withering look. ‘Doesn’t count. If you counted one it would violate the fundamental theorem of arithmetic.’

‘Of course,’ says Doyle. ‘Right.’ He has no idea what the fundamental theorem of arithmetic is, but he doesn’t want to be made to feel any more dense by requesting an explanation. The number one isn’t prime, Doyle, you dumbass. Accept it and move on.

‘So what if we put the three digits together? Two hundred and thirty-one. I’m thinking that could be a prime, right?’

It’s a fifty-fifty shot. Doyle knows he should be able to work it out for himself, but he’d rather risk the humiliation.

‘Ha!’ says Albert. Which tells Doyle all he needs to know about his gamble.

‘It’s not prime?’

‘Course not. It divides by three and seventy-seven. It divides by eleven and twenty-one. It divides by—’

‘Okay, okay, Albert. I get the picture. It ain’t prime.’ Sheesh, rub it in, why don’t you?

Doyle sighs. Wonders if this is a total waste of time. But he’s not giving up just yet.

‘All right. One more thing. Suppose we think of this as a sequence. Two, three, one. Would that mean anything to you?’

Albert says nothing. But there’s something in the way he says nothing. A certain tell in the way he steadfastly chooses to remain silent.

‘Albert? Two, three, one. That sequence of numbers. It means something, doesn’t it?’

Another scratch behind the ear. The beginning of a slight rocking to and fro.

‘Do you know what comes next? Is that it? You know what the next number is?’

The swaying increasing in intensity. The fingers coming together, tapping, tapping.

‘Albert, this is important. It could save someone’s life. Please help me if you can. What does this sequence mean? What’s the next number?’

He’s humming now. It’s increasing in volume. On its way to drowning out all external noises.

‘Albert, tell me about the sequence. Tell me!’

And then Albert moves. Doyle takes a step back, not sure what to expect. Violence? Screaming?

But it’s neither of those. Albert grabs the rest of his sandwich. Stuffs the whole thing into his mouth. Starts to chew.

It’s his way of shutting himself up, of preventing himself from telling Doyle what he wants to hear. Doyle knows this.

Which means there is something. There is something about these numbers. They have meaning, and comprehending that meaning might help to catch a killer.

But at the moment, the key to the code is locked away tightly.

Inside the head of another killer.

3.31 PM

She’s spoilt for choice here, and she wonders why she didn’t think of it before.

Tompkins
Square Park, or TSP as it’s known locally. A small square of green, with spreading elm trees, a basketball court, playgrounds, a dog run, and – meandering past them all – winding walkways lined with benches. Captured in the briefest of terms like that, it sounds an idyllic oasis. A haven from the hustle and bustle of Alphabet City here on the East Side.

Erin
knows its recent history. She knows that during the twilight years of the twentieth century TSP symbolized all that was wrong with New York. Drugs, prostitution, violent crime, homelessness, the dregs of society generally – all were represented in overwhelming concentrations in this tiny quadrilateral.

It’s clean now, though. Safe. That’s what they told
Erin when she moved to the city. Go see for yourself. Watch the children playing there. See a live performance or listen to one of the many bands that play for free. Enjoy the antics of the dogs. Have a picnic and strike up a conversation with your fellow citizens.

But…

And that’s the problem. There’s always a ‘but’. The people who were so full of praise for their local park never, ever forgot to tag on that brief but oh-so-significant word. That’s what should have given Erin the clue.

In a curious way it reminds her of the movie Gremlins. You’re given this cute furry pet. It’s just the sweetest thing on the planet. It smiles and chirrups and sings and rolls its big wet eyes and even repeats the occasional word. Totally adorable. You can keep it, you can look after it, it’s yours. But…

Well, we all know what happened next.

The park is safe. But…

Yeah. Like the song says, I Like Big Buts. A huge, ugly, in-your-face but.

It’s weird. There are normal people here. At least they appear fairly normal to
Erin. Some of them even look pretty happy. But it’s as if they can’t see what’s going on around them. They have somehow blinkered themselves to the degeneracy and the lunacy and the sheer bizarreness of the other denizens of this place.

Erin
sees it, and she wonders how can she perceive what others cannot. Is it because she still thinks of herself as an outsider? Would she become like them over time, accepting of the unacceptable?

She sees the homeless guy with the huge white beard, unashamedly reaching into his pants and then pissing against a tree, while not forty yards away children play tag. She sees three youths laugh as they toss lighted matches at another vagrant lying on the damp grass. She sees the man with the traffic cone on his head, apparently talking to his shoes. She sees the fat middle-aged woman in a disgustingly undersized mini-skirt, singing to the dog held in a papoose strapped to her chest. And she sees the thin, sallow figures in the shadows, slipping things to each other in furtive handshakes.

None of this escapes her in her brief stroll around the park, and it astounds her. There was nothing like this back in Brookville. The occasional drunk sleeping it off on a park bench, yes. But he would soon be woken by the police and moved on. Where are the cops here? Why doesn’t anybody call them? Do these people even care about their environment and its effects on their children? Why doesn’t somebody do something, for Pete’s sake?

I could do something, she thinks. I could quite happily start cleaning up this park. I mean, really clean, not pretend clean. Sanitized.

I could take a hammer to each and every one of these low-lifes and undesirables. I could flit from skull to worthless skull like a bee visiting flowers. Bop, bop, bop as I go. Leaving them fallen in my wake. And then maybe some of the decent law-abiding people here might actually cotton on to the fact that it doesn’t have to be like this. Things can be changed. Maybe they will actually start to cheer and applaud. Maybe they will even join in and turn this park into the place of serenity and beauty and joy it’s supposed to be.

But she doesn’t do that. She doesn’t take out the hammer. Not yet. Instead she sits on a bench and waits for them to come. Because they
will
come. She is an alien, not accepting of the ways of these feral creatures. They will sniff her out and they will eye her with suspicion and fear. She is not afraid to meet their collective gaze, and many will back down at that most primitive of challenges. But some – the hungriest – will be unable to resist. And as the light fades so early on this mid-winter day, they will grow bolder. And then they will come.

The first is a pervert.

He is bald and bespectacled and wears a heavy parka, but his beige pants are of thin baggy cotton. And when he pulls his coat aside in front of Erin, it is obvious through the flimsy material that he is sporting a full erection.

‘Hey,
Erin,’
says the voice in her ear.
‘Looks like you got a new boyfriend.’

She doesn’t run away. Doesn’t scream. Doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t give any of the reactions he is probably used to.

She just stares for a moment at the man’s crotch, then lifts her impassive face.

‘Okaaay. So now what do you expect me to do?’

He looks nervous. He has clearly never been in this situation before. Why isn’t she scared? Where’s the disgust, the loathing?

He passes a tongue over his lips.

‘Y-you c-can touch it if you w-want.’

‘Best offer you’ve had all day,
Erin. How could you possibly turn him down?’

Still not showing any emotion,
Erin reaches into her bag. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I could do that, couldn’t I? I could touch it with this…’

She shows him the knife. A glimpse is all it takes, and he’s gone. Coat pulled tightly closed, he walks as fast as his cold bony legs will take him.

She could follow him. She could get up from this bench right now and follow that freak. Wait until he disappears into a stand of trees or the public toilets or wherever he hangs out between his public displays of affection. And then…

But no. Not yet. There’s better to come. She’s sure of it.

And she’s right.

It comes in the shape of a man who looks to be in his mid-twenties. He makes as if to walk straight past
Erin at first, but she catches the sidelong glances. She sees that he finds her of interest. It’s no surprise when he veers toward her.

He’s wearing a green thigh-length jacket, zipped right up to the chin, and his hands are thrust deep into the pockets. His jeans are faded and stained, and look as though they haven’t been washed for weeks. His collar-length hair is dark and shiny with grease, and a trail of mucus runs from his  beak-like nose to his upper lip. His skin is peppered with zits, and when he affixes what is supposed to pass for a smile she sees that his teeth are nicotine-stained and crooked.

The man of my dreams, thinks Erin. Where have you been all my life?

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘You looking for something?’

Yeah. I’m looking for an excuse to cave in your skull. Want to provide it for me?

‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘What’ve you got?’

He gets straight to the point: ‘Maybe some weed. You looking to chill tonight? I can get you the best weed ever.’

She turns her face to the side and stares into the distance, acting uninterested. ‘That the best you can do?’

He barks a laugh, then sniffs back some of his escaping slime.

‘The best I can do? The best? What do you mean by that, the best?’

‘A little weed? I can get that shit anywhere. Hell, I can get that in any bar in the Village.’

She doesn’t know if that’s true. Truth be told, she has no idea about how to get hold of marijuana or any other kind of drug. It’s not something she has ever researched.

‘So, what then? You telling me you’re looking for something stronger?’

She brings her eyes back to his face. ‘Maybe. You telling me you can help me out?’

He stares down at her for a while, then looks around him. He wipes the back of a hand across his nose, looks at the mess he’s made on his hand, then puts it back in his pocket. Erin wants to barf.

He says, ‘Are you a cop?’

She nods. ‘Yeah. That toy poodle over there is my backup. You’d better watch out, because he’s carrying a shotgun under that coat of his.’

‘You don’t look like no user,’ he says.

‘And you don’t look like someone who’s got the first clue about getting what I need, so why don’t you just get lost?’

But he doesn’t budge. He looks around some more, and then makes a decision.

‘Aiight. Supposing I can get hold of some stuff for you. You got money?’

‘I’m not offering sexual favors, if that’s what you’re asking. Yeah, I got money.’

‘We’ll have to go somewhere.’

‘Where?’

‘A place I know. Not far from here. I’ll get you what you want.’

A sudden anxiety grips
Erin’s insides. She realizes then that her bravery thus far has come from being in such a public area. Despite the preponderance of low-lifes around her, the chances of something serious happening to her have been slim. She has been able to relax, to pass judgment, to feel and act superior. Now, though, with the possibility that she may have to swap her secure position for one of unknown threat, she begins to feel her confidence diminish.

‘Come on,
Erin. He’s practically begging you to waste him. Go with him.’

‘How do I know you’re not trying to rip me off?’ she asks, and then regrets it, because now she’s showing weakness.

The guy shrugs his shoulders. ‘Up to you, doll. You can go with me or you can stay here and watch the little doggies sniffing each others’ asses.’

He’s got the upper hand now, and he knows it. But, she reasons, that’s probably a good thing. He should feel like he’s in control. He should feel as though he can terminate this partnership at any time. Right up to the moment when he’s the one being terminated.

‘All right,’ she says, getting up from the bench. ‘Let’s go.’

He looks surprised, and for a second she wonders if she’s arousing his suspicion by making things too easy for him.

‘I’m warning you, though,’ she adds. ‘One false move and I’m walking away.’

His smile tells her he seems happier now, and he turns and starts shambling out of the park. She follows him, at a discreet distance.

‘I never had you pegged as a stalker, Erin. Was it his aftershave that got you hooked?’

‘Shut up,’ she says in a low voice.

Up ahead, the guy glances back over his shoulder, and Erin tries to act like she hasn’t just been caught talking to herself. Wouldn’t want him to think I’m crazy. Wouldn’t want him to start thinking he’s the one in danger here.

They walk for just a few minutes. On East Sixth Street the man stops and waits in front of a gate set into a chain-link fence bordering a vacant lot. When Erin draws level with him, he waits a while longer, watching the street until it seems nobody is looking. Then he flicks off a loop of rope holding the gate against the fence, and pulls the gate open.

Erin says, ‘What, in here?’

‘You want the stuff or not? Get in, before someone sees.’

She steps through, and the man follows. He leads her down to the back end of the lot, then bends to squeeze through a hole in the brick wall.

Erin hesitates. Out here on the lot she could still be seen from the street if someone walked by. She could scream for help and someone could see. She sacrifices that hope as soon as she disappears behind this wall.

On the other hand, she needs to make sure she’s not visible when she snuffs out the life of this insect.

She bends, clambers through the hole.

She’s in a backyard, behind an abandoned tenement. A building destined for greater things, no doubt, but right now in a hiatus that has probably allowed all kinds of lower life forms to infiltrate it.

The man picks his way through mounds of garbage, then ascends a short stoop. He grabs hold of the sheet of corrugated metal in front of the doorway and pulls it to one side, revealing a triangle of blackness within.

‘In here,’ says the guy.

She wavers again. In there? Inside that dark, decrepit building where he could attack me, rape me, murder me? Why would any sane woman go through that doorway with this scumbag?

‘Why don’t I wait here? Why don’t you just go in there, get the stuff and bring it out to me?’

He shakes his head. ‘Don’t work like that, doll. I have to buy the shit from somebody else, and he’ll want to check you out first.’

She glances up at the building. There are other people in there? Damn. That could make things difficult.

Get out of here, Erin. This is too dangerous. Say you’ve changed your mind, and walk away.

‘He’s bluffing, Erin. There’s nobody else in there. He just wants to get you alone. Be ready for him. Go with him, and then do what you have to do.’

‘You coming, or what?’

‘I…’

‘Think of
Georgia, Erin. Time’s running out. You’re only halfway through. Don’t let this opportunity pass you by. Who knows how long the next one will be?’