Cry Baby (28 page)

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?’

‘You said you understood. You told me you knew what the numbers meant.’

Doyle reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out the folded piece of paper he showed to Albert earlier. He unfolds it and thrusts it in front of Albert’s face.

‘I thought I did, Albert,’ he lies. ‘I really thought I did. But you see more than I do, don’t you? You’re smart, Albert. Smarter than I’ll ever be. I wanna help you. Truly I do. But you need to help me first. You need to tell me what you know about these numbers.’

It’s now or never. Doyle can see it in Albert’s face. He’s either going to spill what he knows or he’s going to tip over the brink again, just like he has done every other time he’s been quizzed.

Doyle holds his breath and waits. Keeps the piece of paper as still as he can in front of Albert’s face. Thinks to himself, Do it Albert. Do it for you. Do it for me. Help us both.

And then the phone on
Wilson’s desk bursts into life and the spell is broken. Albert lets out a cry of frustration and starts slapping himself about the head. Doyle snatches the paper away. He wonders what the hell it takes to break through to this guy, and feels his own frustration at not being able to establish some form of meaningful communication. It’s making him angry, not at Albert, but at himself, and he finds himself unable to contain it when he next speaks.

‘Okay, Albert. Enough. I’m tired and I’m sick of this. Go home. If you change your mind about opening up to me, then you can come back. But not until you’re ready to tell me everything.’

Albert is crying, and continuing to slap himself. Doyle looks over to Wilson for assistance, but the sergeant is busy on the phone. Doyle reaches out to grab Albert’s arm, thinking he may have to manhandle the poor bastard out of here, but Albert dances out of his grasp. He takes off, wandering aimlessly around the lobby area and muttering to himself through his tears.

‘What?’ says Doyle, irritation evident in his tone. ‘What the hell are you saying, Albert?’

Albert raises his voice. And that’s when it happens.

‘Two-three-one-A-five-something,’ says Albert. ‘Two-three-one-A-five-something.’

Doyle goes suddenly cold. He can feel his guts tighten up.

‘What?’

‘Two-three-one-A-five-something.’

Slowly, Doyle raises the paper again and stares at the symbols it holds.

‘Two-three-one-A-five-something,’ Albert repeats.

An ‘A’? That’s an ‘A’? Well, it could be, sure. But why a letter? Why not a digit like the others?

‘Albert, why do you—’

But Albert has moved on to another level. He is making loud keening noises, and he rocks his head back and forth as he stomps around the lobby. Other cops appear from the adjoining rooms to see what the hell is going on.

‘
Cal,’ says Wilson. But Doyle holds a hand up to silence him. Something is happening here, and whatever it is, he needs to let it unfold.

And then: ‘Three-zero-four-D-two-C. Three-zero-four-D-two-C…’

He says it again and again and again, and Doyle is still mystified. Still can’t get a handle on this.

‘
Cal!’

He looks around at Wilson, who is holding out the phone toward him. ‘It’s one of my men,’ says
Wilson. ‘He’s off duty right now, but he got talking to a friend of his who thinks he’s seen Albert in the area.’

Doyle takes the phone. He continues to watch Albert going through his weird act while he speaks into the receiver.

‘This is Doyle. You got a line on Albert?’

He listens. Lets the off-duty cop speak. And what he hears he doesn’t believe.

‘What? Say that again.’

The words come once more, and still they carry the same jaw-dropping impact.

Doyle hands the receiver back to Wilson, his eyes wide. And then he looks again at Albert, still parading around the room and issuing his strange mystical chant.

‘Oh my God,’ says Doyle. ‘Oh, Christ.’