The Helper

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His left hand leaves the pizza box. He brings it upwards at great speed, his palm open. He drives the V- shape formed between his thumb and his index finger hard into her throat.

She staggers back, clutching at her neck. She opens her mouth and makes sounds like a cat with a furball as she sticks out her tongue and gasps for air.

Sorry, Tabitha, he thinks. No air today.

He drops the box and closes the gap. Puts a hand to her face. Forces her backwards. Her legs connect with the edge of the bathtub and over she goes. There is a massive splash as she plunges into the water, and a huge foamy wave rolls over the sides of the tub and onto the floor.

He thrusts his hands into the water. Finds her shoulders and leans on them. But she fights him, and she is much stronger than he expected. She draws on those reserves of in extremis strength that only those who are fighting death itself can tap. It surprises him that she actually manages to raise her face above the suds and push her legs and buttocks over the rim of the tub. He grunts as he applies more force to her shoulders, driving her under again.

Her legs still protrude from the water. They kick wildly and with force. Her robe comes open, exposing her nakedness. Her arms flail. He has to hold his face away from those clawing fingers. Her hands scrabble for purchase, but all they find is the smoothness of the wall tiles. Her nails break as they catch on the grouting.

She takes an age to die.

When he is certain she has gone, he removes his arms from the water. Rivers gush from both sleeves of his leather jacket. He looks down at himself and sees that he is sopping wet. In hindsight, he thinks maybe this wasn’t the best way to do things.

He grabs two white fluffy towels from the rail and spends a few minutes drying himself off. He knows he cannot hang around much longer because the real pizza delivery guy will be arriving soon.

He takes one last look at his handiwork. Tabitha’s naked lower half still hangs over the edge of the tub, the rest of her buried beneath the bubbles.

He tried to tell her why he’d come here. I’m really in over my head, is what he said. But what was really ironic was the way she came back with an even better line: I know what it’s like to be out of my depth. Priceless!

He picks up his motorcycle helmet and pizza box and heads for the apartment door. His shoes squelch with each uncomfortable step.

Great, he thinks. You try to help someone, and this is what you get.

Some people are so damned ungrateful.

EIGHTEEN

‘Nice position,’ says Kravitz.

‘Nice,’ says Folger.

The two Homicide detectives are staring thoughtfully at the visible half of the murder victim, draped over the edge of the bathtub. Around them, other cops and techs swarm like ants — busy, busy, busy. But Kravitz and Folger manage to rise above it all. They see their roles here as ones of authority. They need to be seen as calm and in control. The fulcrum of all the activity, if you will. Or the hub. Or the linchpin. In any case, the bit that doesn’t waste energy flapping around like the lesser mortals here.

‘I don’t think I ever saw a DOA in this particular position before,’ says Kravitz.

‘Me either. Certainly draws the eye, don’t it?’

‘That it does. Quite the focal point. I’m thinking of suggesting it to my wife.’

‘You are?’

‘Certainly. For one thing, the height is exactly right.’

As he says this, Kravitz puts his hands out in front of him, as if imagining holding onto his wife’s hips, and gently pulsates his groin. In and out. In and out.

‘Yeah, the height,’ says Folger with obvious distaste, since any use of the word in his presence tends to be pejorative. His own contribution to the pleasure of any woman in the position now under discussion would have to be strictly oral, unless he brought a stepladder.

‘And the angle is perfect. Both for me and for her.’

‘For your wife too?’

‘Absolutely. She’s suffered from lower back pain for years. I think this would do her the world of good. Much better than those balls she keeps rolling around the house on.’

‘Your wife rolls around the house on balls?’

‘Well, ball, singular. You know, one of those big-ass balloon things for exercises? I’m convinced that regular adoption of the bath-based posture being demonstrated for us by this young lady here would be much more beneficial than any amount of ball-supported locomotion.’

Folger nods with enthusiasm. ‘Plus,’ he says, perhaps too hastily, ‘you wouldn’t have to look at her face.’

Kravitz turns a stony glare on his shorter compatriot.

‘What are you saying about my wife?’

Only then does Folger seem to realize what he has just said. ‘Uhm, I have a thing about people looking at me while I’m doing it.’

‘An audience, you mean?’

‘No. I mean the female. I don’t like to make eye contact. I find it puts me off my stride. For you I’m sure it’s not a problem. Especially with someone as attractive as your wife.’

Kravitz maintains his stare for a while, as if unsure whether to take offense.

‘You should talk to somebody about that problem. Some women, they like to see what’s going on when they’re in the sack. Could be the reason your relationships are always so short.’

Folger merely nods, even though he resents the return insult. Resents, too, the word ‘short’ being thrown at him like that.

Standing a few feet behind the two Homicide dicks, Doyle tries to avoid being distracted by their inane drivel. He watches while Norman Chin, the Medical Examiner, performs some initial scrutiny, directs the taking of numerous photographs from various angles, and supervises the extraction of the body from its watery grave. Then he concentrates on what Chin has to say about the victim.

He listens to Chin’s description of the injury to the girl’s throat, the pressure marks on her shoulders, her broken nails and the scratches in the tile grouting, the bloodstained frothing in her nasal passages and in her mouth. He listens to the academic asides on oxygen deprivation, hemodilution, body chemistry disruption, diatoms, and cadaveric spasm. And he listens to Chin’s tentative conclusion — wait for the damn autopsy, goddamnit — that death was due to forcible drowning caused by an assailant or assailants unknown. In short, ladies and gentlemen, what we have here is a murder case. Who would have guessed?

But it’s not just any old run-of-the-mill murder case, is it now? Oh, no.

‘Well, look who it is,’ says Folger, spotting Doyle behind him. ‘Thank Christ for that. We can all go home now. The case is solved.’

‘How do you figure that?’ says Kravitz.

‘Didn’t you hear? Doyle here has a theory that all homicides recently committed in this city are connected. They’ve all been carried out by the same killer. Whatever the precinct, whatever the MO, it don’t matter. Same guy every time.’

‘Is that so? Kinda like a unified field theory, huh?’

Folger looks puzzled. ‘Uh, yeah.’

‘Well that certainly makes our job easier. What do you think, Doyle? Is this another victim we can chalk up to your Mysterious Manhattan Murderer?’

Actually, yes, is what Doyle wants to answer. That’s precisely what he thinks. He could be wrong, and he hopes he is. But what worries him about this scene is that there is no sign of forced entry to the apartment. Which