Marked

And, if he’s to be honest, why should they accept his word? Would he act any differently if it were another cop laying down conclusions like this?

But they weren’t there. They didn’t see.

They didn’t see the bloated naked body of Alyssa Palmer, draped over the river-washed rocks below the Henry Hudson Parkway. They didn’t see the heart-splitting expressions on the faces of Alyssa’s parents when he had to inform them that their daughter had been found. Dead. Tortured. Raped. And they didn’t see the coldness in Proust’s eyes when confronted with these facts, these images. When Proust looked down at the photo of Alyssa, there was no recoil — not even a grimace or an out-breath of sorrow. Doyle knew then that this was his man.

But how do you explain all that to someone? How do you tell them it was all there, in the man’s eyes, his body language, his lack of emotion? How do you convince them without more concrete evidence?

They looked for it. Of course they looked. They must have talked to every tattoo artist in the city. Only one of them felt right, and that was Stanley Proust. An artist extraordinaire, all right. But no matter how hard they looked, they found nothing to prove Alyssa had ever visited Proust. They found nothing to suggest that Proust was into the S amp;M scene. They found nothing to substantiate Doyle’s opinion that this seemingly mild-mannered individual was in fact a deranged homicidal maniac.

The most disturbing and yet exhilarating piece of evidence that landed in their laps was the Internet video. But even that fizzled into nothing. Other than the presence of some blurry tattoos, it provided no connection to Proust. They never even located the basement in which it was filmed.

But it did play a more unexpected role.

Doyle remembers it vividly. He’d pushed and pushed at Proust, but had gotten nowhere. Despite being warned by his superiors to cool it with Proust, he continued to hammer on the man’s consciousness.

‘Take a look, Stan. Look at the photos. Look at what you did.’

‘I didn’t do nothing. That wasn’t me. I didn’t make that video.’

And then the pause. The long pause while Doyle and Proust stared at each other, the truth suspended between them.

‘Who said anything about a video, Stan? And who suggested you were the one who made it?’ He tried to backtrack then, of course.

‘You did. You said these were stills taken from a video.’

‘No, Stan. I never said that. Why would you think it was a video?’

‘Well, somebody said it. One of the other cops, maybe.’

‘No, Stan. That came from you. You just put yourself behind the camera too.’

‘No, I. . you’re putting words in my mouth. You’re twisting things. I never meant. .’

‘You were there, weren’t you, Stan? You did things to this girl. Maybe not all of it, but some of it. Tell me, Stan.’

‘No. NO!’

That was the closest he got. Proust’s biggest slip. Doyle pursued it, of course. As doggedly as he could. But Proust got a lot more tight-lipped after that. Stuck to his story that somebody must have mentioned a video to him.

And he walked. To Doyle’s fury, Proust walked away a free man.

He wonders now why he didn’t mention this episode to LeBlanc, but doesn’t have to wait long for the answer to come to him.

He was frightened.

He was scared that LeBlanc, cynical young pup that he is, would have ripped any meaningful content of that conversation to shreds. He would have refused to interpret it as the undeniable proof of Proust’s guilt that it so obviously is.

Because it is proof, thinks Doyle. You don’t understand, Tommy, because you weren’t there. None of you understands.

The Alyssa Palmer case would have continued to haunt Doyle anyway, but fate decided to lend her ghost a helping hand. Following the fireworks surrounding the death in service of his female partner, Doyle transferred to the Eighth Precinct. For which the station house is situated just a few blocks from Proust’s place. Doyle has driven or walked past it countless times since then, and every time the sight of it has taunted him. Each time, it reminds him of how he failed the Palmers.

And now the gods have decided to ratchet up Doyle’s torment further by making him relive the nightmare all over again. The circumstances of Megan Hamlyn’s case are almost identical to those in the Palmer case. The young dead teenage girl. The griefstricken parents. The untouchable Mr Proust. Identical except for one thing, thinks Doyle. This time the outcome will be different. This time, Stanley, you pay for what you did.

He looks out of the half-open car window. Cool rain spits into his face as his eyes read and re-read the sign.

Skinterest.

An interest in skin. An interest in flesh. You got that all right, Stan. Young, innocent skin that you put your mark on. A permanent mark. You mark them for life. You mark them for death.

Movement catches his eye. From inside the shop. A huge shadow, gradually shrinking as its owner gets closer to the door. And Doyle is parked right in front of that door.

The shadow is replaced by solidity. The scrawny frame of Stanley Proust, standing behind the glass panel.

Doyle hears a key being inserted and turned, then the sound of bolts being drawn.

That’s when Doyle switches on the interior light of his car.

Proust stops moving for a second. Then Doyle sees him press his nose against the rain-spotted panel as he peers out.

Doyle doesn’t do a thing. Just sits there and stares back. Lets Proust know that this is how it’s going to be from now on. Lets him know that this is what he’s prepared to do, for as long as it takes. He will stay on Proust’s back until the man can take the weight no more and he buckles. He will break him. He will do this for Alyssa Palmer and for Megan Hamlyn and for their families. He promises all this in the intense stare that he sends Proust’s way.

Slowly, with trepidation, Proust reaches up and lowers the roller blind into position.

NINE

‘I wasn’t trying to give you grief, Cal. Okay? I want you to know that.’

Doyle has only just sat down at his desk. Hasn’t even touched his first coffee of the day yet, and already LeBlanc is jabbering in his ear. Which would be okay if it was something valuable, like letting Doyle know he’s just managed to nail Proust with a murder rap. This touchy-feely stuff he can do without right now.

‘Forget it, Tommy.’

LeBlanc looks around the squadroom, as if checking for eavesdroppers, even though nobody else on their shift has arrived yet.

‘I don’t want to forget it. I want this to work between us. If you think Proust has something to do with this, then that’s good enough for me.’

Doyle puts down his coffee mug. ‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning that. . I’ll talk to him.’

‘You’ll talk to Proust?’

‘Yeah. Sure. If you think he’s involved. But even if he isn’t, maybe he can give me something useful on the tattoos. Like maybe suggest some other artists I could talk to.’

Doyle wants to tell LeBlanc he’s wasting his time. He will get nothing from Proust. In fact, Proust will have LeBlanc eating out of his hand, he’s that clever.

Well, let him find out for himself.