The Helper Read Online Free PDF Page A

as he grabs his coat.
    It’s messy, all right.
    Blood everywhere. It never ceases to amaze Doyle how much blood there is in the human body, and how far it will travel once someone opens the faucet. It’s on the floor, it’s on the
books, and – yep – it’s even on the ceiling. And the source of all this mayhem? The pale crumpled form of a young girl. She looks small and unreal – a mutilated
mannequin.
    Doyle stares at her for a good while. It’s something he always does at a murder scene, and he doesn’t know why. It’s like he’s trying to make some kind of connection, as
though simply looking at her will give him an insight into what kind of life she lived, and therefore why that life was taken away from her.
    He is slow to become fully aware of the other people in the bookstore. Gradually he notices the glances, picks up the muttered remarks and the muted snickers.
    ‘Long time no see, Doyle,’ says a Homicide South detective called Kravitz. The correct name for his outfit is the Manhattan South Homicide Task Force, but Doyle and most of the other
people gathered here know it as Homicide South.
    Doyle shifts his gaze to the man. He is thin and tall – at least six and a half feet. His hands are buried in the pockets of a black overcoat. Behind him, almost hidden in his shadow, is
another Homicide dick called Folger. He is short, squat and balding, and he is grinning idiotically at the barbed humor lurking in Kravitz’s greeting.
    ‘Well, well,’ says Doyle. ‘If it ain’t Lurch and Uncle Fester. How you doing, fellas?’
    This gets a laugh from everyone except the Homicide boys. The amusement in Folger’s smile drops away, to be replaced by something more menacing.
    His words are a lot more direct than those of Kravitz: ‘They let you out finally? What, you finished putting all the case files in alphabetical order? You painted the station house walls
already?’
    ‘Yeah, all that,’ Doyle answers. ‘I still got the ladders in the car outside, you want to borrow them to reach something. You must get sick of looking up your partner’s
nostrils all day. Say, are you still using a kiddie seat in that car of yours?’
    Folger tries to maintain his smile, but it’s clear his muscles are struggling. His mouth twitches on one side.
    ‘Well, now that you’re here, Doyle, let me explain something to you. This here is what we call a homicide. You see the girl there, all cut up like that?’ Folger slaps a hand to
his forehead. ‘Oh, but wait. I’m forgetting. You know all about homicides, don’t you? In fact, they kind of follow you around. You remember that movie,
The Sixth Sense
?
You should get one of those
I See Dead People
T-shirts, the number of DOAs you get to see in your life.’
    The laughing has stopped now. Everyone in the room has lapsed into an embarrassed silence. This has become too personal. Doyle knows that people are expecting him either to start a fight or back
off.
    Doyle adopts a pained expression. ‘Hold on here. Maybe I overstepped the mark. Am I right in thinking you ain’t happy?’
    Folger glares at him, still angry but also looking somewhat surprised. ‘Yeah, you could say that.’
    ‘Uh-huh,’ says Doyle. ‘So which one are you? Bashful? Dopey?’
    The place erupts. Even Kravitz cannot suppress a smirk. And while he smiles, he takes the furious Folger by the shoulders and holds him in check. Both of the Homicide detectives, as well as
everybody else in this room, know that Doyle would kick Folger’s ass into his skull if things became physical.
    Doyle strolls over to where one of the uniforms is relaying what he knows to the other detectives. The Hispanic officer glances briefly at Doyle, then returns to his notebook.
    ‘DOA’s name is Cindy Mellish. Twenty years old. She works here at weekends and in college vacations. The owner often leaves her to mind the store – it’s not the busiest
of places. Owner’s name is Simon Brownlow. He opened up this