Free Pariah by David Jackson Page B

the Bomb Squad, not all of whom are immediately contactable.
    Next, Doyle calls the Medical Examiner’s office for a prelim on the Alvarez and Cavell autopsies. He manages to speak to Norman Chin, who informs him that Alvarez’s fatal injuries
were sustained solely as a result of a massive explosion, the epicenter of which lay in the immediate proximity of one Tremaine Cavell. It is Chin’s conjecture that the bomb was either being
held by Cavell, or was somehow attached to his upper torso, this being difficult to confirm owing to the current absence of said upper torso.
    The conclusion being, Doyle thinks as he ends the call, that Cavell had somehow been turned into a human bomb. So, strike the notion that Cavell had any hot information to reveal. He was being
used, just as Scarlett had been used to kill Joe.
    Tired of having a phone clamped to his ear, Doyle abandons his desk and heads out to the apartment of Cavell’s girl on West Seventeenth. There he speaks with the building superintendent,
whose primary concern seems to be that his warning about making holes in his walls was ignored, his building now possessing one very large hole where a third-floor window used to be, thank you very
much.
    There is only a handful of tenants in the building when Doyle is there. Others are out at work; some have evacuated and are refusing to return until they are 100 per cent certain they are not
likely to have their asses blown off. From those remaining, Doyle extracts nothing in the way of a lead.
    His next visit is a return one to the Pit Stop. He finds a few of Cavell’s buddies there; others require further legwork. To each of them he puts the same questions: Do you know where
Tremaine went last night? Do you know who he met with?
    These boys are incensed. They want revenge. They will do whatever they can to track down the motherfucker who smoked TC. But as far as how to carry out that mission goes, it’s clear to
Doyle that they don’t have a clue where to start.
    With time ticking away, hour after fruitless hour, Doyle begins to fear that there are no clues to be found. The killer is that good. So good, in fact, that if the police are to have any hope of
catching him, the perp may have to lend them a hand.
    He may have to continue his killing spree.
    The clothes hang loosely on the man’s thin frame. The battered corduroy coat looks ready to slip off his narrow shoulders, and his wrinkled beige pants billow around his
bony legs. He walks with his head tilted to one side, like he’s trying to keep ear drops in place. His left arm does not beat time to his walking pace, but instead dangles and bounces off his
side as though it’s a length of rubber.
    Doyle takes another bite from his beef sandwich and watches through his car windshield as the man pushes through a doorway farther up the block here on East Eleventh Street. He waits five
minutes, finishing his sandwich and coffee before stepping out of his car and heading toward the building the man has just entered.
    He swings open the heavy front door, forcing it back against powerful springs that slam it shut when he lets it slip from his grasp. He is in a small, musty lobby containing a noticeboard, a
desk and a single unoccupied chair. He pushes through the next set of double doors and enters a dimly lit corridor. There’s a smell of sweat here. From Doyle’s right comes the hissing
of a shower at full blast; from his left, the unmistakable pounding of gloved fists, the shuffling of feet, and the yells of men who live for the controlled release of aggression.
    Doyle heads left, breathes deeply of the testosterone-filled atmosphere. The ever-present bounce in his step becomes more pronounced now, until his gait is more of a swagger. He remembers how it
felt to be on the edge of threading a path through the supporters and the detractors, the cheers and the catcalls, his sole intent to knock the living daylights out of another man.
    He enters a large hall.