Pariah by David Jackson

that moment is that the receipt of the note is one of the best things that could have happened to him in the present circumstances. Because now there is an enemy.
Nameless, yes; faceless, yes – but an enemy for all that. What these people needed to hear more than anything was that there is an external agent responsible for this mayhem – that it
has nothing to do with the poor schmuck sitting just a few feet away. It’s how it should be: cops on one side, criminals on the other, and never the twain shall meet.
    Doyle senses the wave of relief that washes over the squad as they acknowledge the changed situation. They are comfortable with this. This is something they can get their teeth into. Doyle can
almost feel the melting away of some of the antagonism against him.
    But not from everyone.
    It’s Schneider who remarks, ‘Has anyone checked to see if that note is in Doyle’s handwriting?’
    It is a curious venture, trying to work out who hates you and why.
    Cops get threatened all the time, and Doyle has had his fair share of being on the receiving end. But what people say and what people do are usually two very different things. Your occasional
perp, aggrieved at being caught, arrested and possibly sent to prison, may promise to carry out all manner of unspeakable acts on you, your family, and even your pets. But usually it’s all
talk, most of them having neither the intelligence nor the wherewithal to put their plans for revenge into effect. Of the more powerful and resourceful criminals that Doyle has consigned to living
in a box – and there have been a good number – most are level-headed enough to realize that it’s all part of the game. They do wrong, they get caught, they go to prison, no hard
feelings. Such is the nature of their enterprise. To attempt to exact revenge does not make good business sense, and becomes sheer lunacy when it involves stirring the wrath of the NYPD.
    And so Doyle is having a hard time coming up with a list of potential subjects, especially those possessing the ingenuity and audacity displayed so far. All he can do is err on the generous
side, adding to the list even those who probably don’t remember that it was Doyle who arrested them in the first place.
    He spends hours working his way through old case files, reading and rereading his DD5 reports to refresh his memory, making the occasional phone call to check a fact, a detail, the present
whereabouts of a con. It’s the same process he went through with Joe Parlatti’s files, only this time it’s personal, and that makes it hard to be objective. Now and again he adds
a name to his list, together with a few notes about them, but almost every time a nagging voice says to him, Do you really think this guy could be doing this?
    There’s one name he doesn’t set down on his notepad, even though it should probably go at the top of the list. It’s a name that doesn’t appear in any of the arrest
records or mugshot books currently spread out in front of him.
    He doesn’t want to go down that path. Not yet. Not until it starts to look like it’s the only one still untrodden.
    Doyle tosses his pen onto the desk. He digs the middle finger and thumb of his right hand into his eyeballs, trying to squeeze out the tiredness. He stretches his arms out to the sides, hears
his vertebrae and shoulder blades complain. He looks at his watch. Six-forty p.m. Way past the end of his shift. The faces that started the day with him have all been replaced by new ones. He knows
he should go home, get a good night’s sleep. See something of Rachel and Amy.
    Oh, shit!
    What was it I promised Rachel last night? About keeping in touch? About how I would call her from the station house to let her know I’m okay, and especially when shit like this is
happening?
    And how many times have I called today, when we have another cop in the morgue and I’ve received a note from the killer?
    He reaches for the phone, knocking over a paper