As Cole waits for the decrepit vending machine to pour his no doubt past its sell-by date coffee into the paper cup below, the local news report catches his ear. He looks over towards the television and takes a few steps towards it.
Murder was as common as raindrops in this city. The news presenter, a pretty young thing by the name of June Summers, reads her autocue with solid sincerity, her condolences going out to the family of the murdered girl. But are they really her condolences? Had she announced this kind of thing so many times that she simply felt nothing of it anymore?
That's how Cole felt. That, in truth, is why he'd moved himself away from sociology and instead opted to focus on the study of the human mind and its frailties.
During his time as a social worker, he simply became sick of people, their problems, fears, what have you. Sick of hearing from the tenth house wife this week that had been beaten by her alcoholic husband; sick of hearing from traumatised fathers, desperately scraping for advice on how to fix their drug addicted daughters. When asked to explain his sudden career venture, he could offer little excuse other than he was in need of a change. In all fairness, he had to get out before he lost his compassion for humanity entirely.
But his chosen field of psychology is different. Crazy people are different, challenging. For a start, they rarely lie, which was an interesting aspect for Cole. Whether what they were saying had any measure of actual truth in it was what Cole was employed to discover.
However, without really noticing it, he slowly found himself being dragged into criminal psychology, why they do what they do. From dealing with aggressive drunk husbands, he had somehow focused his career on even more brutal aspects of city life. And now he was a famous criminologist and his services were sought all over the globe. Why his talent couldn't have been more prevalent in other fields of science he really didn't know.
So looking at another murder on the television didn't hit him the way it used to. In a city this dirty, things just go wrong and dismissing the news, hell turning the damn T.V off, would probably be the most sensible option. Cold and callous, but ultimately true.
He takes a whiff of the coffee the machine has dispensed and decides it would be better off down the sink rather than inside his gut. After a long, deep sigh, he steps outside into the night.
A shrill wind blows around him, caressing the lapels of his ragged evening jacket. The scarf responds violently to the wintry conditions, whipping around and striking his face repeatedly.
He tucks the offending object inside his collar and sighs again. Evening fatigue is setting in and as he wipes the tiredness away from his eyes, the rapidly freezing hairs on his cheek aggravating him, like little icy needles.
The cigarette would be warming but not nearly enough. When did the nights become so cold? About the same time this city did.
Flagging down a passing taxi proved difficult in this neighbourhood. You see, in a place where everybody wanted out, it was always a mad rush to secure a good enough exit.
Eventually though, a yellow wayfarer pulls up alongside him. He eyes the dilapidated old vehicle, unimpressed by what he sees. Brahms pit-stop? Who or what is that supposed to be? He shrugs his shoulders and he climbs inside, frantically rubbing his arms to keep warm.
"Where to?" the driver croaks.
"Brackley street, West Town"
The driver nods, pulling away from the kerb without even looking. Cole curses as he notices the chunks of dirty sludge on his trousers, a mixture between dirt, car oil and snow.
"West Town, huh? Some nice places down that way. You rich or something?"
Cole really isn't in the mood for talking with this man. Funny how they had a habit of chewing the fat when he really couldn't be bothered.
"I'm a Doctor," he replies, deciding to humour the driver.
"Wow!" he exclaims, looking back over his shoulder for an alarming amount of time, "Don't you guys have your own cars or nothing?"
"The wife, she's using it today,"
"Ah, women! Can't live with 'em, can't kill 'em,"
Cole chuckles awkwardly at the drivers attempts at conversation.
"Bet you got a lovely wife… and a lovely daughter too,"
"Yeah," Cole replies tiredly.
"Be a shame if something ever happened to them,"
Cole suddenly sits up rigidly on the backseat, recoiling from what appeared to be a threat, "Excuse me?"
"Such a lovely lady, that wife of yours. Sweet, caring… great ass too. And your little girl, we're keeping an eye on her as well,"
"What did you say?" Cole cries, jutting forward.
"You don't catch on too quick do ya, Doc?" the fat faced driver smirks, turning around again, taking his eyes off the road, "We're watching you, and somewhere along the line, we'll get bored of just watching,"
"Who are you?" Cole cries, banging the Perspex sheet separating the two men.
"Settle down, Doctor,"
Cole scrambles frantically for the door handle but it appears to be jammed.
"Come on, I'm insulted!" the driver says, "Just calm down, it's only a few more minutes to your street,"
Cole leans back on the seat, his eyes frantically searching for a means of escape.
"I hate to sound unpleasant Mr. Cole but I just need to make sure the message is clear,"
"What do you want?"
"You're working the Jack Crispin case, trying to get cosy with a killer. Do yourself a favour: stop. Don't see him again, is that clear?"
"Who are you?"
"Is it clear?" the driver cries, tapping a gun on the Perspex.
Cole almost swallows his tongue before muttering, "Clear,"
"Good," the driver says, pulling the car to a screeching halt, "Now get out. You can walk the rest of the way,"
Still baffled by the situation, Cole steps out of the taxi and begins to shuffle away.
"Hey!" the driver calls, "What about the fare?"
The Doctor stops and turns around slowly, "The… fare?"
"Nah, don't worry. Consider it an early Christmas present," the driver laughs, "Good will to all men, y'know,"
He
leans closer, glaring at Cole, "There are things in this world you
narrow minded folk could never understand. If you know what's good
for ya, stay the hell away, or pay the price,"
The taxi
quickly shoots off down the street and takes a right turn out of
view. Cole almost falls to his knees, completely shell-shocked by the
entire incident. What the hell just happened? He'd been threatened
in his line of work before, sure, but that man just made clear
threats towards his family.
Jack Crispin, fallen Doctor of yesteryear. Framed for murder? Innocent, or guilty as sin? Crazy or sane? Whatever it was, someone was either protecting him, or protecting themselves.
Cole broke into a fast pace, eventually stopping at his front lawn and searching frantically for his keys.
"Gotta call the police," he says to himself, opening up the door and not even bothering to remove his damp coat and snow caked boots in the porch area.
"Honey?" Cole's wife says, the angelic figure appearing from the kitchen, "You're just in time, dinner's ready,"
Wrapping her arms around him, she notices, "You're so pale. Are you ok?"
"I…" Cole stutters, "Need to make a phone call,"
"Oh okay. Well I'm dishing up now, so don't take too long. And don't bring wet clothes in the house,"
She leaves him with a kiss and makes her way back to the kitchen. He couldn't do without her. How dare someone threaten her? Damn them!
As he leaned to pick up the receiver, he recoiled as the phone begins to ring.
"Hello?"
"Bradley, it's Carl,"
Carl Freeman, the chief medical officer in charge of the mental Hospital.
"How'd it go with our friend Mr. Crispin?"
"Uh… he's uh… he's…"
"Crazy?"
"I don't know… not enough time to tell,"
"Then you'll be pleased to know he's taken a bit of a liking to you. Same time tomorrow?"
Same time tomorrow? What about the threat?
"Same time tomorrow, Cole?" Carl repeats.
"Yeah
sure. Same time tomorrow,"
Cole slowly puts the receiver down,
a cold wave of anxiety washing over him. Whatever was going on, he
could already sense he was getting in too deep.