Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.

<passage>:
My fingers rubbed my head briskly, both hands working, trying to get some circulation in my brain. I guessed I had to run. There didn't seem much else to do. I ran. Get help? Not this old lady and her daughter. Not this Neanderthal sailor on his way to a bar and a blonde. Not the bookkeeper. Maybe the car salesman, ex-Army, Lions Club member, beefy, respectable, well-intentioned, not a complete fool. The guy on the corner reading a newspaper by the bus stop. "I need help," I panted to him. "Somebody's trying to kidnap me." "Really makes you sick to hear about something like that, doesn't it?" he said. "I'm in favor of the Lindbergh Law myself." streets...." "Listen to me! These people, they're conspiring against me, trying to carrying a briefcase. And, reassuringly, he was in a hurry. I decided to chance it. I certainly wanted to do it in the worst way. My footsteps carried me on down the block. drive me insane! Two men, a girl—" A man brushed past me, wearing an Ivy League suit and snap-brim hat, A little car spurted on past me. One of those foreign jobs, I decided. He was like anybody you might talk to on the street. I knew what he would say if I cued him with "baseball" or "Russia" instead of the key satirizing girls without any...." had written to my brother in Sioux Falls, unopened. And which he had answered. or not, we gave you good service. Don't slip now." I heard the voice and I heard another voice, and it said "What could you expect of a Vickers was chattering in answer to Spandaus, firing through the screw Here he comes, the Spandaus firing right through the screw in perfect Sr., in a western as a badman. He was protecting a doll-faced blonde from the rest of the gang, standing them off from a grove of rocks. The Tom Santschi is sneaking across the top of the rocks, a knife in his dirty half-breed hand. Raymond Hatton makes a try for his old boss, but Chaney stops his clock for him. Now William Farnum is riding up with the posse. Tom makes a try with the knife, the girl screams, and Chaney turns the blade back on him. It goes through his neck, all the way through. The blonde is running toward Farnum as he polishes off the rest of the gang and dismounts, her blouse shredded, revealing one breast—is I pressed some money on him and walked myself out of the store. I dodged in front of a horse-drawn garbage wagon and behind an electric I grabbed the handle on the door, opened it and threw myself into the "Madison Avenue," I said from my diaphragm, without any breath behind it. Something was wrong. Two men were in the front seat. The driver showed me his hard, expressionless face. "What do you think you are doing?" "This isn't a taxicab?" I asked blankly. "Park Police." I sat there while we drove on for a few minutes. "D. &amp D.," the second man said to the driver. The second officer leaned forward and clicked something. "I'll get the City boys." "No, kill it, Carl. Think of all that damned paper work." small. "Look, officers, I'm not drunk or disorderly. I thought this was a cab. I just wanted to get away from back then—I mean back there ." The two policemen exchanged glances. "What were you running from?" the driver asked. How could I tell him that? Before I even got a chance to try, he said: "What did you do?" "I didn't The car was turning, turning into shadows, stopping. We were in an The men opened their doors and then mine. "Out." I climbed out and stood by the car, blinking. "You were causing some kind of trouble in that neighborhood back there," the driver announced. "Really, officers—" "What's your name?" "Hilliard Turner. There—" "We don't want you going back there again, Turner, causing trouble. Understand?" "Officer, I only bought some books—I mean magazines." "These?" the second man, Carl, asked. He had retrieved them from the "You know about the laws governing pornography, Turner." it, Turner? You a narcotics user?" He grabbed my wrist and started rolling up my sleeve to look for needle marks. I twisted away from him. "Resisting an officer," Sarge said almost sadly. At that, Carl loped up beside him. The two of them started to beat me. They stood away from me and let me fold helplessly to the greasy brick. "Stay away from that neighborhood and stay out of trouble," Sarge's voice said above me. I looked up a little bit and saw an ugly, battered hand thumbing across a stack of half a dozen magazines like a giant deck of cards. "Why don't you take up detective stories?" he asked me. I never heard the squad car drive away. Home. I lighted the living room from the door, looked around for intruders for the first time I could remember, and went inside. Dawn Patrol on television were mere hallucinations. I touched my navel area and flinched. The beating, I was confident, had been real. But it had been a nightmare. Those cops couldn't have been true. They were a small boy's bad dream about symbolized authority. They were keeping me from re-entering the past where I belonged, was something else. I needed help. Or if there was no help for me, it was my duty to have myself placed where I couldn't harm other consumers. If there was one thing that working for an advertising agency had taught me, it was social responsibility. I took up the phone book and located several psychiatrists. I selected one at random, for no particular reason. I memorized the address and heaved myself to my feet. inside my mouth. After several long, peaceful minutes the inner door opened. "Mr. Turner, I can't seem to find any record of an appointment for you "I didn't have an appointment. I just came." "I understand." "Maybe I had better go." I could have pulled loose from him, but somehow I felt that if I did He led me inside and closed the door. "I see. Have you read much science fiction, Mr. Turner?" Turner. For instance, to a certain type of person, I often recommend "Mr. Turner, do you really believe in 'time travel'?" "But you did, Mr. Turner. You told me all about thinking you could go "Please try to keep from getting violent, Mr. Turner. People like you actually have more control over themselves than you realize. If you will "I know I didn't tell you a thing about the Back Number Store. I'm I lurched across the desk and grabbed his wrist. " Please , Mr. Turner! violence will—" I let go of him and stood away. I backed to the door and turned the knob behind my back. It wouldn't "Locked," Sergeant supplied. I gave him a kick at the base of his spine. He grunted and lay still. There was a rapping on the door. "Doctor? Doctor?" I searched through his pockets. He didn't have any keys. He didn't have any money or identification or a gun. He had a handkerchief and a ballpoint pen. The receptionist had moved away from the door and was talking to distance, moving my feet with a sideways crab motion, when Carl, indisputably the second policeman, put his head out of the window where I was heading and pointed a .38 revolver at me, saying in a let's-have-no-foolishness tone: "Get in here." I went the other way. I kept shuffling toward the girl. I had decided I would rather wrestle You aren't going to be able to Immelmann out of this dive, Turner. Good-by, Turner.

<question>:
Why does Mr. Turner get into the police car?

<options>:
A The police arrest him.
B He turns himself in for stealing magazines.
C He thinks it is a taxi.
D He wants to ask the police for help.

<answer>:

C