The Quiet Man

by James Carol

  Except that couldn’t have happened here. The problem was Cody. It was possible that the killer had waited for him to go to bed before making his move. Possible, but unlikely. Again, the later and darker it got, the more suspicious you were going to be. The bomb had detonated at twenty after seven this morning. Working back, the most likely scenario was that the killer had got here in the early hours. The chronology didn’t work. No one opened the door to a stranger in the middle of the night, not without thoroughly vetting their credentials to make sure they were who they claimed to be. Which meant that he had not got in through the front door.

  ‘How did he get in?’ Winter asked Jefferies. ‘The back door or a window?’

  ‘The back door.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Jefferies led the way to the rear of the property. The backyard was small and tidy. There was a trampoline and a freestanding basketball hoop. Like any ten-year-old, Cody would have energy to burn. Planters were arranged neatly on the decking and there was a barbecue under a green tarpaulin cover. The garden table had space for four. Winter could hear the ghost echo of summer laughter hanging in the air.

  The killer had made a small circular hole above the door handle with a glass cutter, then reached through, unlocked the door and let himself in. A CSI was dusting the door for prints. It was patient, careful work. Time always stretched out in crime scenes, everyone taking it slow, the worry of destroying evidence hanging constantly at your shoulder. They walked past the forensics specialist and went into the kitchen. Unlike the earlier scenes, it was still intact. Winter looked at Jefferies.

  ‘I’m not seeing any devastation.’

  ‘He did it in the bedroom this time.’

  ‘Which is yet another change to his MO.’

  ‘You make that sound like a good thing.’

  ‘Not a good thing, the best. By understanding the reasons he changed MO we get an insight into his original intentions. By understanding those, we get to know him better.’

  Jefferies was shaking his head, unimpressed. ‘That all sounds unnecessarily complicated. Like I say, give me a drive-by shooting any day.’

  ‘You’re loving this really,’ Winter said. ‘Go on, admit it.’

  ‘You think?’

  Evidence of Myra and Cody’s last evening together lay scattered throughout the kitchen. The wine glass with the red stain in the bottom, the tablet charging at one of the wall sockets. The backpack on the table, zipped up and ready for morning. All four dining chairs were upright and pushed neatly into their spaces.

  The refrigerator was a place for hoarding memories. Photographs were held in place with magnets. Cody was in all of them. He appeared to be a happy kid. Dark hair, brown eyes, a goofy grin. Looks could be deceptive, but not this time. Sometimes what you saw was what you got. There were a couple of pictures with Mom, the resemblance immediately apparent. Same eyes, same turn to the mouth when they smiled. There were no pictures of Dad. Winter reached out with a gloved hand, his fingertips brushing down over the photographs. Then he closed his eyes and stepped into the zone.

  *

  The night has the magic to turn the mundane into something remarkable. The moonlight is the catalyst. It has carved the trampoline and basketball hoop into shining grey sculptures. The lawn is a grey lake, the fence and trees rising around it like mountains. The world I now inhabit is a world of unlimited potential. I walk carefully and quietly to the back door, aware of every breath, every heartbeat, every footfall. The neighbouring houses are as silent as this one. I cut a hole in the glass and use the sucker cup to lift it away. In my mind I can see it crashing to the ground and shattering into pieces. I can see the lights coming on. I can hear the sirens.

  I lay the circle of glass carefully on the ground and let myself in. The air holds the memory of the last meal that was eaten here. The silence holds the promise of everything that’s yet to come. I pull the kitchen door open and walk through the darkness to the hall. For a moment I stand at the bottom of the stairs, listening. Nobody is moving around upstairs. Mother and son are fast asleep. I go up to the second floor and make my way along the landing. Do I go to the boy’s room first? Probably. I’d need to assure myself that he’s not going to be a problem. I take a peek inside. He’s fast asleep.

  I back out of the room, closing the door gently, then walk along the landing to the mother’s room. For what feels like the longest time I just stand there watching her sleep, imagining the possibilities.

  So much potential.

  She comes awake in an instant, eyes wide, her scream caught in my gloved hand. She’s struggling and the fear makes her strong.

  ‘Do what I say or the boy dies.’

  This is spoken in a sharp whisper. She goes still immediately. There’s hatred burning in her eyes, but she’s hanging on my every word, waiting for the next order.

  20

  Winter stood in the doorway of Myra Hooper’s bedroom, momentarily transfixed by the devastation. Two CSIs were working the scene as painstakingly as their colleague downstairs. It only took a moment to turn a home into a death house. One squeeze of the trigger, or a single thrust of the knife. Or, as was the case here, a Christmas-tree light bulb overloading and exploding. Yesterday Myra and Cody’s existence had been travelling on a familiar track of school, work and mealtimes, the familiar routines that define so many lives. Today that train had been well and truly derailed. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  Winter took a breath and his nose filled with the stink of Myra’s death. The Fourth of July tainted by the smell of charred meat. There was an earthy undertone there too. Piss and shit. The stench of death. He walked over to the bed and looked down at Myra’s ruined body. Pieces of the bomb were still taped to her chest. Tape to bind her ankles together, tape to bind her hands. A strip across her mouth to stop her screams and shouts escaping. Her chest was a bloody shredded mess. It had been ripped apart when the bomb went off and the red-hot ball bearings had slammed into her. Like buckshot at point-blank range. Her hair and skin were burnt. Clothes and bed linen, too. After the explosion, Cody had rushed in here. He’d used a quilt to stop the fire getting hold, starving it of the oxygen it craved. His quick thinking meant that there was a crime scene to investigate. Unfortunately, no amount of quick thinking had been enough to save his mom.

  ‘Any thoughts?’ Jefferies asked.

  ‘Nothing yet.’

  ‘Okay, let me explain how this sharing thing works. We give you access to the crime scene and you tell us who this guy is. And what his Social Insurance Number is. And his address. And, most importantly, how we catch him.’

  That was worth a laugh. ‘If only it was that easy.’

  ‘Freeman’s going to give me the third degree. You need to give me something to work with here.’

  ‘And I will. As soon as I’ve got anything you’ll be the first to know.’

  Winter walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. Then he shut his eyes and imagined that he was a ten-year-old boy who was just about to kill his mom.

  *

  The first thing I see when I wake up is the bedside clock. I have to look twice because there must be a mistake. Usually Mom has got me up before now. I head downstairs, wiping the sleep from my eyes and wondering where she is. Maybe I call out for her. Then again, maybe I’m still too sleepy for that.

  There’s no sign of her in the kitchen. Usually she has breakfast ready by now. I call out, but she’s not answering. I head to the living room, but she’s not there either. I go back upstairs. I’m wide awake now, and starting to worry. What if she died during the night? She’s not old, but young people can have heart attacks. Or maybe she’s run away. Maybe that’s it. Or maybe she’s been kidnapped or something.

  I call out again as I run up the stairs. By the time I get to her bedroom I’m shouting at the top of my lungs, yelling out for her over and over like I’m four again. I pull down on the handle. The door opens an inch, then the explosion slams it back into the fram
e.

  21

  Winter opened his eyes, then opened the bedroom door. Jefferies was standing on the other side, watching. Beyond him, Myra was lying still and lifeless.

  ‘Why has he moved upstairs?’ Winter asked.

  ‘This one I do know the answer to. He was worried that he’d wake the kid if he tried to take his mom downstairs.’

  ‘So, it comes down to risk management?’

  ‘That’s how I see it,’ Jefferies said. ‘The killer breaks in, overpowers mom and gags her. The kid’s room is at the other end of the landing. So long as he’s quiet, he could pull this off without waking him.’

  A quick nod. ‘Yeah, that works.’

  Winter retraced his route to the back door, only this time he was thinking about how Myra and Cody had lived rather than how Myra died. He stopped in the living room and looked around. Like the other rooms, it was cosy and comfortable. The sofa was well worn and the wall-mounted TV had a games console wired into it. The controller was lying discarded on the floor next to a bright yellow beanbag.

  Collages of holiday photographs were displayed in two large frames behind the sofa. Photographs taken on tropical beaches, photographs on mountains, a photograph with a volcano in the background, evidence of a family who’d liked to travel and have fun together. Scott Hooper wasn’t in any of the pictures. Maybe he’d taken these, but more likely they’d been censored in light of the separation. The framed photograph near the door had been professionally shot. Myra and Cody were looking at each other and laughing. They looked so happy together. There was a band of brighter paint around the frame. Clearly there had been a larger picture here at some point in the recent past. One that had Scott Hooper in as well?

  Winter stopped at the kitchen door and pushed it closed. Then he pulled it open and imagined the blast tearing a heart apart. Jefferies was standing close by, looking impatient.

  ‘And?’ he asked.

  Winter shook his head. ‘I’ve got nothing.’

  ‘How did I know you were going to say that?’

  ‘I’m not holding back.’

  ‘I’d expect you to say that, too.’

  ‘It’s the truth. Right now, I’m suffering from information overload. It’s making it difficult to see things clearly. I feel like there’s something staring me straight in the face but I just can’t see it.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Believe what you want.’ Winter paused. ‘Why did he change his MO? Why did he choose to strike in the morning rather than the evening? Why the bedroom rather than the kitchen? Why risk breaking into the house? Those are the questions that need to be answered. That’s how you’re going to catch this guy.’

  Jefferies smiled then nodded his head like everything had suddenly become obvious. ‘Okay, I see how this works. This is the point where you get hit by a sudden moment of inspiration and tell me who did it. Just like Columbo, right?’

  ‘If only.’

  Winter walked into the kitchen. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something. The problem was that the harder he chased it, the more elusive it became.

  ‘Still waiting for that Columbo moment,’ Jefferies said at his shoulder.

  ‘Tell you what. Give me your card and I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got anything worth sharing.’

  Jefferies pulled a card from his wallet and handed it over. His face broke into a broad grin. ‘I’m getting a real sense of déjà vu here. They always promise to ring, but they never do.’

  ‘This is a two-way street, Jefferies. If you get anything worth sharing, you contact us.’

  The grin turned to a laugh. ‘And why is it that there are always strings attached?’

  22

  Delaney was still waiting at the barrier when Winter got outside. She caught him looking and waved. He held up a finger to indicate that he’d only be a minute. Not that the interview was ever going to happen. He’d just used her as a stick to beat Freeman with. Anderton was on the sidewalk, lost in thought. Winter walked over and joined her in staring at the house.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m getting a new perspective. With the first three murders I was always inside the house. I hardly spent any time outside.’ She waved her arm in a loose arc that went from left to right and took in half a dozen houses. ‘I look over there and what I see is a row of houses that appear more or less the same. Except they’re not the same. One of them is now a murder house. So what made Myra Hooper and her son so special? What made them stand out?’

  ‘In other words, how did they appear on the killer’s radar?’

  She nodded. ‘We’ve already established that this killer is highly organised. He didn’t just walk along this street and think to himself, you know what, that looks like a nice house, there are probably some nice people living there, I think I’ll go and knock on the door and turn their lives into a nightmare.’

  ‘He knows his victims’ routines,’ Winter said. ‘With the first three murders he knew that they got home before their husbands. He also knew that there would be enough time to set up the bombs and get out of there.’

  ‘That much I’ve already worked out. Tell me something new.’

  ‘Okay, how about this? The fact that he knows their routines is one of the reasons he changed his MO.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Because it’s summer break, Cody was at a kids’ club while his mom was at work. She picked him up on the way back, so they arrived home together. But the killer needed it to be staggered. He needed Cody out of the way so he could get everything organised. That’s why he broke into the house in the middle of the night. Cody would have been fast asleep and blissfully unaware of what was happening. When he woke up the next morning he went around the house looking for her. He opened her bedroom door and that’s when the bomb went off.’

  Anderton shook her head in frustration. ‘What’s going on Winter? It’s like he’s taken his MO and just ripped the whole thing up.’

  ‘What if Cody was the target?’

  ‘So why not follow through?’ She paused for a second, then answered her own question. ‘Because of your interview with Delaney. Assuming Myra had seen it, she would have tried to topple the chair. But, like we discussed earlier, she couldn’t do that if he was using Cody for leverage.’

  ‘That’s how I see it, but we’re getting away from the point. How did he know their routine?’

  ‘Because he was watching them.’

  ‘Except we know from the previous murders that he wasn’t. No one saw him hanging around outside the houses. That’s the one part of his MO that won’t be changing any time soon. This guy lives in the shadows. He doesn’t want to be seen.’

  ‘Cameras?’

  ‘That’s the obvious solution. He sets up a camera to cover the front of the house, and removes it when he arrives to carry out the actual murder. Or maybe he does his surveillance a week or two before. After all, he’s just trying to get a rough idea of his victims’ day-to-day routines and that won’t change much from week to week. Leaving a gap would make it harder for a witness to connect him to a crime. You might remember someone suspicious hanging around your street the day before a murder. But two weeks? Or a month?’

  ‘And it would also explain why we didn’t find any evidence of camera surveillance.’

  Winter turned full circle, wondering where you could hide a camera. The trees that bordered the left-hand side of the property were the best bet, but the angles weren’t brilliant. He crossed the street. The front yards on this side stopped at a line of tall fir trees that looked as though they’d been here since the houses were built. He walked to the right, glancing back every couple of steps to make sure he could still see the front of Myra’s house. He stopped when he lost sight of it. Anderton was doing the same, but in the opposite direction.

  It took longer to walk back. Every tree needed to be checked. It was slow, careful work. Winter could see Anderton up ahead, mirroring what he was doing, che
cking the trees along her stretch. Ten minutes later he was starting to think this was pointless. If the killer had carried out his surveillance some time back in July then it was unlikely that they’d find anything. He glanced over and saw Anderton move in to get a closer look at something. Her body language changed in an instant. She was alert and poised, ready to jump for joy. Before she could call him he was already moving, covering the distance in less than ten seconds.

  ‘Take a look,’ she said.

  She was pointing to a spot on the trunk about six feet up from the base. A ragged patch of the tree’s smooth bark had been stripped away from the trunk. It was roughly the size of a cigarette pack, maybe a little bigger. A couple of the nearby branches looked as though they’d been snapped off. There was an unobstructed view all the way to the front door of Myra’s house. Anderton pointed to the ground.

  ‘And this,’ she added.

  There was a partial footprint in the dirt. Judging by the size, it had been made by an average sized woman, or a male who was below average height.

  ‘I’m thinking he might be getting lazy,’ she said. ‘There was nothing like this at the other crime scenes.’ She looked at the bare patch on the trunk again. ‘If he used superglue, it would have taken seconds to position the camera. Then all he had to do was snap those branches away to clear a sightline. Maybe he pretended to be a jogger. He stops to catch his breath, checks the coast is clear, then sticks the camera to the tree and carries on his merry way.’