The Quiet Man

by James Carol

  ‘That’s one of those questions that doesn’t have a straightforward answer.’

  ‘Of course it doesn’t. But something happened to push you in that direction.’

  An image of his mom jumped into his head. She was sitting in their cheap little landlord-decorated apartment weeping silently to herself. She was so drunk she didn’t even know he was there. This might have been an actual memory. At the same time it could have been an amalgamation of memories, like the photo composite. Coming home from school to find his mom drunk and weeping was not a one-off event. The apartment could have been a composite of memories, too. There had been a whole string of those, each one as bad as the last, all of them blending together to create a depressing whole.

  ‘After my father was arrested all I wanted was answers,’ he said. ‘How could he have done what he’d done? How could I not have known he was a killer?’ He hesitated, then added, ‘And why did my mom have to suffer so much? She didn’t deserve it. Before the arrest she was so full of life. Afterwards she was just a shadow. It was like my father had reached into her chest and torn her heart out.’

  ‘I can’t even begin to imagine what it was like.’

  ‘No, you can’t. No one can. Even Scott and Cody Hooper would struggle to understand because it’s just too personal. Every situation is completely unique. Theirs, mine, everyone’s. I’m fortunate, though. I survived. Not everyone can say that.’

  ‘How are you getting on with finding those answers?’

  Winter laughed and shook his head. ‘Still working on it.’

  ‘Some questions just don’t want to be answered. You realise that, don’t you?’

  ‘It doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.’

  ‘Talking of questions, do you think Cody saw the killer?’

  Winter took another drag. ‘What I think is that eyewitnesses are hugely unreliable at the best of times. When it comes down to it I’ll take hard forensic evidence over the testimony of someone who thinks they might have seen someone. In this case we’ve got a double whammy in that the photo composite is a complete fabrication.’

  ‘But,’ Anderton prompted.

  ‘But the man with the lost dog was real. And something about him resonated with Cody. At the moment the kid is in survival mode, which means that his medulla oblongata is working overtime. That part of the brain doesn’t work by committee. If it sees danger then the klaxons start howling and the warning lights flash, and you’d best pay attention or you’re going to end up getting eaten by the sabre-tooth tiger.’

  ‘Except we don’t have sabre-tooth tigers any more.’

  Winter smiled. ‘No, we don’t.’

  ‘Also, that part of the brain might be shouting danger, but it doesn’t call the shots. Did you see what happened? Cody started off thinking the dog guy was the killer, then the logical part of his brain kicked in and he talked himself out of it.’

  ‘I noticed that, too.’

  ‘Okay, let’s assume that the dog guy is the killer. Where does that lead us?’

  Winter took a last pull on his cigarette, then crushed it out and swept it to the edge of the step, out of the way. There was a trash can near the entrance to the park. He’d dispose of it later. Anderton was staring off into the middle distance, thinking hard. Winter glanced around. It was a busy little park, a great place to come and people-watch. There were moms with strollers and moms trailing toddlers. There were joggers and a couple of teenagers walking hand-in-hand. And there was a woman walking a dog.

  It was easy to imagine Cody and his mom sat on a blanket eating their picnic. Easy to imagine the guy from the composite walking over and giving them some sob story about how he’d lost his dog. Maybe his hair was shorter than in the composite picture. He definitely would have looked different. Maybe a lot different, maybe only a little. It was easy to imagine him taking his cell out and showing the picture of his dog to Cody and his mom. Easy to imagine him charming them. Because that was the thing. Some serial killers could be so charming. You want to think that they’re loners, that you’d spot them straight away, but it just didn’t work that way. The most dangerous ones were the chameleons, and that’s what they were dealing with here, someone who could hide in plain sight without raising suspicions. Winter took a moment to go over what Cody had told them, looking for anything that stood out. The thing he kept coming back to was the cell-phone picture of the dog.

  ‘Why didn’t the dog guy have a flyer?’ He put the question out there, then glanced at Anderton, looking for a reaction.

  ‘Okay, I’m listening.’

  ‘According to Cody, he claimed his dog had been missing for a week. If that happens you hit your computer and find the cutest picture you’ve got and make a flyer. You have LOST DOG in bold capital letters at the top. Then you have a paragraph or two saying where it got lost and how much it’s going to be missed. Then you have details of the reward. And right down at the bottom you’re going to have your telephone number, maybe a whole row of numbers all neatly snipped so they’re easy to tear off. Once you’ve done all that you’re going to print it out and canvas the neighbourhood where the dog went missing. You’ll stick the flyers to streetlamps near your favourite park, and on noticeboards, and hand them out to strangers.’

  ‘But this guy didn’t do that. All he had was a picture on his cell.’

  ‘Exactly. Dog owners can be pretty obsessive. If their pride and joy goes missing they’re going to move heaven and hell to get it back.’

  ‘The fact that the dog guy didn’t have a flyer doesn’t prove that this is the killer. It’s not even close to being conclusive.’

  ‘No, it’s not. But you’ve got to admit, it is a bit strange.’

  Anderton did a quick scan of the park, her gaze tracing a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arc that moved from left to right, taking in people, taking in the sights.

  ‘Okay, let’s say the dog guy is the killer. How did he track them here? He couldn’t have followed them from the house. That would be too risky.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘So how did he know they’d be here?’ She paused. ‘Okay, we still haven’t answered the question of how he chooses his victims. Maybe this is how he does it. Maybe he hangs around parks just waiting for the right person to come along, then gives them a sob story about his lost dog.’

  ‘Then what? He follows them home so he can find out where they live.’ Winter shook his head. ‘That’s as risky as following them from their homes. Also, Cody said the picnic at the park was a week ago. This guy likes to take things slow and careful. He’s going to want to spend more than a week surveilling them. Remember, there’s a year between the murders. That’s a lot of time for planning.’

  ‘So how did he do it? How did he know that they’d be having a picnic here?’

  Winter smiled. ‘That is so the right question, Anderton. How did he know? Because this guy is omniscient, right? He knows everything. He’s like some sort of god. Except nobody has those sort of powers. I mean, who’s got the power to see into other people’s lives like that? To know what they’re up to and what they’re planning on doing, and when they’re planning on doing it? That’s just so not going to happen, is it?’

  Anderton laughed. ‘Okay, okay, I get it. You think he’s been watching her Facebook account.’

  She took out her cell phone and Winter scooted closer so he could watch. Myra Hooper wasn’t a particularly common name so it only took thirty seconds to find her profile. She was the third Myra Hooper on the list. Anderton clicked to open the profile. Myra had used a photograph of Cody for her profile picture. Dark hair, dark eyes and that goofy grin. Winter thought of him looking lost and alone on the beanbag and wondered if he’d ever grin like that again. The answer was no. Sure, he would smile again, and he would laugh and joke and have a good time, and there would even be days when he didn’t think about his mom, but he would never grin like this again. There was an innocence there that had been lost forever. Out of all the things that had happe
ned here today, that was what got to Winter most. It was always the little things.

  Myra had eight hundred and fifty-three friends and her relationship status was set to It’s complicated. Her privacy settings were on the lowest level, which meant that they could access her timeline without friending her. Which meant that the killer would have been able to access it as well. The murder had only happened this morning but there were already twenty condolence messages, all of them saying much the same thing. RIP. You’re going to be missed. Thinking of you. The outpouring of love was understandable but it wasn’t going to bring her back.

  Myra had last posted a status update at 11.23 the previous evening. Looking forward to camping with Cody at the weekend. Hope it doesn’t rain LOL. Last time we went the tent leaked and we ended up drowned. Where’s Noah’s Ark when you need it!!! That was another thing with murder. It came slamming out of the blue and the clocks just stopped. That book you were reading would never be finished, that film you wanted to see would never be watched, and that camping trip you were planning on taking with your ten-year-old son was never going to happen. For Winter, it was a gig that never got seen. His mom had bought tickets for a U2 concert. Winter had never been to a rock concert before and U2 were one of his favourite bands. He was beyond excited. This was going to be the best day of his life. His father was arrested the day before the concert. By the time he remembered about the tickets, the gig had been and gone.

  Anderton scrolled down. Myra was a Facebook addict. Every aspect of her life was on there for the whole world to see, described with words and photographs. The tears and joy, the heartbreak and celebrations. At 7.23 on the evening of July 27 she’d written a brief post about how she and Cody were going on a picnic to Alexandra Park the next day.

  Anderton sighed and looked over at him. ‘It’s almost too easy.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘Do people not realise that this stuff actually goes public?’

  ‘Oversharing is currently at epidemic proportions. And what’s really worrying is that it’s only going to get worse.’

  ‘Talking of which, do we pass this on to Freeman? At the moment I feel like we’re doing all the work and getting none of the credit.’

  ‘Agreed, but we should still pass it on. He’s got the resources of the whole of the Vancouver Police Department at his disposal. On that basis I’d give him the ball and let him run with it. If he finds anything, then your winged monkeys will tell us, right?’

  ‘They will.’

  ‘In which case it’s a win/win.’

  ‘So why doesn’t it feel like one?’

  While Anderton made the call, Winter went over things in his head, wondering what their next move should be. As always, there were just too many questions and nowhere near enough answers. There was one question that kept niggling away and just wouldn’t let go. Anderton finished her call and put her cell away. She turned around and caught him staring.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘Just thinking.’

  ‘Well, can you think without making your eyes spin? It’s creeping me out.’

  Winter did his best to look serious. ‘Better?’

  ‘Not really. So, what are you thinking about?’

  ‘Escaping. Or, to be more precise, escapology.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, drawing the syllables out. ‘Would you care to expand on that?’

  ‘A couple of months before he died, Harry Houdini spent ninety-one minutes in a coffin that had been lowered into the pool at the Shelton Hotel in New York. In doing so he smashed the previous record by thirty-one minutes. This is widely regarded as being his greatest feat. Considering some of the things he got up to, that’s saying something.’

  ‘And when exactly did this take place? Or should I take a wild stab in the dark?’

  ‘Go on, give it your best shot.’

  ‘August 5.’

  ‘August 5, 1926, to be exact.’ Winter jumped to his feet. ‘Come on, let’s go see if we can work out why today is so important to the killer.’

  31

  Granville Square was a thirty-storey high-rise in Downtown. The top floor had been commandeered to provide air-traffic control for the seaplanes using the harbour. The building was four hundred and sixty-five feet tall, making this the highest air-traffic control centre in the world. The Vancouver Sun had called this building home since 1997. The journalist who met them at reception was old school. Estimating her age was tricky. She looked about seventy, but might only have been fifty. Her skin had a waxy yellow sheen to it and she spoke like she smoked two packs a day. She was tall and thin and wearing a bright red dress that matched her bright red lipstick. Her spectacles were dangling from a chain around her neck.

  ‘Jefferson Winter meet Rebecca Byrne,’ Anderton said. ‘Rebecca Byrne meet Jefferson Winter.’

  They traded handshakes and welcome smiles.

  ‘I saw you on TV last night,’ Byrne said. ‘It was good to see Delaney taken down a peg or two.’

  ‘I take it you’re not a fan.’

  ‘You could say that. The TV people look down on the radio people, and the radio people look down on us poor lowly print hounds. And I’m fine with that. But Delaney is in a league of her own. The woman is a major pain in the ass. She sits up there in her ivory tower and thinks her shit smells better than everyone else’s.’

  ‘Rebecca heads up the crime desk,’ Anderton said. ‘She’s been here since forever. If she ever leaves then this whole building is going to come crashing down. At least that’s how the legend goes.’

  Byrne’s cackling laughter was as dry as old sand. ‘It’s good to see you again, too, Laura. How’s the PI business?’

  ‘It has its moments.’

  ‘And how is our Mr Sobek?’

  Anderton cracked a smile. ‘He has his moments.’

  ‘I’ve got to admit, your call got me curious.’

  ‘Which is why you’ve come to meet us personally rather than sending one of your minions.’

  ‘Curiosity kind of goes with the territory. So why do you want to see our back issues? Has this got anything to do with the August 5 Bomber, perchance?’

  Anderton nodded. ‘Winter thinks the date is significant.’

  ‘If memory serves, you didn’t.’

  ‘He’s coming at this with fresh eyes. He might see something I missed.’

  ‘And that’s what I’ve always liked about you, Laura. You’ve always had an open mind. You should never have been kicked off the investigation, you know.’

  ‘I’m not going to disagree with that.’

  ‘So, do you think Freeman’s going to catch this guy?’

  Anderton laughed, then turned to look at Winter. ‘You saw what she did there, right? She softens me up with a compliment, then slides her question in there real smooth, hoping I slip up and answer.’

  ‘Yeah, I saw.’

  She turned back to Byrne. ‘There’s no way I’m going to answer that, Rebecca. I can see the headline now. DISGRACED COP RIPS INTO HER SUCCESSOR.’

  Byrne shrugged and looked sheepish. She wasn’t really owning the emotion. ‘You can’t blame a girl for trying. And anyway, I’d come up with a better headline.’

  ‘Just so we’re clear, unless I clearly state otherwise, everything I say to you from now until the end of time is off the record. That goes for Winter, too.’

  ‘And just so we’re clear, if this fishing expedition nets anything I expect to be informed before my esteemed peers.’

  ‘That goes without saying.’

  ‘Actually, it does need to be said. Which is why I said it.’

  ‘So, where are the back issues kept?’

  ‘This way.’

  Byrne led them down a corridor that could have been in any office building, anywhere in the world. The walls were white, the brown carpet hardwearing and cheap, the striplights too bright. A door opened and a hassled-looking guy came hurrying out, a blast of noise a
nd chaos following in his wake. Before the door swung shut Winter caught a glimpse of the newsroom. The messy desks were laid out in neat rows and people were working the phones hard. In a lot of respects it wasn’t much different from the incident room.

  The back issues were kept in a room at the end of the corridor. Byrne pushed the door open and switched on the light. It was twelve feet by twelve, bigger than a broom closet but not by much. The volumes holding the back issues were lined up neatly on the shelves. The large table positioned under the striplight in the middle of the room had a computer terminal sitting on top, and two chairs slotted underneath.

  Byrne followed his gaze to the table. ‘The more recent editions are digitised, but anything before 1998 you’ll need to look up the old-fashioned way.’

  ‘You still keep hard copies of the current editions, though.’

  ‘That’s because at heart we’re still a newspaper. Technology is all well and good, but you need to be careful not to lose your soul.’

  ‘Amen to that.’

  ‘Okay, I’m going to leave you to it. Remember, though, if you find anything, I want to know about it.’

  32

  Winter stood for a moment staring at the shelves. The newspaper had been founded in 1912. The early years were each represented by a single volume. By 1962 two volumes were needed, and from 1971, three. In 2006 it was back to two volumes again. He could feel the weight of all those millions upon millions of words pressing in on him. So much history. So much despair and tragedy. Some joy, but not a whole lot. This was a newspaper, after all.

  So, where to start?

  Anderton was staring, too, and no doubt wondering much the same thing. She walked over and reached up to the newer volumes on the top shelf. These looked a lot less ragged than those on the bottom shelf. The year of each volume was etched on the spine in gold. The Vancouver Sun was etched there, too, also in gold. The volume she was aiming for was from four years ago, the year before the murders began, which made sense. Then again, just because something made sense, it didn’t necessarily make it the right thing to do.