by James Carol
Anderton made no response to that. Winter gave her another few seconds, but she still had nothing to add. He took another sip of coffee, then shut his eyes and imagined the killer sitting in a darkened room.
*
Everything is quiet and still and I’m all alone. Except I’m not alone because I have Eric Kirchner for company. He’s on my computer screen. I watch him pour out a large glass of neat vodka, watch him take a long swig. His face screws up, but he doesn’t stop drinking. He keeps going until his glass is empty. He’s a shadow of the person he once was. And I’m the reason for that. This empty shell is my creation.
*
Winter opened his eyes.
‘Cause and effect,’ he said. ‘It’s not money that makes the world go round, it’s Newton’s Third Law. That’s what’s going on here.’
Anderton gave him a puzzled look. ‘I’m not really following.’
‘Earlier I was watching TV and it seemed that every other programme was a reality show. They all follow the exact same format. A group of people are put in a high-pressure situation and the viewers at home get to watch. The killer is doing pretty much the same thing. In this case the husbands kill their wives. That’s your high-pressure situation. The big difference is that there’s only one viewer watching at home.’
‘So, what? The purpose of all this is entertainment?’
Winter shook his head. ‘That’s where the analogy falls down. He’s not doing this for fun. This is serious business. And I doubt he’s sharing with the viewers at home. This is very much for his own benefit. All of us are voyeurs to one degree or another. That’s why reality shows are so popular.’ He paused. ‘The early reality shows were billed as social experiments, because back then they needed to be justified. Except they weren’t experiments. Not even close. They were mob events. In that respect they had more in common with the gladiator battles in ancient Rome than any form of legitimate science. This, however, is like a sociological experiment. Basically he’s caused something to happen and, like the good scientist he is, he’s sat out there somewhere observing and recording the results.’
‘Okay,’ Anderton said, ‘back to my original question. What do we say to him?’
‘At this stage we don’t say anything.’
‘We don’t?’
‘First we need to get his attention. We need him to understand that he’s no longer calling the shots. And we do that by making it so that he can’t watch. Believe me, that’ll make him sit up and take notice.’
Anderton shook her head. ‘That won’t work. If we disable the RAT then we won’t be able to communicate with him.’
‘Who said anything about disabling it?’ Winter walked over to the refrigerator. A pad of sticky notes was fixed to the door with a magnet. He took the pad down, peeled off the top sheet and held it up. ‘If you want to stop someone spying on you with a webcam, this will work every time. Stick it over the lens and your privacy is guaranteed. When we want to talk to him, all we’ve got to do is take it off.’
‘Yeah, that’ll work.’ Anderton found her cell phone and switched it on.
‘Who are you calling at this time?’ Winter asked.
‘Freeman. He needs to know about the RAT.’ She paused, smiled. ‘If I’m awake I don’t see why he shouldn’t be. After all, technically this is his case.’
41
Winter woke up with a stiff neck and warm sunlight on his face. The drapes didn’t quite meet in the middle and the light was flooding in. All that brightness was making his eyes ache. Anderton’s sofa was smaller than the one in his suite, and nowhere near as comfortable. It was better than sleeping on the floor, but not by much. He sat up and stretched and scrubbed the sleep from his eyes. Anderton was already up and about. He could hear her getting busy in the kitchen. Whatever she was up to in there, it sure smelled good.
He pulled on his jeans, then went through to join her. She was over at the stove, a frying pan in one hand, a spatula in the other, an apron to protect her clothes from fat splashes. The omelette looked impressive. Mushrooms, onions, peppers, the works. There was something almost maternal about the way she was looking at him. He half expected her to check behind his ears for dirt.
‘You look like crap,’ she said.
‘I’ll be fine after a coffee and a cigarette.’
‘The coffee I can help with, but if you want a cigarette you need to go outside.’
She poured a coffee and handed him the mug. Winter sat down at the table and took a sip.
‘This is great coffee.’
‘Glad you approve. You want something to eat?’
‘Does the pope shit in the woods?’
She laughed at that, then dished the omelette out on to two plates, half each, equal portions all around. She put one of the plates in front of Winter then sat down opposite him.
‘This is amazing,’ he said between mouthfuls. ‘Oh, and thanks for the use of your sofa.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘What time is it, anyway?’
‘Eight-thirty.’
‘It’s later than I thought.’
‘You were snoring when I woke up, so I left you to it. I figured you needed your beauty sleep.’
‘Yeah, it was a busy night.’
‘Busy but productive.’
‘Any news from Freeman?’ Winter asked.
‘Freeman’s dodging my calls. No great surprise there.’
‘What about your winged monkeys? Anything from them?’
‘Not yet. I’m hoping to hear something soon, though.’
Winter finished eating then went outside for a cigarette. Anderton was in her office when he got back. She gave him another quick once-over, starting at his head and working down to his toes.
‘I’ve got to say, I’m not seeing any improvement.’
‘Thanks.’
The fold-up chair leaning against the wall didn’t look as though it had been moved in a while. Winter set it up at the side of the desk and sat down. He glanced at the map, then the photographs. Then he looked at Anderton.
‘Some people believe that dreams are a way for the subconscious mind to communicate with the conscious mind.’
Anderton leant back in her chair and made a big deal of giving him her full attention. ‘I take it you’re going somewhere with this.’
‘Last night I dreamt of Marilyn Monroe. She was coming out of a giant cake, singing “Happy Birthday” to President Kennedy.’
‘Is this about August 5 again?’
Winter nodded.
‘Okay, so your subconscious was trying to communicate something through this dream. Any idea what?’
‘I think it was trying to tell me to simplify things. Everything about the dream was blown out of proportion. For a start, Marilyn never climbed out of a giant cake, she just stood on a stage under a spotlight and sang the song. And everything in my dream was in bright Technicolor. The only footage that exists is black and white. This got me thinking. Sometimes a birthday is just a birthday. It’s no big deal really. Same goes for death. It’s just one of those things that happen. So far we’ve been focussed on the trigger event being a big deal. What if it wasn’t? What if the killer’s mom just passed away? I want the names of all the women who died in the city on August 5. I don’t care how they died. In fact, the less spectacular the better.’
‘We already looked at that.’
‘But you only went back fifteen years. Let’s assume that Cody represents the killer as a boy and Myra represents his mom. Cody’s ten, Myra’s thirty-three. That means the killer’s mom died twenty-three years ago. So that’s where we need to start looking. Do you have a contact at the records office?’
‘You could say that.’
The response was purposefully vague. Before Winter could push for an explanation, Anderton’s cell phone rang. She glanced at the display, then grinned to herself.
‘It’s one of my contacts.’
The call lasted less than thirty seconds, just long
enough for the caller to pass on whatever information they needed to pass on. It was easy to imagine her contact skulking around the corridors at headquarters, looking for somewhere they wouldn’t be overheard. She was still grinning when she hung up.
‘Good news?’ Winter asked.
‘There was a RAT on David Hammond’s computer. And there was one on Cody Hooper’s laptop, too.’
‘All we’ve got to do now is work out what the killer sees when he’s watching them.’
‘Easier said than done.’
‘That’s why they pay us the big bucks, Anderton. What time does the records office open?’
Anderton glanced at her watch. ‘About five minutes ago.’
‘In that case, let’s hustle.’
42
Anderton’s contact gave the impression that he’d been working at the records office since the beginning of time. He had to be well into his sixties, maybe even pushing seventy. He was wearing a flamboyant paisley-print vest under his jacket and a bright red bow tie. His impressive moustache had curled waxed tips. He was grossly overweight, but all those extra pounds seemed to suit him. His name was Alan Smith, which was a disappointment. There was something Dickensian about him. His name should have reflected this.
His office was small but tidy. And dark. The view from the window was blocked by the neighbouring building, which also affected how much light got in. Judging by the lack of space, the two chairs in front of the desk had been brought in especially for this meeting. There was a coffee in front of each chair. White for Anderton, black for Winter. They sat down and Smith got settled in the chair on the other side of the desk.
‘It’s good to see you again, Uncle Alan.’
‘Always a pleasure, my dear. By the way, you need to phone your mother. I was having lunch with her last week and she was complaining that you never call.’
‘I spoke to her last night.’
Smith raised an eyebrow, calling her on the lie.
‘Okay, okay, I’ll phone her tonight.’
Winter was battling to keep a straight face. His own family might have been the textbook definition of dysfunctional but he knew how the theory worked. Everyone had their place in the hierarchy. It didn’t matter how old you got, those positions were set in stone. He’d just witnessed a fifty-three-year-old woman being reduced to a child again.
‘You said on the telephone that you need help with the August 5 Bomber case.’
‘That’s right. We’ve had some new information and we think it could shed light on why the date is significant.’
‘Well, anything I can do.’
Anderton gestured toward Winter, indicating that this was his show.
‘We’re going to need a list of all the women who died in the city on August 5, 1992. Ages as well.’
‘No problem. You’ll have to bear with me a second, though.’
Smith pulled the keyboard closer and went to work. In the end it took a couple of minutes to get the information and print it out. He handed the printout to Anderton.
‘Thanks. May I borrow a pen, please?’
Smith took a pen from the desk drawer and passed it over. Anderton laid the printout on the desk and Winter crowded in to get a better look. There were seven names on it. The killer’s mother would have been older than fourteen but younger than forty-five when she gave birth. Working on the assumption that the killer was the same age as Cody when his mom died, they could eliminate anyone younger than twenty-four and older than fifty-five.
That left one name. Anderton’s brown eyes were shining with hope but her mouth was shut tight. She wasn’t saying a word in case she jinxed things. Winter had a good idea of what she was feeling because he was feeling it as well. Smith, too. He’d rolled his chair as near to the edge of the desk as his gut would allow and was leaning in to get closer to the action.
‘The third name on the list,’ said Winter. ‘Catriona McDonald. Does she have any children?’
Smith ran a search. Even before he spoke, it was clear that the news wasn’t good. His shoulders sagged and he looked like someone had stolen his candy. ‘No,’ he said.
‘This could still work,’ Anderton said. ‘Try Julia Macey. Number five on the list. She would have been forty-eight when she gave birth, which is old to have a child but not outside the realms of possibility.’
Smith did another search. ‘She had two daughters. Both were in their thirties when she died.’
‘Not Julia Macey, then.’
‘It’s not over yet,’ Winter said. ‘Remember, we’re working on the fact that Myra is thirty-three and Cody is ten. The killer and his mom might have been slightly older.’
‘Or younger,’ Anderton put in. ‘Uncle Alan, can you run searches for 1991 and 1993, please?’
‘Certainly.’
Smith clicked with the mouse and pecked at the keyboard with his fat fingers. He hit enter with another flourish then walked across to the printer. There were two printouts this time. One for each year. Eight names on one, six on the other. Anderton beat Winter to the pen. When she was finished they were left with two names for 1991. She passed the printouts back to Smith and he started searching the birth register. No one was talking because no one needed to. By now they all knew their respective roles. Smith finished searching and sat up a little straighter.
‘They both had one son. Esme Brown’s was fourteen when she died. Gemma Wood’s was ten.’
‘Gemma’s son was the same age as Cody, so let’s start with her. How did she die?’
‘It says here that she had a cerebrovascular accident.’
‘Thirty is way too young to be having a stroke. Was she married?’
Smith did another search. ‘Yes, she was. To Nathaniel Wood.’
‘Run another search. See if he’s still alive. If he is, we’re going to want to speak to him.’
The small office had gone very still and quiet. Winter and Anderton were both staring across the desk at Smith. He hit the enter key. There was no flourish this time. He’d picked up on how serious this was and reeled in his eccentricities. A couple of seconds later the results pinged up onto the screen and his eyes widened.
‘Nathaniel Wood died on April 21, 1991. He was thirty-five. The cause of death was internal bleeding.’
‘Which was a little over three months before his wife,’ Anderton said.
‘It was,’ Winter agreed. ‘And if they’d been old I wouldn’t have a problem with them dying so close together. That sort of thing happens. You get two people who have spent their whole life together and are so devoted to each other that they can’t bear to be apart. When one of them dies the other just fades away.’
‘But Gemma Wood was only thirty.’
‘Exactly. And Nathaniel was only thirty-five. They’re in completely the wrong age group for something like that to happen.’
Winter jumped to his feet and headed for the door. Anderton was on her feet as well.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘The Vancouver Sun’s offices.’
He stopped so suddenly that she almost ran into him. He turned back to Smith.
‘By the way, what’s the son called?’
It only took a couple of clicks for Smith to backtrack to the relevant page.
‘His name is William Wood.’
43
‘Two visits in two days, Laura. I’m honoured.’
Rebecca Byrne strode through the reception area with her arm outstretched and a grin on her face. She shook hands with both of them. Anderton first, then Winter. Today’s dress was as red as yesterday’s but a different design. If anything her lipstick was a shade brighter. It contrasted starkly against her pale, waxy skin. That two-pack-a-day voice was exactly the same, though.
‘So you want to see our back issues again. Anything you feel like sharing?’
‘Not at this precise moment,’ Anderton said.
‘But you’re making progress?’
‘I think so.’
; ‘You think? Either you are or you’re not.’
‘Okay, we’ve made some progress.’
‘But you’re not prepared to enlighten me.’
‘Not at this stage, no.’
‘Can I ask why?’
‘You can ask.’
‘But you’re not going to tell.’
Anderton smiled briefly. ‘We’re trying to find a way to draw the killer out. The last thing we want is to drive him any deeper underground.’
Byrne opened her mouth to speak. She hesitated as something occurred to her. There was a tiny smear of red on one of her front teeth.
‘Do you know who the killer is?’ she asked carefully.
‘No, we don’t,’ Winter said.
She turned her head to the right and met his eye. ‘You’re close to identifying him, though.’
‘We have a possible lead, that’s all. There’s still a lot of work to be done.’
‘That wasn’t a no.’
‘Rebecca,’ Anderton said, and the journalist’s eyes snapped back to her. ‘Stop digging. As soon as we have anything worth sharing, we’ll share.’
‘If you could get something to me before today’s deadline that would be really helpful.’
‘Stop digging.’
Byrne smiled. ‘Shall we?’
They followed the same route as the day before. The newsroom door was closed, but Winter could still hear the bustle and the raised voices. He could sense the chaotic energy that was being generated back there. Byrne stopped outside the door of the archive room. She pushed it open then stepped aside.
‘I’ll be expecting your call, Laura.’
‘You can count on it.’
They went inside and walked over to the shelves. April was in the first of 1991’s three volumes. He pulled the book down and carried it across to the table. Nathaniel Wood had died on April 21, so the logical place to start looking was April 22.
‘A car crash would cause internal injuries,’ Anderton said.
‘Another possibility is that he committed suicide by jumping from a skyscraper.’
‘Or maybe he was a parachutist and his lines got tangled.’
