The Quiet Man

by James Carol

  ‘So we know the sort of thing we’re looking for?’

  ‘We do.’

  Anderton crowded in closer. She was smelling fresh, like she’d managed to get a shower this morning. Winter was suddenly conscious of the fact that he hadn’t had one since yesterday. He flipped the book open and started turning the pages. Days and weeks flashed by, random headlines jumping out. Melodrama in a large bold typeface.

  The lead story for April 22 centred on a nursing shortage at Vancouver General. Other than there being a delay in getting treatment, Winter couldn’t see how this might be linked to Nathaniel Wood dying from internal injuries. That was a stretch, though, a real clutch for a straw. All hospitals operated a triage system. It didn’t matter if you were on the frontline of a war zone, or in a small country hospital, or a large urban facility like Vancouver General, that was the way it worked. If someone was brought in presenting life-threatening injuries they’d get bumped to the top of the list. Staff would be found to deal with the emergency.

  The story continued on page three and took up most of the space above the fold. The rest of the page was taken up with a political story, so that was a bust. Page two was a bust as well. Winter turned to the next page. The second he saw the headline his mind lit up with a whole host of possibilities. Anderton inhaled a sharp breath and exhaled a whistle. She glanced at him, looking for confirmation that her eyes weren’t playing tricks. He was looking at her, searching for the same thing. The left-hand quarter of page five had been given over to the story. The headline read: MOTHER AND SON IN MIRACLE ESCAPE FROM PLANE CRASH.

  Winter scanned the story. The crash had happened on April 21, a Sunday. The plane was a small single-prop Cessna. It had been flying for forty minutes when it developed engine trouble. The pilot had sent out a Mayday then tried to perform an emergency landing on a highway. Witnesses told how the plane had come in steep and hard and tipped over. The pilot had died instantly. The mother and son had been airlifted to Vancouver General. At the time of the newspaper’s deadline no names had been released.

  The crash had happened in the late afternoon, which was reflected in the way the story was presented. It felt as though it had been thrown together from sketchy information, like whoever wrote it was pushing a hard-and-fast deadline. This was backed up by the fact that it was buried away on page five. Newspapers operated a triage system too. If a big story came in just before the deadline then that edition would be rearranged accordingly. A plane crash was always going to trump a story about a nursing shortage. It had drama and excitement and a strong human interest angle. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite big enough for the presses to be halted. For that to happen they would have needed more deaths. If the plane had ploughed into a crowded building or taken out a coachload of tourists, that would have done it. But that hadn’t happened.

  ‘What do you think?’ Winter asked.

  ‘I think that an air crash would cause internal injuries.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  He flipped through the pages and stopped when he got to April 23. The story had made it to the front page, which supported the theory that the deadline had been too tight the day before. There was a new angle, too. The headline read: AIR CRASH MOTHER IN COMA. There was a photograph of the wrecked Cessna lying on the edge of a long, lonely, straight stretch of highway. The wings had sheared clean off and the plane had come to rest lying on its side.

  ‘We’ve got names,’ said Anderton.

  She was pointing to the first paragraph. Winter followed her finger. Nathaniel Wood had been named as the pilot and Gemma had been named as the mom. She’d suffered serious head injuries in the crash and been placed in a medically induced coma. William was named in the second paragraph. He’d been in the back seat of the plane when it went down. His right wrist had been fractured and he had some scrapes and bruises, but those were his only injuries. The reporter had called it a lucky escape. Winter wasn’t buying. William had gotten off lightly because the grownups had taken the best seats, while he’d been relegated to the back. This combined with the fact that his bones were softer and more flexible had led to him being able to walk away from the crash when his parents hadn’t. Luck had nothing to do with it.

  Winter sped through the rest of the article, picking out the salient details. According to eyewitness reports, Nathaniel Wood had almost pulled off the emergency landing. Unfortunately, ‘almost’ wasn’t good enough. He’d hit the highway hard and, at first, seemed to be in control. The impact must have weakened the left wheel strut because a couple of seconds later it gave way and the plane rolled. He fetched the next volume from the shelves and went straight to August 5. Nothing there, so he went to August 6. Gemma Wood’s death merited two paragraphs buried on page nine.

  Anderton pushed back from the table. She was beaming. Moments like this were rare. You needed to appreciate and savour every single second. It would be a crime not to. Winter had been chasing this guy for a couple of days and he was feeling pretty damn pleased with himself. Anderton had been chasing him for three years, so you could take that feeling and multiply it by a hundred.

  ‘William Wood’s our guy, isn’t he?’ she said.

  ‘He’s got to be. The fact that his mother died on August 5 can’t be a coincidence. The way I see it, with Cody and Myra, he was reliving the whole thing. I’m figuring that he somehow blames himself for his mother’s death. That’s why he had Cody trigger the bomb.’

  ‘It sounds as though you’re talking about survivor’s guilt.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Guilt can be one hell of a motivator.’

  Anderton let out a long sigh. She was still smiling, though. ‘I can’t believe I’ve finally found him.’

  ‘Well, you better believe it.’ Winter held up his hand with the palm facing toward her. She looked at it, then looked at him.

  ‘Come on, Anderton. Give me some skin. You know you want to.’

  She hesitated a second longer then high fived him. The sound reverberated around the small room.

  Winter grinned. ‘Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.’

  44

  The incident room was buzzing when they got there. Anderton had phoned ahead and every person who could be spared was working to find whatever they could about William Wood. Identifying the killer was one of those pivotal moments when everything changed. There was before and there was after, and now that they’d reached this moment it was impossible to go back. Even if they wanted to, they couldn’t. Time moved in one direction, and that was resolutely forward.

  What had William Wood been up to for the last twenty-four years? That was the big question. Twenty-four years was a huge chunk of time. It was almost a quarter of a century. Winter had Googled the name on the way here. The only hit he got with a Vancouver connection was for a twenty-year-old college kid who liked alternative rock and Jackass-style humour. He tried Bill Wood next, in case he’d shortened his name. Then Will Wood. Neither variation came up with anything worth pursuing.

  Freeman was at the front of the room, marshalling his troops and acting important. They walked over and waited their turn. The evidence board behind Freeman had been cleared of photographs. WILLIAM WOOD was written at the top in large, neat capitals. Freeman dismissed the detective he was talking to and turned to Anderton.

  ‘I want to be there when you arrest this guy,’ she said.

  ‘Good to see you, too.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘I thought you said you weren’t bothered about that.’

  ‘I changed my mind.’

  Freeman sighed. ‘Don’t you think you’re jumping the gun here? It’s a little early to be talking about arrests.’

  ‘No it’s not. Knowing the killer’s name is as good as having him in custody. I know that and you know that.’

  ‘I’ve got to admire your optimism, Laura.’

  ‘Please don’t patronise me, Peter.’

  The words had barbs but the delivery was as pleasant as
if they’d been talking about the weather. If they’d been shouting, everyone in the room would be looking at them. As it was, Winter was the only person paying them any attention.

  Freeman glanced at Winter, then looked back at Anderton. ‘I can assure you that was never my intention.’

  ‘I should be there.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t. Arrests can be highly volatile situations, not to mention dangerous. Given that you’re a member of the public, it would be irresponsible of me to put you in harm’s way.’

  ‘Bullshit. I’ve got ten years on you, Peter. Do you have any idea how many arrests I’ve been involved with? And guess what? I’m still standing.’

  ‘Even so, the answer is still no.’

  Anderton stared for a second, then changed tack. ‘How far have you got with investigating William Wood?’

  ‘We’re making progress.’

  ‘What sort of progress?’

  Freeman said nothing.

  ‘This is the point where I’m going to remind you that you wouldn’t be making any progress at all if it wasn’t for us.’

  ‘That’s not the way I see it. We would have got to William Wood.’

  ‘But would you have got there by next August 5? Or the August 5 after that? In other words, how many more people were going to have to die?’

  ‘Despite what you might believe, we’re not completely incompetent.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that? Last year, most of the people in this room were working for me. I know exactly what they’re capable of.’ She paused, the silence stretching and warping. ‘The fact that we’ve come up with William Wood’s name proves that we have something useful to add to this investigation.’

  ‘And I thank you for your contribution.’

  ‘I don’t want your thanks, I just want you to keep us in the loop. Share what you discover. What have you got to lose? Best-case scenario, we might just come up with something that helps you nail this guy sooner rather than later.’

  Winter was watching from the sideline. They were fast approaching that point where they’d start going back and forth over the same old ground. It was that sort of argument. The tone was still pleasant enough, though, both of them talking like they were discussing the sunshine and the rain.

  He wandered over to a nearby evidence board and made out like he was suddenly fascinated by something posted there. For a while he studied the photographs on the boards and read the notes, slowly working clockwise around the room. Most of the photographs he’d seen before, and the notes didn’t really add anything to his understanding of the case. He tuned out Anderton and Freeman and tuned in to what was happening in the rest of the room. Random snippets of conversation filtered through the noise. Some were one-sided because the detective doing the talking was on the telephone. Others were reciprocal, information being swapped, ideas and theories being aired.

  They were chasing William Wood through time, and starting to make progress. From what Winter could gather they’d covered his teenage years and were now trying to find out what he’d been up to in adulthood. Chase that one hard enough and it would eventually lead them to where he was today. At least, that was the theory. William had gone into care after his mom died, first to an orphanage then to a foster family. Nathaniel’s parents were both dead. Gemma’s mother was suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s, so going to live there wasn’t an option. There were no other living relatives, which was why he’d ended up in the care system, fostered by a couple named Gifford.

  Winter tuned back in to what was happening with Anderton and Freeman. Anderton was still going for it but seemed to be running out of steam. He walked over to where they were standing.

  ‘You know,’ he said to Freeman. ‘Co-operation is a two-way street. We could have kept William Wood’s name to ourselves, but we didn’t. And the reason we didn’t was because we realised that more ground would be covered if we shared. You’ve got the resources of the whole of the Vancouver PD at your disposal. We don’t.’

  ‘It’s good that you recognise that.’

  ‘Just stating facts. Okay, here’s a question for you to mull over. The next time we get a breakthrough, do you think we’re going to be in a hurry to share? And if that breakthrough leads to the killer’s door, how is that going to reflect on you?’ He locked eyes with Freeman, waited for him to look away first, then turned to Anderton. ‘Time to get out of here. Places to go, people to see.’

  He started walking to the door. Anderton caught up within a couple of strides.

  ‘Nice performance,’ he whispered to her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered back. ‘So, did you get anything?’

  ‘Yeah, I got another name.’

  45

  They didn’t say anything else until they reached the car. Every person they passed was either an enemy or a spy. Cops and civilians alike. Once you’d slipped into that cloak-and-dagger mindset it was hard to get out of it again. Winter climbed in and fastened his seatbelt. Anderton climbed into the driver’s seat and fastened hers. She turned to face him.

  ‘You said you had another name.’

  ‘William Gifford. After his parents died, William went into foster care. He was never adopted, but my guess is that he started using his foster family’s surname. We know he didn’t go back to using the name Wood.’

  ‘Because there were no photographs of him on the boards in the investigation room.’

  ‘Exactly. Checking passport and driver’s licence records would have been the first port of call. Most people have one or both. If William had been using his birth surname they would have had his photograph already, and it would have been displayed on the empty board at the front of the room.’

  ‘It would have had pride of place,’ Anderton agreed. ‘Applying the same logic, we can assume that he’s no longer using the name William Gifford.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because the fact he was fostered is brand-new information. People were still trying to work out what to do with it. No doubt they’ve gone looking for photographs, but they wouldn’t have heard back yet. That’s something you can check with your contacts. If he is calling himself William Gifford, we’ll want a copy of his picture as soon as it arrives.’

  Anderton took out her cell and made the call. She hung up without speaking, then fired off a quick text. Whichever contact she’d hit for the information, they must have been somewhere they couldn’t talk, or their phone was switched off, or they didn’t have a signal. Whatever the reason, it would mean waiting a little longer.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Assuming the killer is calling himself William Gifford, our first port of call has to be Google.’

  Winter took out his cell and navigated to the web browser. Anderton was a couple of seconds ahead and acting like this was a race. He typed william gifford vancouver into the box and hit search.

  ‘I’ve got one possibility,’ Anderton said. There was a brief pause, then, ‘Scrub that. If that’s him in the profile picture, then he’s got to be at least seventy.’

  Winter was looking at the same Facebook picture. The face staring back was too old, and black. There was no way this was their guy. Wrong racial group, wrong age group.

  ‘You try Bill,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll try Will.’

  Anderton was off and running, swiping and typing, and determined to cross the finish line first. Winter’s search was a bust. The closest he got was a link to the Facebook page for the same black guy as before.

  ‘I might have something.’

  Anderton was holding her cell up. Winter looked over, expecting to see the familiar graphics for a social networking site, but that wasn’t what he was looking at. The site she’d navigated to had BILLY GIFFORD PHOTOGRAPHY in the title box. He ran a new search. Two seconds later he was looking at the same page.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

  Winter was thinking plenty. Modern photography was one of those professions that required bo
th logic and a creative flair. A lot of the work was done on computers, and you had to know all about shutter speeds and f-stops and lighting and all sorts of technical details. But that was meaningless if you didn’t have an eye for a picture. Logic and creativity. One was useless without the other.

  The other reason he wasn’t saying anything was because he didn’t want to jinx things. The logical part of his brain knew that this was ridiculous. It didn’t matter what he said or didn’t say, or what he did or didn’t do, the outcome had already been decided and there was nothing he could do to influence that. However, the creative part of his brain had a different take on things and right now that part was shouting loudest. So he was keeping his mouth shut just in case this guy turned out to be black, or as old as Methuselah, or was living in a different Vancouver altogether.

  Winter clicked through to the contact page. There was no address, but there was a landline number with a Vancouver code. He went to the ‘About Me’ page, hoping for a photograph of Gifford. A self-portrait of him holding a camera would do. Even if the face was obscured, they’d still be able to ascertain his race and get a rough idea of his age. But there wasn’t even that. The only picture was a cute baby one. It was the sort of shot that would melt a new mom’s heart and have her reaching for the telephone to book a session.

  Gifford’s biography was light on specifics. There were no clues as to how old he was, no indication of how long he’d been in business for, and no mention of when or from where he’d graduated. There was nothing to say that he had actually been to college, nor that he’d taken any photographic courses. It was possible that he’d dropped out of high school. Maybe he had a natural ability and had decided to cash in on it. There was only one paragraph. In short, he loved taking photographs and was looking forward to helping create ‘memories that would last a lifetime’. Near the end of the blurb, he mentioned that he would travel to his clients. ‘To make them feel more comfortable’ was the reason he gave. More likely he couldn’t afford to run a studio.