by Chris Raven
I get on my bike and I go around the village. As soon as it dawns, I find an open bar and decide to give me a tribute in the form of coffee with milk in liters and a mountain of pancakes with syrup. I take a couple of hours of breakfast, entertaining myself with a book while Swanton is coming back to life.
When I finish, I go to the City Hall ready to begin my investigation. I know it’s stupid to take the information that a schizophrenic has written in a children’s story as a starting point, but I don’t have anything else. If I trust what Joan wrote in her book, I know a lot of things about the murderer: It’s a man, he has been neighbor of Swanton for quite some years, since everyone knew him and trusted him, and he left the village after the last murder, at the end of the year 2001. I think with this information it will be easy to rule out people to remain with a small group of suspects. I just have to ask the right questions to the right people. I think City Hall is the best place to start.
I walk into the building and I get into the information line. A fat man, who spends more time to dry the sweat of the bald with a handkerchief than to work, is in charge of attending the public. Although it is still early, there is already a considerable queue, so it takes more than twenty minutes to get to him.
“Good morning. I need to know the names of all the men who left Swanton between August and December of 2001.” I say as soon as I stand in front of him.
“This is not the right line for that. You have to go to the municipal registry office’s window. Second floor, third door.”
The man directs his gaze towards the person situated immediately behind me, considering that he has already attended my request. I put my backpack back on my shoulder and climb to the second floor. The registry window is closed. There seems to be no one on the whole floor, so I stand in the hallway, looking everywhere with a silly face. After a couple of minutes, I see a boy passing by with a gray mop and a broom.
“Excuse me.” I shout to draw his attention before he disappears after the first corner. “Do you know when they open the registry office?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“But it’s nine and it’s closed.”
“I suppose he went to have breakfast,” he replies, and he shrugs before he goes on with his work.
I resign myself to wait and take a seat in an uncomfortable plastic chair. Half an hour later a woman appears with a glass of coffee in her hand. I guess it will be her second or third breakfast, as with the time she took, she could have plenty of time to take one at the bar. She enters a room and five endless minutes later opens the registry window.
“Good morning. I wanted to know the names of all the men who left Swanton between August and December 2001.”
“I can provide you with information about the number of people who left Swanton during that period.”
“Just the number doesn’t work for me. I would need their names and old addresses. And if you could also give me their ages and a telephone or a means of contact, it would be perfect.”
“You don’t understand me. The number of people who left is the only information I can provide to you. The rest of the information you request is confidential, and I cannot provide it to you.”
“I understand it.” I try to throw my most charming smile. “It’s normal that you can’t give that information to anyone. Who knows what they could use them for... My case is different. I am conducting a doctoral thesis on the causes of emigration to urban areas at the beginning of the 21st century...”
“In that case, you will need to fill out these forms to request that you be allowed access to that information.” The woman starts to pull out a bunch of papers and put them in front of me. “You will also need a letter from the rector of your university and another from the teacher who is helping you to carry out your thesis justifying the need to access this confidential information. We will also need a sworn statement in which you promise not to use that information for other purposes other than your study, in addition to another in which you commit to the destruction of those documents after you have completed your investigation...”
The woman keeps talking while she gets out more and more printed papers. I merely nod and smile as I put them away in my backpack. They might be of use tonight as fuel if I have to end up camping in the woods.
When I get out of the City Hall, I remain for a moment standing in the middle of the sidewalk, grabbing the bike, having no idea where to go. I can’t give up now. There must be someplace where they can answer my questions. The answer breaks through in my head in a few seconds. In the property registry they have to know all the houses that have changed hands and in what year. Perhaps there are less exquisite with data protection laws.
After asking a couple of times, I get to the registry. It occupies the ground floor of a commercial building. As I enter, I am surprised by the darkness and the cold that prevail in there. They must have the air conditioner running at full power. A blond man with pasta glasses outlines a half-smile when he saw me come in.
“Good morning. I am conducting a doctoral thesis on the causes of emigration to urban areas at the beginning of the 21st century and I need to know the properties that changed ownership in Swanton between August and December 2001. Could you give me that information?”
“Well... this... the case is...” The man dodges my gaze and walks through the desk papers. For a moment I think that the cold has made my nipples to be marked through the shirt and that’s why he dreads to look at me.
“I know, I know.” I try to help him. “You will tell me that this information is confidential, but I need them for an academic investigation and I can assure you that they will be treated with the utmost discretion.”
“No, they are not confidential.”The man scratches the hair from his neck, keeping his eyes low. He’s starting to make me nervous.
“Then can you give them to me?”
“Yes, but it will be a very wide search.”
“I’m in no hurry.” It’s a lie, but the man seems so overwhelmed that I almost feel sorry.
“The problem is that it costs twenty dollars the report of each property you want to consult. Maybe it’s a lot of them. Can you afford it?”
I’m staring at him as if he’d just asked me to sell him my immortal soul and my firstborn son. Twenty dollars for a consultation? I don’t know how many people would leave Swanton in that year, but if they are more than four or five, they would have completely fucked up my finances. I can’t afford to pay for that, at least until I’ve minimized the list of properties I want to see.”
“I would have to talk about it with the university.” I smile, trying to hide my frustration.“I’ll be back in a couple of days.”
I leave the registry feeling even more tired and lost. I can’t believe this is so hard. Nor that expensive. I only have one option left. I look on the phone if there is any real estate agency in Swanton. There’s one on the outskirts of the town, heading North, on Highway 78. I get back on my bike and I head over there. Even though it’s not noon yet, there is an infernal heat on the street. The air is so warm and dry that it’s hard to breathe. I look to the sky, looking for the inkling of any cloud that provides some hope, but, as in the last few weeks, there is nothing. I’m beginning to think that the day that there would be clouds again, we won’t recognize them anymore.
By the time I get to the real estate agency, I’m red and sweaty. The worst thing is that I still don’t know if I will be able to stay and get a shower somewhere, so this sweat may accompany me for a long, long time. Just opening the door to the real state agency, I feel better. Here they also have the air conditioner running at full speed. I wouldn’t mind being asked to wait a while, but an imposing brunette comes up to me as soon as I cross the door and offers me her hand. I rub mine in my pants before offering it to her.
“Good morning,” she greets me with a singing voice. “Welcome to Deso Real State. What can I do for you?”
I repeat my lie about my doctoral thesis. Every word I utter, the brunette�
�s smile is reduced. It seems that it does not feel good to be wasting her precious time with someone who is not a potential customer.
“I am sorry, sir, but we cannot help you.”She answers me with a dry voice. “The information you’re asking is confidential.”
I feel like swearing and not stopping at all for what it is left of tomorrow. Fuck, what a fucking mania has everyone with confidentiality... If people were so jealous of their privacy, they wouldn’t spend the day hanging their lives on Facebook. You can know where people go on holiday, what they buy, what they eat... They even happily hang the photos of their children in the bathtub, but if you want to know who left a village fifteen years ago, it is impossible because you have to preserve the intimacy of the people. Fucking country.
Instead of saying all that, I get to smile and politely say goodbye to the girl. I get on my bike again and, although I have no idea where to go or what to do, I decide to take a walk in the village, to see if I clear and I can think of something.
Twenty minutes later, I step in front of a site called Shaggy Snack Bar. Although it is not yet time to eat, I feel so lost that I think it will be a good idea to stop for a while and think. The premises have white plastic tables outside, with running benches. I sit on one of them, under an umbrella, and I ask for a Coke and a sandwich.
While I wait for them to bring me the food, I sit there watching Swanton’s streets. There have been some changes since I left. They have arranged the facade of the fire department and it seems that they have recently re-asphalted First Street. As for the rest, it is still the same quiet town, of those in which it seems that time does not pass, of those in which no one would say something bad could happen. However, this town hides something evil, something capable of killing three children, drowning them in cold blood in the waters of the lake.
I correct myself by telling myself that there is nothing evil in Swanton, that the murderer left and there have been no more crimes in fifteen years. I don’t know why I can’t get to believe it. Something inside me tells me that evil keeps haunting the children of Swanton, that it is important to keep investigating, not just to get justice for my dead friends, but to prevent it from happening again. Despite the overwhelming midday heat, a shiver makes me shudder.
Those thoughts reinforce me in my conviction to move on. I can’t give up because a couple of bureaucrats are obstructing me. If they don’t want to give me the information I need, I’ll get it for myself. I pull out a notebook and a pen from my backpack and start writing a series of questions.
After lunch, I’m heading to the town library. As I suspected, it has changed a lot. In the background wall, the reading tables have been replaced by three modern computers. I ask the librarian if it is possible to print a document and, when she explains to me how to do it, I sit before one of them and try to write the questions in the most professional way possible. Then I search the Internet for Swanton’s seal and I put it at the top right of the document. When I’m satisfied with the result, I print it out and ask the librarian to get me a hundred copies. Thankfully she doesn’t even look at it and just does what I ask and charges me without asking.
Once outside the library, I wonder where to start. If I trust what Joan’s story says, all the kids knew their killer well. Although Swanton is a small town, six thousand inhabitants are many for everyone to know, so the murderer should be someone close to them. The three victims lived in my neighborhood, so it’s very likely that the murderer also lived there. I’m back on my bike and I’m heading to my old neighborhood.
When I arrive, nostalgia invades me. It’s almost the same. Only Mr. Durham’s bookstore has been replaced by a modern cell phone shop, but the rest seems to have withstood the passing of time. I see people taking care of their gardens, a couple of kids walking with their dog, I hear the sound of a radio coming out of a window while a woman sings... I even go past my old house. There is no one in the garden and the windows are closed as well, so, for a moment, I can imagine that we continue living there, that I am again a child and that nothing bad has happened in my life. I leave, pedaling at full speed before anyone shows up and spoils the illusion.
I decide to start by the North, through Canada Street. I leave the bike tied to a streetlight, I pull out my survey pack and I knock on the number one door. After a few seconds, an old woman dressed in a light gown of flowers opens me up.
“Good morning, Madam.” I greet her with my best smile. “They sent me from the City Hall. We’re asking a few questions for the town’s census. Could you tell me how many years you’ve been living in this house?
I’ve been doing the same questions again and again for four hours through Canada Street and the only thing that has been clear to me is that human beings, in general, are a disaster. How is it possible that most people are not sure how long they have been living in their home? Moving in is not something that is done so many times in life. It would be expected for people to be relevant enough to remember the year they did it, but it is not. A lot of people have answered me that they came to live in Swanton Around the year 2000, but they haven’t been able to specify more.
At the moment, at least I have found three houses in which I have been assured that they moved in the year 2001 and that the previous family was a couple with at least one son. It might be a point to start investigating, if not because I still have half of Canada Street, First Street, Second Street, Newt Street, Pine Street and Liberty Street to finish my neighborhood. There’s a voice in my head that whispers to me from time to time that what I’m doing is an endless job and an absolute waste of time. I try not to listen, but it repeats it more often every time.
I’m about to ring the next bell when I hear the sound of a siren coming up the road. It’s a police car and it’s got the lights on. It stops in front of the garden of the house I’m in. Sheriff Dunning gets out of the car and stares at me as he tries to put his pants up in spite of his imposing belly.
“Good afternoon. Would you mind if we talked in private for a moment?”
I’m about to answer that we’re already in private when I glimpse a move across a window. An old woman is standing behind the curtain trying not to miss any detail from the scene. I leave her garden and I stand beside Dunning’s car.
“Can I help you with something?”
“Yes, of course. Could you explain to me what you’re supposed to be doing?”
“No problem.” I clear my throat a couple of times and try to look confident and intellectual, although I’m not quite sure what kind of face you have to put to look like that. “I’m doing some surveys for my doctoral dissertation. The work deals with the causes of emigration to urban areas at the beginning of the 21st century and I am trying to do a statistical study taking Swanton as a sample town.
“Could you tell me what college you’re studying at?”
“Yes... Of course... Err... In Montpelier’s.”
“Yesterday you told me you were coming from Burlington.”
“Yes... I live in Burlington, but I study in Montpelier.”
“At what faculty?”
“In sociology.” I see that he doesn’t believe a single word I’m saying, but I refuse to give up. “It’s a very prestigious faculty.”
“Of course. Could you let me see those papers?”
I smile, and I hand them to him. I am sure I have done the survey professional enough to make it seem credible. He contemplates the papers for a few seconds before turning them towards me and pointing his index finger at the top right.
“Why is the seal of Swanton in your study?”
I stay a few seconds paralyzed, trying to find a valid answer at the highest speed possible. Sheriff Dunning denies with his head and extends a hand towards me, indicating me to stop.
“You don’t have to keep lying. In Montpelier, there are only two faculties: one of Fine arts and another of Kitchen. I know because my little boy studies there. Besides, if I’m here it’s because several people have called the police stat
ion to report that a very odd guy was asking questions passing himself off as a municipal employee. What the hell are you supposed to be doing, Eric?”
For the next fifteen seconds, I just opened and closed my mouth, like a fish out of water, trying to make up a lie credible enough to get out of this mess. I can’t think of anything. I may have many virtues but lying like a rascal is not one of them. Finally, I give up and shake my head in denial as I shrug.
“I’m doing a study for college. It’s the truth, I can’t tell you anything else.”
“You’re going to have to come with me to the police station,” he moves away from me a couple of steps, he opens the back door and invites me into the car with a gesture. “I hope that spending the night in a cell will help you to sort your thoughts. I’m sure you are going to be more collaborator in the morning.”
I enter the car without protest, with a low gaze. I don’t think I’m going to come up with a reason to convince him even if he gives me fifteen days to think about it. I’m trying to see the positive part of the matter. At least tonight I won’t have to find a place to sleep.
IV
It’s noon when I hear the footsteps of someone coming down the hall. I also hear the tinkling of a lot of keys, which makes me keep my hopes up with the possibility that my confinement has come to an end. Although I have been able to enjoy an individual cell and I have slept better than in the last few weeks, I don’t feel like staying here much longer.
The figure of Sheriff Dunning appears behind bars, overshadowing the entire hall. He stabs in me his little black eyes as if trying to see inside my soul. I duck my head, dodging his gaze.
“How was the night? Has it helped you to clarify your ideas?”
“I have nothing to clarify. I told you the truth. There is a Faculty of Sociology in Montpelier, but it is very small and not as well-known as the others.”
“That’s enough, Eric,” he doesn’t seem angry, just jaded. “I’m going to let you out, but I want you to stop doing what you were doing, whatever it is. I want you to forget your fucking make up study, and that you use your time sightseeing. You told me that you came to spend a few days on vacation in the village of your childhood, so I want you to take pictures, that you look for your old friends and that you get drunk with them, that you go to the lake to fish... As you get caught doing something different, something that smells bad, I will send you to the exit of the village by a kick in the ass. Have I been clear enough?”
