James Carol - The Quiet Man

Anderton frowned. ‘You’re going to have to help me out. How’s a kidnapping that happened almost a hundred years ago even remotely relevant to what’s going on here?’

‘It’s relevant because this was the greatest unsolved crime of the twentieth century.’

Anderton’s frown deepened. ‘The way I remember it, the police caught the kidnapper.’

‘But did they get the right person?’

‘You don’t think they did?’

Winter shook his head. ‘Bruno Richard Hauptmann was convicted of the abduction and murder of Charles Lindbergh Junior on February 13, 1935. He was executed in the electric chair at Trenton State Prison in New Jersey on April 3, 1936. His final words before the switch was thrown were Ich bin absolut unschuldig an den Verbrechen, die man mir zur Last legt . I am absolutely innocent of the crime with which I am burdened.’

‘Need I remind you that prisons are full of innocent men?’

‘And need I remind you that miscarriages of justice do occasionally happen?’

‘Fair point, but I still don’t see how this ties in with our case.’

‘Charles Lindbergh was one of the most influential figures of his generation. He was also a control freak. From the word go, he was right in there, dictating the direction the investigation should take. If he’d kept out of it and let the police and the FBI do their jobs, I’m confident the kidnappers would have been caught.’

‘And you think that Sobek is in danger of doing the same thing.’

Winter nodded. ‘If you lose control of an investigation, it’s almost impossible to get it back. We’re the investigators here. At best, Sobek is a back-seat driver. He’s entitled to an opinion, but we’re equally entitled to ignore it. We needed that established from the word go. That’s why I gave him a hard time earlier.’

Anderton took a moment to process this. ‘You know,’ she said eventually, ‘I have no trouble imagining Sobek killing someone. That’s why I put so much time and effort into chasing him at the start. The guy looked guilty, and he was a good fit, too. I don’t need to tell you that most murders are carried out by someone known to the victim.’

‘You don’t need to justify yourself.’

‘I’m not. I’m just stating facts.’

Winter looked out of the windshield again. There was a man walking toward the apartment building. For a moment he thought it might be Kirchner, but the guy just kept going, past the entrance and on down the street. He had only seen a handful of people since they got back to the car. It was a quiet neighbourhood. A good place to come if you were looking to hide away from the world.

‘So what do you think?’ Anderton pressed. ‘Is Sobek capable of murder?’

‘If we applied the Hare Psychopathy Checklist he’d probably score somewhere in the mid-thirties.’

‘Which would make him a psychopath.’

‘But a score that high doesn’t necessarily mean you’re a killer.’

‘You’re talking about good psychopaths, right?’ Anderton said.

Winter nodded. ‘For want of a better term. The thing you’ve got to remember is that you get CEOs and politicians and movie stars who’d score just as high, and most of them haven’t killed anyone.’

‘So you think Sobek’s a good psychopath?’

‘Until the bodies start turning up, then yes, that’s what I think.’

Anderton turned and gazed out of the windshield. Lots of waiting and boredom and time to kill. Just like a stakeout. Winter wished they had coffee. And doughnuts. Particularly the doughnuts. He could feel his blood sugar level starting to dip. Anderton looked at him.

‘Okay, getting back to the Lindbergh kidnapping. Earlier you referred to the kidnappers in the plural, yet the authorities seemed happy to pin the whole thing on Hauptmann. You clearly don’t agree with the lone-wolf theory, so what’s your take?’

‘Maybe I don’t have one.’

‘Based on the fact that you can quote dates and places, I’m figuring that you do.’ Anderton checked her watch. ‘We’ve got five minutes until Kirchner arrives, so let’s hear it.’

‘Okay, from his arrest all the way through to his death, Hauptmann claimed to be innocent. His wife, Anna Hauptmann, lived to be ninety-five, and she claimed that he was innocent right up until her death, too. The thing is, Hauptmann was definitely guilty of something. The kidnapping required a specially constructed ladder, and Hauptmann was a carpenter who just so happened to have drawings of ladders in his notebooks. Also, he once worked for the timber merchant where the wood for the ladder came from. Also, the ransom notes were written by a semiliterate German immigrant and, lo and behold, Hauptmann was a semiliterate German immigrant.’

‘So what you’re saying is that the police put together a case that was built on circumstantial evidence.’

‘ Mostly based on circumstantial evidence. What’s harder to explain away is the fact that he owned a keg of nails that came from the same batch as the nails used to build the ladder. Oh, and he had a third of the ransom money hidden in his garage. Despite claiming that he was just “looking after” the money, his standard of living took a dramatic upswing after the ransom was paid. Then we get to the single most damning piece of evidence. Rail sixteen of the ladder was made from one of the floorboards in his attic.’

Anderton was nodding. ‘Okay, Hauptmann was clearly involved, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that he was guilty of the murder, or that he was even involved in the actual kidnapping.’

‘Exactly. If Hauptmann had received a fair trial then he would have got off on the grounds of reasonable doubt. But he was never going to get a fair trial. The Lindbergh kidnapping was the crime of the century. Every single detail had been hashed and rehashed a thousand times in the press. Everyone had an opinion, which made finding an impartial jury an impossibility. Then there’s the fact that the public was baying for blood. This was a crime that needed to be solved, and Hauptmann looked good for it.’

‘So who did it?’

‘Unfortunately, we’ll never know since the main players are long dead.’

‘But,’ Anderton prompted.

‘But we do know two things for a fact. Firstly, kidnapping was big business in the 1930s. Secondly, Hauptmann had criminal records in both the US and Germany. Is it possible that he was part of a shady group of German immigrants who got together to carry out the kidnapping? Yes, it is. In fact, I’d argue it was more than possible. After all, Lindbergh was one of the richest men of his generation, which made him the perfect mark. And, if this was a gang kidnapping, it would also explain why Hauptmann chose to go to the electric chair rather than give up his fellow gang members.’

Anderton was nodding again. ‘If they’d threatened his wife, then I could see how that might work.’

Two minutes later a Ford Focus turned into the street and pulled into a space close to the apartment block. The car was at least a decade old, dated and dirty. Streaks of rust were visible on the side panels and fenders. The man who got out walked with a stoop, like the weight of the world had crushed him into submission.

‘Eric Kirchner?’ Winter said.

‘Got it in one.’

The sound of their car doors banging shut startled Kirchner. His head jerked up and his body tensed as though he was getting ready to bolt.

‘Mr Kirchner,’ Anderton called out.

Kirchner stopped and turned. When he saw Anderton he visibly relaxed. Not all the way, but he no longer looked as though he was about to make a run for it. They walked over to where he was standing. According to the police files he was only thirty-four. Up close he looked like he was pushing fifty. His suit was cheap and worn. The cut of the collar dated it. Anderton handled the introductions. Kirchner’s handshake was soft and boneless.