James Carol - The Quiet Man

‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I saw on the news that you weren’t involved in the investigation any more.’

‘I’m no longer involved in the police investigation, but I’m still investigating the murders. I believe that the person who killed your wife needs to be caught and brought to justice.’

Kirchner just stood there looking lost and unconvinced.

‘Would you mind if we talked in your apartment?’ she added.

‘Sure, whatever.’

Kirchner led the way inside. The building was as neglected and forgotten as he was. It was as though the world had given up on the both of them. He let them into his third-floor apartment and they went through to the living room.

‘Please, make yourself at home.’

Kirchner motioned toward the threadbare sofa. None of the furniture matched. It was a safe bet that everything had been bought from a thrift store, chosen for a purpose rather than how it looked. Financial considerations had been top of the list, aesthetic concerns at the bottom. Landlord chic. Winter had lived in enough rental properties to know what he was seeing. There were no personal touches whatsoever, not even a picture of Alicia. That in itself wasn’t a huge surprise. Grief was intensely personal. Some people built shrines, others did their best to forget. Sobek belonged to the first group, Kirchner the second.

Except forgetting wasn’t an option, not when there were reminders everywhere. Whenever Kirchner came back to his rundown apartment, he’d remember. Whenever he looked in the mirror and saw the haunted look in his eyes, he’d remember. And, at this time of the year, there would be even more reminders. The murders would be all over the TV news, all over the papers. Then there would be the well-meaning words and sympathetic glances from his friends and family and work colleagues. It didn’t matter how much he wanted to escape, it was impossible.

‘Can I get you anything to drink?’ Kirchner asked.

Anderton waved him away with a ‘Not for me, thanks.’

‘A glass of milk,’ Winter said. ‘And a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, please.’

Kirchner gave him a disbelieving look. ‘Sure. And what about you?’ he asked Anderton. ‘Can I get you anything to eat?’

Anderton waved him away with another ‘Not for me.’ She waited until he’d left the room before turning to Winter.

‘Seriously? A peanut butter sandwich?’

‘PB and J,’ he corrected.

‘Is that really appropriate?’

‘Probably not, but it is necessary. The last time I ate was on the plane, and that was hours ago. My blood sugar level is about to nosedive. Believe me, you don’t want to see the fallout from that one.’

‘Whatever you say.’

‘If it’s okay with you, I’ll handle the questions.’

‘Fine with me. You know what you’re looking for.’

Kirchner came back in and handed Winter a plate with a sandwich on. It disappeared in half a dozen bites, chased down with some milk. The bread was a day past its best, but he was too hungry to care. Kirchner was on the armchair opposite the sofa. He was perched right on the edge like he was getting ready to run.

‘I’ve got a couple of questions,’ Winter said.

‘And who exactly are you?’

‘My name’s Jefferson Winter. I used to work for the FBI. I’m consulting on this case.’

‘I was interviewed at the time of my wife’s murder. You know that, right? I told the police everything I know.’

There was a slight hesitation before he said ‘murder’. Two years had gone by, but in every way that mattered no time had passed. Murder had a way of freezing the victims’ loved ones in the past.

‘I want to try a cognitive interview. Do you know what they are?’

Kirchner shook his head. ‘No.’

‘In that case I’ll walk you through it,’ Winter said. ‘In a moment I’m going to ask you to shut your eyes. Then you’re going to go back to the evening of Alicia’s murder and describe what you see, hear and smell. That’s how a cognitive interview differs from a normal interview. Basically, you’re reliving the memory through your senses. The advantage of this approach is that it increases your level of recall.’

‘“Reliving the memory”,’ Kirchner echoed. ‘I’m not sure I want to do that.’

‘I understand your reluctance, but it’ll really help us out.’

‘And how exactly will digging up the past help? Will it bring Alicia back?’ Kirchner shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’re right, Mr Kirchner, nothing will bring her back. However, her killer is still out there, and if we don’t catch him, then tomorrow evening someone is going to come home from work and open their kitchen door, and they’re going to step into a nightmare that’s identical to the one that you live through every single day.’ Winter paused. ‘Let me ask you something. What would you give to change the past?’

‘Everything,’ Kirchner said quietly. There was no hesitation. This was clearly a question he’d asked himself a thousand times, probably in the dead of night when the hours felt the loneliest, and the bed too big.

‘Unfortunately that’s not going to happen. But you can influence the future. That’s what I’m offering here. An opportunity to make it so this nightmare doesn’t happen to anyone else.’

Kirchner didn’t say anything for a while. He was looking more troubled than ever. ‘All right. What do you want me to do?’

‘Close your eyes.’

Kirchner closed his eyes.

‘If something comes into your head, I want to hear about it. I don’t care how crazy it is. In fact, the crazier the better. What’s important is that you don’t censor your thoughts.’

‘I think I can do that.’

‘Good.’ Winter’s voice had dropped to a notch above a whisper. Like a hypnotist, he’d slowed his delivery, stretching out the syllables. ‘I want you to imagine you’re lying on a sun lounger on a beautiful beach. You can feel the sun, warm on your skin, and you can hear the waves rolling in, the water ebbing and flowing. Take a moment to lose yourself in the scene. Can you hear the gulls crying and calling? Can you taste the salt on your lips and tongue?’

Kirchner nodded.

‘Good. Now count slowly from ten to zero. With each passing number you’re going to sink deeper into the sun lounger.’

Over the next thirty seconds Kirchner noticeably relaxed. His breathing slowed and deepened. The lines on his face smoothed away, making him look younger again.

‘Let’s go back to the evening of the murder. You’re in your car, driving home from work. Maybe you’ve got music playing, or maybe you prefer silence.’

‘The radio’s on,’ Kirchner whispered in a dreamlike voice.

‘You pull up outside the house. Do you park in your usual parking space?’

Kirchner nodded.

‘You kill the engine and get out of the car. What’s the weather like?’

‘The sun’s shining. I’ve got my tie off and my shirt sleeves rolled up. It’s too hot for a jacket.’

‘What happens next?’

‘I go into the house. I know Alicia’s home because her bag is in the closet. I hang up my coat and call out her name, but she doesn’t answer. I try again. This time I shout up the stairs in case she’s in the bedroom. There’s still no answer. I’m figuring that she must be in the kitchen.’

His voice hitched and his face creased up with misery. Winter jumped in before he lost him. ‘Okay, I want you to stay in the hallway for a minute. What can you see?’

‘All the doors are closed.’

‘Is that unusual?’

‘No. We keep our cat confined to the kitchen while we’re at work because he keeps throwing up hairballs everywhere. Except he’s somehow got out. He’s at the top of the stairs.’