James Carol - The Quiet Man

‘Describe him.’

‘He’s a black and grey tabby. A big one.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Mouse. It seemed appropriate when he was a kitten. Because he was so small. He wouldn’t stop growing, though.’

‘What happens next?’

‘Mouse comes down the stairs and walks over to me. I pick him up, give him a scratch and tell him off for being out of the kitchen.’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Puzzled. Mouse shouldn’t be out here. Alicia must have accidentally locked him out of the kitchen. It wouldn’t be the first time.’

‘But this time feels different. Something’s not quite right about the picture. What?’

A small shake of the head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Take a look around. Does anything seem different or out of place?’

Another small shake of the head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘What can you smell?’

Kirchner’s face creased into a frown.

‘What is it?’ Winter asked gently.

‘I can’t smell anything.’

‘And that’s unusual?’

He nodded. ‘Alicia gets back from work before me, so she cooks dinner during the week. I cook at the weekend.’

‘I want you to walk over to the kitchen door.’

As soon as Winter said this, Kirchner’s breathing sped up and he started to shift around in his chair.

‘Put your hand on the door handle. Does the door open toward you?’

‘No. Away from me.’

‘So you push it open. What happens next?’

Kirchner’s eyes suddenly sprang open. ‘You know what happens next,’ he hissed.

‘I know what I think happened. That’s not the same.’

‘What happened was that I opened the door and killed my wife.’

‘That’s the censored version. What I want to know is what actually happened. I need the details. What did you see? What did you smell?’

‘Why would you want to know something like that?’

‘Because it’s my job to get into the heads of the people who carry out these crimes. I catch them by understanding them.’

Kirchner didn’t look convinced. He looked like he wanted Winter to get the hell out of his apartment, like he wanted him to get the hell out of his life. It was understandable. The scar tissue covering his wounds was thin, and here was Winter scratching it off.

‘Mr Kirchner,’ Anderton said. ‘We know this is hard, but if you could help us out here.’

‘Why? It’s not like you’re real detectives.’

Anderton flinched, the criticism hitting her where she was most sensitive.

‘Let me ask you something,’ Winter said. ‘How many times a day do you relive Alicia’s murder?’

Kirchner said nothing. The guy was a mess. There were signs that he’d been self-medicating. Alcohol for definite, but possibly prescription meds, too. Red veins snaked through the whites of his eyes and his skin had a graveyard sheen. His hair was wild from where he’d been running his hands through it. There was a slight tremor in his hand. Maybe it was all the questions, but more likely it was because it was fast approaching Happy Hour.

‘The moment of Alicia’s death plagues your entire existence,’ Winter said. ‘Even when you’re not consciously thinking about it, those memories are bubbling away just below the surface. They inform every second of your day-to-day existence. And when you do remember, it’s brutal. When it comes to emotional responses, the brain doesn’t make any distinction between what’s memory and what’s actually happening. Every time you remember, it’s like you’re reliving the whole thing all over again.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘That’s the thing, Mr Kirchner, I know exactly what I’m talking about. Look, all I’m asking is that you share one of those action replays with me. Maybe it won’t help. Then again, maybe it will. If there’s even an outside chance of it doing some good then that’s got to be worth a little discomfort on your part, right? Particularly since you’re going to be crucifying yourself with the memory anyhow.’

Kirchner took a deep breath while he wrestled with his decision. It was one thing to sit in an empty movie theatre while your memories played on an endless loop on the big screen. It was another thing entirely to fling the doors open and invite the whole world to come and watch. When he finally spoke, his voice was flatlining. It was emotionless, uninflected, dead.

‘I opened the door and it was like being kicked by a horse. I fell backwards and somehow ended up on the floor, slipping and sliding and trying to scramble away. My brain had switched off and I was just reacting. I got to my feet and my ears were ringing. I knew something bad had happened, but couldn’t work out what. Slowly I worked it out, though. There had been some sort of explosion. And then I remembered that Alicia was in the kitchen. I stumbled back to the door and went in. The smell of the explosion was overpowering. I could see the kitchen chair lying on its side. And I could see there was someone on it. I ran over. It was Alicia. I tried to wake her up, but couldn’t. I kept trying and trying, but she just wouldn’t wake up. That’s what happened.’

‘Thank you,’ Winter said.

Kirchner just glared, tears streaming down his face. ‘Get out of here,’ he said.

Frankie’s was a sports bar down by the river. The walls were decorated with Canucks memorabilia. Hockey sticks, helmets, shirts signed by the team members. The big screen was tuned to a soccer game that nobody was watching. The table Winter ended up at was close enough to the bar that he could watch what was going on, but far enough away that he wouldn’t be disturbed. He usually avoided sports bars on principle, but Frankie’s was half empty this evening, and it was only a short walk from his hotel, and it had a decent enough whisky selection. That last one was the clincher.

David Hammond had turned out to be a complete bust. The cell number Anderton had for him still worked, but he hadn’t wanted anything to do with the investigation. Montreal was 3,000 miles away. He was using geographic distance to create emotional distance. His wife was dead and buried and he wanted to move on. Anderton had pushed hard, but it hadn’t done any good. It wasn’t the end of the world. Winter had already got most of what he was looking for from Kirchner.

He sipped some whisky, then took out his cell and navigated to his emails. Anderton’s were in a separate folder. He scrolled through them until he reached the ones that had attachments. She’d sent the case files through at the start of their correspondence. Bait to get him hooked, and then she’d reeled him in.

Winter downloaded the autopsy report on Isabella Sobek and began to read. Isabella. That was another indicator that Sobek had viewed her as a possession rather than a person. A name like that just cried out to be shortened. Bella. Izzy. Isa. Take your pick. You got to know someone, and you got close to them, and those little terms of endearment slipped in. But that hadn’t happened here. As far as Sobek was concerned she was Isabella. For now and for always. Winter couldn’t see him shortening it. He couldn’t even imagine him calling her darling or sweetheart or honey. That would somehow diminish her. It would somehow lessen the value of the possession. Winter had seen the photographs. If he’d been married to her she would have been a Bella. No doubt about it.

He skimmed through the autopsy report, taking in details. When you got down to it, every death could be attributed to one of two causes. Your lungs stopped pumping air, or your heart stopped pumping blood. If either one happened then death was an absolute certainty. Everything else was just a variation on those two themes. Sometimes, as was the case here, the themes merged. According to the medical examiner, the explosion had shocked Isabella’s heart to a standstill and ruptured her aorta. Then the ball bearings had slammed into her chest, ripping through her lungs and rendering them useless. The same thing had happened with Alicia Kirchner and Lian Hammond. The blast killed them, the shrapnel made sure they stayed dead.