James Carol - The Quiet Man

‘Yeah, she taught me to play,’ he said.

‘Are you any good?’

‘I’m okay.’

‘Which means you’re a damn sight better than okay. You’re an overachiever, Winter, someone who has to be the best at everything they do.’

It was his turn to stare and keep quiet. He picked up his tumbler and took a sip. The third movement had just started. Where the second movement was sombre, this was playful. For a moment he was almost able to forget why he was in Vancouver.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s play I’ll show you mine, you show me yours.’

‘As much as I’m flattered, I should remind you that I’m almost twenty years older than you.’

‘That wasn’t a pass.’

‘Good to hear.’ Anderton smiled and reached for her glass. ‘So how does this work?’

‘You’ve been working on this case for three years. In that time there will be things that must have struck a discordant note with you. Things that just didn’t fit.’

She nodded. ‘The victimology is the big one for me. There’s nothing that ties them together. They have different colour hair, different colour eyes. Isabella and Alicia are Caucasian. Lian is Asian. Their ages range from twenty-eight to thirty-two, but that on its own doesn’t really help. There are plenty of people living in our target zone who fall within that age range.’

‘There’s got to be something that links them, though. This killer is highly organised. Something about the victims must have resonated with him.’

‘But what?’

‘Maybe he saw them in his everyday life. Maybe he worked in a store they frequented, or he was a delivery man. Hell, maybe he’s their dentist.’

‘He’s definitely not their dentist.’ Anderton cracked a small smile. ‘I’m not a rookie, Winter. Believe me, we dug as deep into their lives as we could get, but there were no points of intersection.’

‘Not even between two of them?’

‘Not even.’

‘I find that hard to believe. In any given day you’re going to have dozens upon dozens of interactions. Most of those will be so small that they barely register. Like a thank you for the kid at the store who bagged your groceries, or a quick shared look with the person sitting opposite you on the bus, or asking that guy who just stepped into the elevator what floor they want. But if one of those people happens to be a serial killer, and you happen to be their type, then you can bet your ass that it’s going to register with them.’

‘And I agree with everything you just said, but my previous statement still stands: as of right now we have yet to come up with an intersection point. Okay, your turn. What’s bugging you?’

‘The fact that this guy doesn’t profile like a bomber. He devotes a lot of care and attention to building his bombs. They’re a real labour of love. Which is exactly what you’d expect to see. But that’s where it ends. A big part of the game for a bomber is the bang. This guy doesn’t seem bothered by that, though. It’s like sex without the orgasm. He’s done the wining and dining, and the foreplay, he’s even got naked and sweaty, then he pulls out before the big payoff. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Yeah, that’s been on my mind, too. So why go to the trouble of building a bomb if you’re not going to watch it explode?’ Anderton fell quiet for a second. ‘It’s like he doesn’t care what happens. He plants his bomb and that’s where it ends for him.’

‘Like I said, it doesn’t make sense.’

‘No, it doesn’t.

‘Okay, your turn,’ Winter said.

‘What about the lack of escalation? I’d expect to see the ante being upped significantly with each kill, but that hasn’t happened. We’re on the countdown to murder number four. The buzz won’t be anywhere near as intense as it was for Isabella Sobek’s murder. He’s going to be gaining in confidence as he gets more practised, and he’s going to be getting dulled to the experience. So why aren’t we seeing this reflected in the murders?’

‘It’s like he’s got himself locked into a groove that he’s happy to stay in.’

‘But serial killers don’t operate like that,’ Anderton said.

‘No, they don’t.’

‘So what’s going on?’

Winter shook his head. ‘It’s a good question.’

‘Well, when you get a good answer, feel free to share. Okay, your turn.’

‘The cat feels like a missed opportunity.’

‘The one the Kirchners owned? What was it called again? Mouse?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one. Anyway, Mouse was locked in the kitchen because he kept throwing up hairballs, so the killer would have seen him when he arrived. Now we know this guy’s a sadist. He’s looking to terrorise his victims. And we know that people love their pets.’

‘So why not leave Mouse in the kitchen with the victim?’ Anderton said. ‘Why let him out?’

‘Exactly. Imagine you’re taped to the chair and the cat is wandering around, blissfully unaware of what’s going on. Maybe it rubs up against your legs looking to be fed. Maybe it jumps up onto your lap wanting to be stroked. Whatever it’s doing, you’re going to be aware of it.’

‘And you’re going to be aware of the fact that you’re powerless to do anything to save it,’ Anderton put in. ‘Because that’s this guy’s main weapon. He disempowers his victims. Leaving the cat with them would be another way for him to underline the fact that he’s in control. Okay, here’s another thought, why not just kill the cat? He could even have made Alicia watch.’

‘Like I said, it’s a missed opportunity.’

They drifted into another silence, Mozart playing gently in the background. Full dark had fallen and the moon sat big and fat in the night sky. Up here on the fifteenth floor they could see the lights of West Vancouver stretching into the distance. In the foreground, the water of the harbour stole the darkness and held on to it.

Anderton finished her drink and stood up. ‘I’m going to go.’

Winter nodded to her empty glass. ‘Sure I can’t tempt you to another? Sobek’s paying.’

‘You can tempt me, but I’ll have to say no. It’s a big day tomorrow. I really should try to get some sleep. You as well.’

‘Not going to happen. I get the feeling tonight’s going to be one of those nights where the insomnia wins.’

After showing Anderton out, he locked the door and made sure the limiter was in place. It was unlikely the killer would come after him here, though. This one was a shy boy. A move like that just didn’t fit with what they knew. Winter went back into the main part of the suite, topped up his tumbler and sat down on the sofa. He picked up his laptop and found a recording of Mozart’s Requiem. Everything that Mozart ever composed was stored on his hard drive. That said, he was always on the lookout for new recordings. His aim was to find the defining versions of each piece. New recordings were appearing all the time, so this was a work in progress, one that would keep him going to his dying day.

The orchestra started up and Winter stretched back on the sofa. This was the last piece Mozart ever wrote, one that he never got around to finishing. All sorts of legends and stories had grown up around it, which gave it an added air of mystique. The music was dark and oppressive, as though death was stalking the space between the notes. It seemed to suit the mood. There were just too many uncertainties right now. Was the killer going to strike tomorrow? If so, where? Everyone was living on borrowed time, but for one person in the city time was running out quicker than they could possibly imagine. Perhaps they’d seen the interview. Perhaps they’d be able to save themselves. Winter hoped so. When he closed his eyes all he saw was the sand running through the hourglass faster than ever.