James Carol - The Quiet Man

‘There’s your killer.’

Freeman gave Winter a puzzled look, silence stretching between them. The incident room was filled with the noise of constant speculation, but it seemed to be happening a long way away.

‘From the very start there’s been a huge question mark hanging over the victimology,’ Winter said. ‘Well, that question mark has just been erased. The thing that connects the victims is the husbands. So, with that in mind, take another look at the photographs and tell me what you see. And I’m talking broad strokes rather than fine details.’

Freeman took a look, then said, ‘They’ve all got black hair and brown eyes. And they’re all in their thirties.’

‘Exactly. And that description is going to apply to the killer. You’re looking for someone with black hair and brown eyes who’s in their thirties. Also, he was married at some point. I guarantee it.’

Freeman was shaking his head. ‘That’s sounds like one hell of a leap.’

‘No it’s not. Organised serial killers spend an inordinate amount of time selecting their victims. The victim is the foundation of the fantasy. It’s the centre of everything. The process of choosing is not informed by whim, and that’s why I’ve had a problem with this case right from the very beginning. The randomness of the victims makes no sense. Choosing Isabella, Alicia and Lian just doesn’t work. There are no physical similarities. They come from different age groups, two are Caucasian, one is Asian. If this was a disorganised killer then I could see how this might work. But this isn’t a disorganised killer.’

‘Winter’s right,’ Anderton put in. ‘We’ve finally found a link.’

‘Okay, but what about Myra Hooper’s son? He’s not in his mid-thirties. Nor is he married to the victim.’

‘The latest murder is an anomaly,’ Winter said. ‘And that’s something we should be thanking the gods who look down on murder detectives for. We’re already a mile further down the road than we were yesterday. If we can answer the questions that this new murder poses then that road is going to take us all the way to his front door.’

‘Is that something else you guarantee?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Okay, let’s say you’re right. How does this help?’

‘It helps because it gives us an insight into how the killer is thinking. What are the husbands doing here? They’re killing their wives. So the question becomes: why does the killer want his wife dead?’

‘Maybe she cheated on him,’ Anderton suggested. ‘Or maybe she just got fed up and left him. Being married to a serial killer is not a recipe for long-lasting happiness.’

‘You’d be surprised. My parents were married for thirteen years. They only got divorced after my father’s arrest. Believe it or not, there were plenty of happy days before then. My mom wasn’t stupid, she was just invested in making the marriage work. In that sense she wasn’t any different from a lot of wives. That said, I agree that something must have gone wrong with the killer’s marriage.’

‘Could that have triggered the first murder?’

‘That’s what I’m thinking.’ Winter turned to Freeman. ‘Do you believe there are situations where lying is appropriate?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘It’s a simple enough question. Is it ever okay to lie?’

‘Do you really think I’m going to admit to something like that.’

‘If it helps, I’ll rephrase the question. Do you think that it’s okay to lie if it serves the greater good?’

Freeman said nothing. He glanced over his right shoulder, then the left, like he was looking for hidden cameras.

Winter patted his Zappa T-shirt. ‘It’s okay, I’m not wearing a wire.’

‘If you have something to say, then say it, but can we please dispense with the bullshit and the dramatics.’

Winter turned the picture of Sobek with a beard face down, taking it out of the equation. There were now eight faces staring up from the desk. All with black hair and brown eyes. All in their mid-thirties. All clean shaven.

‘Do you have a sketch artist?’

‘I said no dramatics.’

‘I’m not being dramatic. It’s a legitimate question.’

‘No, we don’t employ a sketch artist. These days we use software to create photo composites.’

‘Who’s the best person you’ve got?’

‘That’ll be Geneva Tarantini,’ Anderton said.

Freeman gave her a pointed look. ‘Tarantini would be my first choice.’

‘Well, since you’re both in agreement, Tarantini it is.’ Winter picked up the eight front-facing photographs from the desk, tapped them into a neat pile, then handed them to Freeman. ‘She needs to create a single facial composite from the pictures of the three husbands. Once she’s done that, you’re going to give the picture to the media and tell them that there was an eyewitness who saw someone acting suspiciously near Myra Hooper’s house.’

‘Which would be a lie.’

‘A white lie,’ Winter said. ‘A lie to serve the greater good. The killer’s confidence is built on two ideals. Firstly, he believes that he’s calling the shots. Secondly, there’s precedence. Not only has he got away with this three times in the past, but you guys haven’t even got close to him. So what happens if he thinks that you’re closing in? What happens if he thinks you’re sniffing at his heels?’

‘Those sound like rhetorical questions.’

Winter smiled. ‘What happens is that the doubts start to creep in. And where there’s doubt, there are mistakes. We’d like to believe that serial killers are caught as a result of our brilliant detective work, but that’s another lie, one we tell ourselves because our egos need to be fed. The truth is that most serial killers are caught because they make mistakes.’

Freeman didn’t say anything for a moment. He was staring at the evidence boards, eyes moving slowly from left to right, taking in the desolation. Winter’s gaze tracked the same arc. They lingered when they reached the last board.

‘You need to start thinking proactively rather than reactively,’ Winter said. ‘If you don’t, then next year you’ll be adding another board, and the year after that you’ll be adding another, and so on until they circle the room. Serial killers don’t just quit. They keep going until they’re forced to stop, either because they get caught or they die. This guy is in his thirties, which means he’s got plenty of years ahead of him.’

‘Okay, I can see the upside. What’s the downside?’

The question wasn’t a complete surprise. It was a politician’s question, and Freeman was a politician first and a cop second. He wasn’t going to stop until he was sitting in the big chair.

‘There isn’t one,’ Winter said.

‘There’s always a downside. What happens if the media discovers that we’ve been using them?’

‘They’ll get over it. It might take time, but they’ll forgive you in the end.’

‘Easy for you to say. You don’t have to live with them.’

‘Look, I can’t force you to do this. This is your call. That said, if you’d brought me in to consult on the case, this is what I’d be advising you to do. Strongly advising. Opportunities like this don’t present themselves very often, so when they do, you grab them with both hands. You’d be crazy not to.’ Winter gave it a moment to make sure he had Freeman’s complete and undivided attention. ‘I’ve seen strategies like this one work. It’s a good plan.’

Freeman was staring at the boards again, weighing the pros and cons. He breathed out a long sigh. Decision made.

‘Adams,’ he called out.

A detective at one of the nearby desks looked over. ‘Yes, sir?’