James Carol - The Quiet Man

‘But he said that Myra would live.’

All the fight suddenly went out of him. His body went slack as his muscles lost tension and strength. One second he was ready to take on the world, the next he was beat. Anderton held on for a second longer, then let go and stepped back. Hooper sagged against the wall. There were tears in his eyes. Cody came up behind his father and grabbed hold of his arm. In that moment he looked much younger than ten. Winter rubbed at the spot on his cheek where he’d been punched. It was swollen and tender and hurt like hell. There would be a bruise there for sure, but at least nothing seemed broken.

‘Mr Hooper,’ he said, ‘I understand that you need to blame someone for your wife’s death, but I’m not that person.’

‘You said that she’d live.’

‘No, all I did was offer a strategy that would have worked if the killer had stuck to his original MO.’

Winter was being purposefully vague. He couldn’t say that Myra died because the killer had targeted a mother and son. And the reason was Cody. Technically speaking, Cody had killed his mom. He’d opened the bedroom door and triggered the bomb. It didn’t matter what was said to him, it didn’t matter how often he was told that none of this was his fault, he’d be blaming himself for what had happened for the rest of his life. The bottom line here was that things could always get worse. What happened this morning was devastating for him, but how much more devastating would it be if he discovered that he really was the reason his mom was dead?

‘What does any of that actually mean?’ Hooper asked.

‘It means that no matter what I or anyone else said or did yesterday, your wife would still be dead today.’

Hooper opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. Thoughts came, thoughts went, and he said, ‘She shouldn’t have died. It’s not fair.’

‘No, she shouldn’t have. And you’re right, it isn’t fair.’

‘Mr Hooper, do you mind if we come in?’ Anderton asked.

‘Who are you, anyway?’

‘We’re investigating the murders.’

‘But you’re not from the police. I’ve already spoken to them. You know it’s illegal to impersonate a cop, don’t you?’

‘We never said we were cops. I headed up the police investigation into the first three murders. I’m retired now and working as a private investigator. My client has asked me to look into the murders.’

‘Who’s your client? And why does he care?’

‘Look, Mr Hooper, we just need five minutes. That’s all. If that helps us track the killer down then it has to be a good thing, right? I’m assuming you want to see him caught.’

‘Of course I do.’

‘In which case, let’s go through to the living room so we can talk.’

Like Eric Kirchner’s place over in Mount Pleasant, Scott Hooper’s apartment had been decorated by the landlord. The only real difference was that the furniture had been bought new instead of secondhand. That said, there were clearly limits to how deep the landlord’s pockets were. The cabinets and tables and bookcase were all self-assembly rather than purpose-built by craftsmen, the walls were the same shade of white as the ceiling, and the drapes were single ply rather than lined.

Everything about the living room seemed temporary. The TV was on a cabinet in the corner of the room rather than fixed to the wall. One shelf of the bookcase was taken up with a small stereo that had piles of CDs lined up on either side. Aside from a small framed vacation photograph of the Hoopers, the rest of the shelves were empty. The sofa might have been made from cheap leather, but it was comfortable enough. Winter was at one end, Anderton the other, like bookends. Hooper lowered himself into the room’s only armchair. Cody had pulled a bright red beanbag over to his father’s chair and was sitting cross-legged on it.

Hooper was in his early thirties but moving like he was eighty. Grief could do that. It sucked at your soul, and would keep sucking until there was nothing left. That’s what had happened here. Winter knew the signs. The same thing had happened to his mom. Hooper was still wearing his work clothes. Cheap suit pants, a crumpled white shirt, no tie. Wherever he’d been, whatever he’d been doing, the news had come through that his wife was dead, and life as he knew it had come screeching to a very sudden and definite halt.

‘You were looking at getting back together with your wife,’ Winter said.

Hooper glanced down. ‘Cody, can you go through to your room while I talk to these people?’

Cody shook his head. ‘I want to stay.’

‘We won’t be long. You can play on my laptop.’

‘I don’t want to play on your laptop. I want to stay here with you.’

Hooper looked like he was going to push it. At the last second he backed down. Whatever fight he’d once possessed was long gone. ‘Okay, but you need to keep quiet.’

Cody settled back into the beanbag.

‘So were you looking at reconciling with your wife?’ Winter asked.

Hooper didn’t respond. His attention had been captured by the small framed photograph on the bookcase. The three of them were on a beach. They looked like any other happy, smiling family. Hooper was staring at it, a million miles away and drifting further with every passing second. He wiped his eyes. ‘Do you have any idea how difficult this is?’

‘Honestly?’ Winter shook his head. ‘I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through. The fact that you’re sat there able to string a sentence together is nothing short of a miracle.’

‘I love her.’ Hooper realised what he’d said and corrected himself. ‘ Loved her. The only person I’ve ever loved more is Cody.’

‘I know that, but for this to work you need to answer our questions. And you need to be honest, otherwise there’s no point us being here.’

‘I know.’ Hooper took a deep breath and let out a long heart-weary sigh. ‘We’d been together for twelve years, ever since we met at college in California. After we graduated, Myra wanted to move back here because she missed her family. I came with her. A year later we were married. The year after that we had Cody.’

‘Why did you split up?’ Anderton asked.

Hooper shrugged and shook his head. ‘For no reason and every reason.’

‘That’s a bit vague. Were you or your wife having an affair? Was that it?’

‘No one was having an affair,’ Hooper snapped.

‘I’m sorry, but these questions need to be asked.’

‘No one was having an affair,’ he repeated quietly. ‘After twelve years, we’d started falling out of love. It happens. When you’re dealing with all the day-to-day crap it’s too easy to forget why you fell in love in the first place. We were arguing about nothing, just trying to score points against each other. Myra decided we needed a time-out. That’s what she called it. A time-out. She couldn’t bring herself to call it a separation. That was Myra, though, she was always good with words. She was an English major at college.’

‘You were thinking about getting back together, weren’t you?’

Hooper nodded. ‘We were seeing a marriage counsellor, and seemed to be making progress. Myra wanted to take things slowly, so that’s what we were doing. We were getting there. A couple of weeks ago we went on a date together. I’m not going to lie and tell you things were like they’d been at the beginning, because they weren’t, but it was a good night.’

Hooper paused as though he was going to say something else, then burst into tears. For a while, he just sat there, tears streaming down his face. He was holding on to Cody’s shoulder like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. The kid was weeping too. This was the hidden side of murder, the bit you didn’t see splashed all over the front pages. The misery that followed in its wake was as long as it was deep.