James Carol - The Quiet Man

The third movement came to a satisfying close and for a while Winter sat there in silence. It was an hour until sunset and the suite was slowly getting darker. The light from the TV flickered faintly around the room and painted ghostly abstract images on the wall. He took another sip of whisky and put the tumbler down. Was Sobek still at the cemetery or had he gone home? Winter decided that he’d still be there. He’d hang on in there until the bitter end, until the last trace of light had drained from the day.

An idea suddenly occurred to him and he chased it around for a while. The more he chased, the more he thought that he might be on to something. One of the big problems with this case was the lack of escalation. Serial killers were like drug addicts in that they were always chasing the perfect high. As the series progressed they took more and more risks in a futile attempt to attain that. The fact that the reality always fell short of the fantasy didn’t put them off. If anything, it spurred them on.

When you looked at these murders, though, there was no escalation. The way Isabella Sobek was killed was the same as Alicia Kirchner, and her murder was the same as Lian Hammond’s. There were differences with Myra Hooper’s murder, but no real escalation. The way that all four women had been murdered was efficient and businesslike. There was no emotion. It was as though the killer was following a script. The impression being given here was that the murders were a means to an end. Which now made sense, because that’s exactly what they were. A means to an end. The killer’s real targets were the husbands.

And Cody.

The fact that the killer had talked to him marked a definite escalation. But there had to be some sort of payoff, otherwise what was the point? Serial killers had been known to join the crowds at crime scenes. Standing there knowing that they were responsible for all the chaos gave them a thrill. The fact that nobody knew who they were just made it more intense. Anderton had checked the crowds gathered at the earlier murder scenes to see if anyone stood out. No one had. Freeman would no doubt be doing the same thing with the latest scene, but Winter wasn’t holding his breath.

Funerals sometimes drew killers out, and for the same reasons. It helped to intensify the memories. Anderton had been on the ball there, too. She’d filmed the mourners at the funerals, but nobody had stood out. Freeman would record those at Myra Hooper’s funeral. Again, Winter had no great expectations.

At the moment it was as though the killer had set up the murders and that’s where his involvement ended. This seemed like a lot of hassle for very little return. He’d be following the news. That much went without saying. But would that be enough to justify the time, effort and risk?

There was something missing from the picture. But what? What was actually going on here? Winter picked up his tumbler and sank back into the sofa. The glass was cold against his lips and the whisky burned his throat. He thought about Nicholas Sobek imprisoned in the basement of his luxury house. Then he thought about Eric Kirchner, broken and alone in his cheap landlord-decorated apartment. Then he thought about David Hammond three thousand miles away on the other side of the country. And Cody, nestled into his beanbag, lost and guilt-ridden and missing his mom.

With any murder the spotlight always fell on the victim. That’s where the real action was. But what about the secondary victims? The ones who fell between the cracks? The Nicholas Sobeks and Eric Kirchners and David Hammonds and Cody Hoopers? Usually they were forgotten about, but not this time. This killer didn’t care about the dead women, but he did care about their husbands. And Cody. They were the ones who resonated with him. Those were the ones who made his heart sing.

The killer had chosen his targets carefully, and he’d arranged it so they had killed someone they loved. And then he’d just walked away and hadn’t looked back? That wasn’t going to happen. Newton’s Third Law came into play again. This guy had caused something to happen, and now that it had happened he would be curious to see what the reaction was. Winter was curious too, and he was nowhere near as invested.

So what had the killer seen when he glanced back over his shoulder?

It was a good question. This time Winter knew where to start looking for the answer. He called down to the front desk and asked the receptionist to call a cab. Then he drained his tumbler, grabbed his leather jacket and headed for the door.

A cab was waiting at the kerb when Winter got outside. He climbed into the back and gave the driver Eric Kirchner’s address on East Seventh Avenue. Traffic was light and it only took ten minutes to get there. The driver pulled over to the sidewalk opposite the apartment and Winter got out. He watched the cab pull away before walking over to the entranceway of a nearby building and merging with the shadows gathering there. Then he lit a cigarette.

The sky was turning to orange and getting darker, the temperature dropping as night closed in. Eric Kirchner’s apartment was on the third floor of the building directly opposite. The second window on the right was his living room. The drapes were drawn, the lights on, and the thin material was glowing like a Chinese lantern. Kirchner had probably closed them after they’d left earlier. Drapes didn’t just keep the dark at bay, they also created a barrier that separated you from the rest of the world. It defined your safe place. Today was the anniversary of Alicia’s murder. If there was ever a day when Kirchner wanted to keep the world at arm’s length, this was it.

Winter took a long drag on his cigarette, the tip glowing hot and orange. Maybe the killer had walked along this street. Maybe he’d stood in this doorway and watched for a while. He could have done that easily enough without raising much suspicion. In the time Winter had been here ten cars had passed by and a couple of pedestrians, and no one had given him a second glance. And why should they? He was just a guy smoking a cigarette. Probably just waiting for someone. Nothing suspicious here, move on. And he wasn’t even trying to be inconspicuous. If he had been, he would have had his cell out. Cell phones were perfect urban camouflage. Winter looked over at the apartment building and half expected Kirchner’s face to appear at one of the windows. Had the killer harboured those same expectations? If so, had he been disappointed when it hadn’t come to pass? And what had he done to curb that disappointment?

At some point watching wouldn’t have been enough. He’d want to get closer. Like he’d done with Cody. Winter finished his cigarette and crossed the street. There was no lock on the apartment building door so he was able to walk straight in. He passed the line of mailboxes and headed for the stairs. So far he’d seen a total of zero security cameras. He climbed the stairs to the third floor and walked along the corridor to Kirchner’s apartment. Still no cameras.

He knocked on the door. No answer, so he knocked again, harder this time. Still no answer. He tried a third time, really putting his weight into it. This was a full-on cop knock. Kirchner should be rushing to answer. Winter reckoned that he should be hearing hurried footsteps in the hall, and the rattle and thump as the lock was hastily undone. The door should be opening about now, and Kirchner should be standing there dazed and confused and looking like he was wondering who’d died.

But that wasn’t happening, which was a concern. The fact that the lights were on indicated that he was home. The fact that his beat-up heap of a car was parked outside reinforced this. Winter went through possible scenarios in his head. Worst case: Kirchner was in there with a belt wrapped around his neck, one end attached to a door handle. Or lying in a warm bath with his veins sliced open from elbow to wrist, the water turning pink. Or staring at the revolver on his lap, psyching himself up.