James Carol - The Quiet Man

Because August 5 wasn’t just a special date in the killer’s calendar, it was special to Kirchner as well. Trigger points didn’t just precede murders, they preceded all sorts of crazy irrational behaviour. It was a statistical truth that there were more suicides at Christmas than at any other time of the year. Why? Because Christmas was all about family and memories and having a good time. And if those memories were bad ones, and if the relationships had broken down, then things were going to get emotionally charged, and that’s when suicide might start to seem like a good idea. The anniversary of a loved one’s death would be high on that list too, particularly if the loved one had died violently and unexpectedly.

Winter knocked one last time, loud and insistent. Nobody came running to answer. His lock picks were wound up in a leather wrap in the inside pocket of his jacket. They were made from tungsten carbide and, in most instances, as good as a key. The lock was a standard Yale. No big deal. He might have come last in the self-defence classes at Quantico, but he’d aced lock-picking.

The tension wrench went in first. Winter laid it against the pins, moved it slightly to the left, then bounced it a couple of times to get a feel for how much pressure was required. Then he inserted the pick all the way to the back of the lock and slowly pulled it forward, disengaging the pins one by one. The last one released and he removed the pick. A quick twist of the tension wrench and the door was open. By his reckoning, he’d broken the ten-second barrier. He took one last look along the corridor then slipped quietly into the apartment.

The bathroom door was open but the bathtub was empty. No sign of steam rising from it. No water turning pink. Kirchner wasn’t in the bedroom either. There was no belt attached to the handle. No body straining against the leather. Winter found him lying on the living-room sofa, eyes shut, not moving. His first thought was pills. Sleeping tablets or painkillers, or maybe antidepressants. But there were no empty pill bottles or bubble packs lying around. The only items on the table were a laptop, a large bottle of cheap vodka and a tall highball glass. Depending on your perspective, the glass was either half full or half empty.

Winter walked over to the sofa to check for a pulse. Before he got there Kirchner let out a loud snore and shifted to get comfortable. Winter froze. Any moment now Kirchner’s eyes were going to spring open and the shouting would start. This was the sort of apartment block where people kept to themselves, the sort of place where shouted arguments were no doubt a common occurrence. It was unlikely that anyone would call the cops, but they might. Spending the night in a cell was not his idea of a good time.

Kirchner let out another snore and shuffled around on the sofa again. Winter stood very still and tried not to breathe. Kirchner moved one last time before settling down. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell. Winter counted six more breaths before deciding it was safe to move.

He walked over to the table and picked up the vodka bottle. If this had been opened today then Kirchner had drunk almost a pint and a half. If that turned out to be the case then he’d be out cold until morning. Winter put the bottle back down and tapped the laptop’s trackpad. The screen flared to life and Alicia Kirchner’s Facebook page appeared. There had been a flurry of new remembrance posts over the last couple of days. Not so many as last year and nowhere near the number there had been on the year of the murder. That was how it worked. With each passing year fewer and fewer people would remember, until no one did.

Winter clicked through the tabs. Kirchner had been surfing suicide websites. Sites that outlined the dos and don’ts, chat forums where depressed people could go to talk each other into killing themselves. When you got down to it the same questions were being asked over and over again. How did you make it quick and painless? How did you make sure you got it right? Most people didn’t want to suffer. Nor did they want to wake up the next day and find that they’d screwed up. Judging by some of the material that Kirchner had been looking at it was probably just as well that he had passed out.

An old armchair was positioned next to the sofa. The chair was a faded blue, the sofa a dull red. Winter sat down in the armchair and thought about where he might hide a camera. The living room was an obvious first choice, since this was where Kirchner would spend most of his waking hours when he was at home. The TV tucked away in the corner was the room’s focal point. It was a standalone unit rather than wall-mounted. The screen was maybe twenty inches, small by modern standards. Both the sofa and the armchair were angled toward it. The sofa had prime position, which indicated that this was where Kirchner preferred to sit. The fact that he was currently crashed out on it backed up this theory.

Winter walked over to the TV and hunkered down in front of it. From here he could see everything that was happening in the room. If you were looking to hide a camera this would be your start point. He checked the TV first, then the cabinet, then the walls and the ceiling surrounding it. Nothing. Next he moved clockwise around the room, checking everywhere he could think of. When he reached the door he walked back to the TV and went counterclockwise. Still nothing.

The bedroom was next. Assuming that passing out on the sofa wasn’t a regular occurrence, this was where Kirchner would spend most of his time when he was at home. Eight hours a night. Maybe more, maybe less. It depended on his sleep pattern. The room smelled stale and the laundry basket was overflowing. The quilt was wrapped into a ball that had been discarded in the middle of the bed. The bed linen was crumpled and hadn’t been washed in a while.

Winter perched on the edge of the bed and took a look around, wondering where he’d put a camera. Then he went searching. Five minutes later he admitted defeat. He tried the bathroom next, then the kitchen. Nothing and nothing. The kitchen was a health inspector’s worst nightmare. It was a miracle that Kirchner hadn’t poisoned himself. Winter felt sorry for him. He hadn’t asked for any of this. He’d clearly given up on life. In that respect, Kirchner reminded Winter of his mom. She’d given up, too.

Kirchner was still alive when Winter got back to the living room. World War Three could have kicked off and he wouldn’t have woken up. He moved Kirchner’s feet to clear a space, then sat down. This didn’t make sense. What was the killer hoping to gain by targeting Kirchner? As far as Winter could see he was getting nothing out of the deal. Zip, nada, zilch. But he had to be getting something. You didn’t go to this amount of trouble without there being some sort of reward.

Winter tapped the trackpad and Alicia’s Facebook page appeared on the screen. Another message of condolence had come in while he’d been going through the apartment, this one from one of Alicia’s girlfriends. Remembering the fun times. Miss you babes xxx. The laptop was in easy reach of the sofa, a lifeline to the world that Kirchner was in danger of leaving behind for good.

It suddenly occurred to Winter that the TV wasn’t the only focal point in the room. What about the laptop? He looked at the TV, then looked back at the laptop. It was a definite possibility. He checked Kirchner one last time to make sure that he was still breathing. He was lying on his side. If he threw up then at least he wouldn’t choke to death.

Winter closed the laptop, then tucked it under his arm and headed for the door.

The sun was all the way down by the time Winter got outside, streetlamps burning the length of East Seventh Avenue. He dug Jefferies’s business card from his back pocket and made the call. The detective answered on the fifth ring with a ‘Yeah, who is it?’ He sounded bright and alert, like he was cruising on adrenaline. Winter could relate.