James Carol: The Quiet Man

‘Nope, I’m good. Okay, shall we do this?’

Anderton crossed the lot to the studio building like a woman on a mission. Her left hand kept bumping against her left hip. That was where she would have kept her gun during her cop days. They went inside and headed for the elevator. The reception area on the second floor dealt solely with traffic heading to and from the news studio. It was decorated in a way that was supposed to be cutting edge, but just looked jaded. There was lots of black. The floors, the desk, the furniture. Global’s logo featured loud and proud on the wall behind the desk.

The assistant who met them was pretty, petite and eager to please. They did a round of quick introductions then she whisked them off to a small make-up room. Less than a minute later, Winter was sitting in a barber chair while the make-up woman dabbed on some foundation. She had just started fussing with his hair when Delaney appeared. She was as pretty and petite as the assistant, but at least ten years older. As far as Winter could tell she hadn’t had plastic surgery. It wouldn’t be long, though. Crow’s feet had started to appear at the corners of her eyes, and her skin wasn’t as elastic as it had once been. Her smile was radiant, ten thousand watts of full-on false charm. The navy pant suit was tight-fitting and flattering. She walked over to the chair with her arm outstretched.

‘Good to meet you, Mr Winter.’

‘Good to meet you, too.’

They shook. If anything her grip was too firm, like she was overcompensating. For once Winter didn’t mind being called ‘mister’. Anderton’s warnings were still ringing inside his head. Establishing boundaries was imperative. She turned her smile on Anderton.

‘It’s good to see you, too, Laura.’ She stopped talking. The smile somehow grew bigger and brighter. ‘So, you’re working as a private investigator these days. That must be exciting.’

Anderton was doing well to keep her cool. The only indication that she was rattled was the way her fingertips kept tapping against her invisible gun.

‘It’s good to see you, too, Charlotte. Always a pleasure.’

Delaney stared for a second longer before breaking eye contact and turning her attention back to Winter.

‘Have you done any live television before?’

‘Some.’

‘Good. So you know the trick is to keep it as natural as possible. And feel free to talk. If I think you’re going on too long I’ll just jump in with another question. What I’m looking for is a portrait of the killer. I want to feel as though we’re really getting under his skin.’

‘No problem.’

‘Fantastic.’ She glanced at her watch. It was a Rolex, one from the upper end of the range. ‘We’ll be on in six minutes.’

She flashed a last quick smile for Winter, and one for Anderton, and then she was gone, leaving a trace of perfume in her wake.

‘I don’t know what you’re worried about,’ he said as the door swung closed. ‘She’s a pussycat.’

‘No, Winter, she’s a rattlesnake. Don’t forget that.’

Winter was led across the studio to a large red sofa that had been set up in front of a green screen. Delaney was there already. A man wearing a headset was talking urgently to her, while a make-up woman was making some final tweaks to her hair. The small monitor on the floor showed what the people at home would see. It was surreal, like catching a glimpse of yourself in a parallel universe. Glance over his shoulder and all he saw was green. Glance at the monitor and there he was, sitting in a hi-tech news studio.

Winter picked up a water glass from the table and took a sip. A microphone had been clipped to his shirt and the wire scratched across his skin whenever he moved. As a general rule, he avoided journalists. That said, if he thought it would help move a case forward then he wouldn’t hesitate about jumping into bed with one. It was like owning a pet tiger. The animal might appear tame, but at any moment it could turn around and chew your face off.

Delaney looked over. ‘Thirty seconds,’ she whispered. ‘You okay?’

‘I’m fine, thanks. What about you?’

She smiled at that. ‘I’m good.’

Winter started a countdown inside his head. He’d been briefed by media consultants in the past, so knew the dos and don’ts. Avoid ‘ums’ and ‘ahs’ and uncomfortable silences, don’t fidget, keep hand movements to a minimum. The man in the headset had moved over to the large autocue screen. He caught Delaney’s attention and used his fingers to count down from three to one. Delaney switched on her smile and sought out the camera. There were no surprises in what she said next. It was being beamed onto the autocue in six-inch-high letters. When she spoke, her voice was two tones lower than it had been earlier. Deep, resonant, authoritative.

‘This evening we’re joined by ex-FBI profiler Jefferson Winter, one of Quantico’s infamous mindhunters. During his eleven years with the bureau, he worked a number of high-profile cases. Now he’s joined the hunt for the August 5 Bomber.’ She turned from the camera and looked straight at him. ‘Thank you for joining us this evening, Mr Winter.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘You’ve had a chance to review this case. What are your initial thoughts?’

‘The first thing that strikes me is how intelligent this person is.’

The perfectly plucked eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Intelligent? Would you care to expand on that?’

‘The police have been hunting this person for three years now and they still haven’t caught him. To stay one step ahead like that requires discipline, planning and, yes, intelligence. This is not someone who dropped out of high school.’

‘What else can you tell us?’

‘People keep referring to him as a monster. They’re wrong. He is not a monster.’

Delaney’s smile gave way to a disbelieving chuckle. ‘I’m not sure our viewers would agree with that. So, if he’s not a monster, what is he?’

‘In a word: misunderstood. As a child, he would have been neglected. Nobody listened to him. Nobody noticed him. What must that have been like? Ignored by your parents and shunned by your peers? It must have been horrendous. That’s no life for a child.’

‘A lot of people have bad childhoods but they don’t grow up to become serial killers.’

‘I’m not speaking generally here, I’m talking about the man you refer to as the August 5 Bomber. And that’s another thing. Why do people do that? Why do they need to apply labels? It turns him into a caricature. Which he’s not. He’s a living, breathing person. Let’s not forget that. All of us deserve to have a voice, Ms Delaney. All of us deserve to be heard.’

Delaney’s smile was back. ‘That’s a fairly controversial position you’re taking. Then again, you’re no stranger to controversy. When you were eleven your father was arrested by the FBI. He was one of America’s most notorious serial killers. Over a twelve-year period he killed fifteen young women. He kidnapped them, then took them out into the woods and hunted them down with a rifle.’

‘Was there an actual question in there? If there was, I missed it.’

‘I spoke to one of your former FBI colleagues,’ Delaney continued. ‘He believes that your relationship with your father clouds your judgement. He said that you spent too much time trying to relate to the killers you were pursuing and that this could actually be counterproductive. He called you a fraud and a glory hunter.’

Winter shook his head and shrugged and threw his arms up, the three gestures coming together to underscore his growing annoyance. ‘I’m still not hearing any questions. This is an interview, right? You ask the questions, I answer them. That’s how it works, or have I got that wrong?’