Hermit Page 4

  He was, in Dana’s own phrase, ‘becoming Zimbardoed’. She was fascinated by a psychology experiment from the 1970s, where student volunteers in a fake prison took on the role, language and gestures of supplicant prisoner and overbearing guard. Zimbardo had speculated that certain pre-conditions created certain behaviour, regardless of previous personality. Nathan was acting out the role he thought he was there for: someone who’d been caught. It was either naïve or coldly calculating; the optics would be the same. His apparent meekness could be a great piece of acting, or a prelude to tortuous and brittle interviewing.

  The next logical question, she mused, was what would open him up. Assuming he was intimidated by what had happened and what was occurring now, what would set him loose? He answered the standard custody questions with a hoarse whisper or slight head movements. Dana couldn’t gauge accent, or dialect, or any hint of where he might have been in the recent past. His responses were soft, arrived at after due thought, and cursory. Nothing more than the minimum.

  Simpson, the custody officer, peered over the top of the monitor.

  ‘Do you agree that the doctor may examine you to ascertain your fitness for detention and interview?’

  A nod at the floor.

  Simpson was, she knew, patient and respectful – it made him a safe pair of hands. But even he was becoming exasperated; hemmed in by four walls for an entire shift, the least he expected was to be acknowledged.

  ‘Don’t talk to the floor, Mr Whittler, talk to me. Look up.’

  It seemed Nathan tried, but failed on both occasions. A sigh from Simpson, who tapped on the keyboard again.

  ‘On any medications, medical treatment?’

  A shake of the head, a glance to his left.

  ‘The power of speech, Mr Whittler. Use it.’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  Dana strained to pick out some remnant of where Nathan might have come from: zero. His language was a flat bat; he was stripping out nuance, clues and emotion.

  ‘What happened out there, Mr Whittler? In Jensen’s Store?’

  The mention of the location made Nathan flinch, as if slapped. Not only did he turn his face, but his hands came up reflexively, as though warding off future attacks. Simpson looked bemused.

  ‘What?’ Simpson turned to the two uniforms. ‘He always like this? What happened?’

  Nathan slowly took his arms down, seemingly wary.

  ‘Yeah, he is,’ replied one officer. ‘One guy dead in the store, stabbed. This one, over the dead body.’

  Simpson typed briefly then pointed to Nathan’s hands.

  ‘Hence, the blood. Yeah. We’ll put him in the suite and get forensics done first.’

  Nathan looked down at his hands, apparently alien to him. As if they’d acted against his wishes, or without him knowing at all.

  ‘Anything to say at this juncture, Mr Whittler?’

  A vehement shake of the head – his most definite action so far. Something juvenile about it, Dana felt, something unformed. Another shove in the back, more shuffling from Nathan, and he disappeared from sight to the forensics suite. They would take blood, fingerprints, DNA and change his clothes. She saw the doctor walk past, on his way to observe the process.

  In the forensics suite Nathan reacted to being touched as if he were being scalded by acid. He screwed up his eyes when a mouth swab was taken with a cotton bud. Doc Butler suggested that, after trace samples had been taken, Nathan should clean himself up rather than have his hands washed by a tech. The flood of relief on Nathan’s face was palpable and, she judged, difficult to fake.

  Doc Butler was used to people in shock – usually victims – but she could see even he was struggling with Nathan Whittler. He got minimal replies to the stock questions that rooted Nathan in the present day, aware and cognisant. But anything beyond that – nothing.

  ‘You from around here, Mr Whittler?’

  ‘What is it you do for a living?’

  ‘If you could tell me your doctor, I could follow up on any medical history.’

  All met by silence, and a thousand-yard stare at the wall in front of him. Nathan Whittler had clearly decided on a strategy whenever anyone broached anything personal or to do with the murder. He simply shut off and refused to play.

  ‘Were you hurt out there, at Jensen’s?’

  Nathan’s hands moved quickly up to his face, like a boxer on the ropes. He shuddered slightly and refused to uncoil. When Doc Butler touched Nathan’s forearm, trying to get him to relax, Nathan pulled away sharply.

  ‘Okay, okay. All a bit too difficult for now, I get it. Well, Mr Whittler, you’re fit to be detained and fit to be interviewed. I’ll keep that under review.’

  When he had concluded the examination Doc Butler gave a sardonic glance to the CCTV camera, as if to say, Well, I’m all out of ideas. You try.

  Dana sat back. The need to uncover the basics was stronger now. Usually, interviewees yielded enough to give the police a start and one thing led to another – home address to work record, to tax number, to car, to telephone . . . but if someone didn’t fire the starting gun, the investigation stalled. It was always tougher, and slower, when the team had to do it all themselves.

  On the face of it, Nathan was a restrained, tightly wound and slightly shambolic enigma: it was as though he’d always thought he would end up here, but was still disappointed he had. Although, she thought as she scratched some notes, if he wanted to slide out of a murder charge, all this submission might be a way to go about it.

  His reaction to the store’s name troubled her. He’d recoiled twice and said nothing. No denial, no explanation; no information at all. Yet it didn’t feel to her like he had a guilty conscience; more that he had deliberately shut down about the whole thing and couldn’t be reached. Wouldn’t let himself be reached. Maybe Bill Meeks could coax some words from him. If not, they were flying blind.

  Suspects who didn’t talk gave themselves – whether they realised it, or not – the best possible chance of being convicted for something they didn’t do.

  But also, she reflected, the best possible chance of getting away with something they did.

  He was seated bolt upright in Interview One, palms clasped between his knees, incongruous in the paper jumpsuit. Shadows half obscured a large, impressive brow, like a Lincoln statue. His face had heft and gravitas, but it jolted with anxiety.

  One heavy, stark ceiling light swayed slightly in the draught from the ventilation; it resembled a slowly spinning vortex. Under it he seemed patient but cowed, ridiculous in the spotlight. There was so little stimulus in the room that most people looked up and around, into every corner, under the table – anywhere. Sometimes they wandered around, stretched, tapped at the glass. But Whittler stared evenly at the other chair, as if someone was going to magically materialise.

  ‘That’s him, then.’ Dana saw pale skin and slightly hunched shoulders, perhaps two days’ growth around the jowls. The man rolled his neck briefly, working out some kinks.

  Bill nodded. ‘The one and only Nathan Whittler.’

  She knew he’d come from the suicide-watch cell: a glass-fronted cell visible from the main custody desk, with a written command to sign for the prisoner’s safety every ten minutes.

  ‘He’s been kept in the Lecter Theatre, yes?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, yeah, he has. Doc’s orders, and I can’t blame him. This guy behaved like a scalded cat whenever anyone spoke. Even asking his name made him jump. Doc only got grunts, nods and headshakes. No conversation at all.’

  They stared back through the glass. It reminded Dana of a zoo; peering intently into the semi-darkness of the reptile house, convinced there was something there to observe. Here, she was watching a man do nothing. But that in itself felt significant.

  Bill re-hefted a slab of files in the crook of his arm. ‘Something about him makes me think he’s going to be big news. Good luck with him.’

  ‘What?’ Dana wasn’t used to having her competence, or chance
s of success, second-guessed by Bill.

  ‘I mean,’ said Bill, scratching his chin, ‘that it might be impossible to tell if he’s lying. When he’s lying.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Well, look at him. Either the worst or best poker player I’ve ever seen. All the rules about body language go out the window. I spoke to him about his rights when he came in: when you start talking, he’s all over the place. You can’t tell his mood or direction from posture, eye contact, tics, impulses, gestures – nothing. He might be up, down or sideways: you’ve got no basis for working it out. And as for chat: forget it. I got five words in ten minutes of asking. Blood from a stone. Never seen anyone so addicted to shutting up.’

  Dana nodded thoughtfully. The two officers who’d brought Nathan into the station reported he’d stared at the ground the entire trip, said nothing but his name, offered no resistance or reasons. But Dana was used to some people being crushed by the fact of arrest, by the reality of it. They became swamped by a sense of their life tumbling away from them. So she took that kind of reaction with a pinch of salt.

  All the same, Bill’s observation seemed to fit. Nathan Whittler was not their usual kind of suspect. It wasn’t, she guessed as she watched him now, simply that he was scared of being in a police station. He wasn’t unnerved only by having been arrested next to a dead body. It went deeper than that.

  Nathan Whittler seemed terrified of people. Any people.

  ‘Why me, Bill? For this one?’

  Bill turned to her. ‘Okay. Officially, it’s because Mike was first lead, but he’s worked four nights in a row and he’s beat. Plus, he had to take his kid to Earlville Mercy in the early hours. Don’t forget to ask him how the little ankle-biter is either. I know you.’

  It was true. To remember that kind of nicety, she needed it written down.

  ‘And unofficially?’

  ‘Well, now. This guy’s going to be a hard nut to crack, and I need it cracked. It’s possible we’ll have nothing definitive, except what he gives up. I suspect all the evidence we find will eventually point to Whittler being responsible. But if there’s no witnesses, and no apparent motive, he’d be hard to pin for murder. He can probably get away with a lesser charge, unless he gives us enough ammo. That being the case, I want someone who can empathise, make him open up.’

  ‘Mikey can empathise. I’ve seen him do it.’ Dana remained in awe of Mike’s ability to appear less like a detective, more like the guy on the next bar stool, listening to a yarn to while away the time. It was a skill, and one she didn’t feel she had.

  ‘Yes, he can. For certain crimes, and certain suspects, he’s the best of all of us. But not in this case. Trust me, Dana. You’re perfect for this one.’

  She looked back at Nathan Whittler, who remained focused on the empty chair, muttering some kind of mantra. ‘He’s still judged fit to proceed?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Doc Butler took a look at him twice. Yeah, he’s fit to be detained and fit to be interviewed. He knows where he is, who he is; he can count backwards from a hundred. He’s aware of which side of the road we drive, and so on. So yeah, he passed . . .’

  Dana took a sidelong glance; Bill was frowning. ‘Except what?’

  ‘Except,’ Bill paused, as though unsure whether to tell her or not. ‘Doc told me he was fragile. Incredibly fragile. Doc called him “a frightened deer”. A frightened deer with one-word replies to everything. You’ll need to prise him open gradually.’

  Dana chewed her lip. Prising gently was the most difficult of all. Fragile tended to go one of two ways – they either opened up like a shucked oyster or became impossible. Most people could be goaded or threatened into jabbering, but she got a sense that Nathan Whittler would be someone capable of deep and abiding silence.

  ‘Hmmm. I guess. I’ve done the prep, so I’m ready to go at him. Has he got a lawyer yet?’

  ‘Nah, refused one.’

  Dana faced her boss with a slight crinkle in the middle of her forehead. The one usually reserved for recalcitrant machines, cryptic puzzles and people who didn’t mean what they’d just said.

  ‘Oh, c’mon, Bill. He refused?’

  Bill raised one unhindered, apologetic hand. ‘I swear. Asked him twice, got it on tape – that’s the five-word prize he gave me – and got it in writing.’ He tapped the files in his arms. After a pause and a slight smile he added, ‘He’s probably one of those, uh, “Nothing to hide so nothing to fear” types.’

  ‘So we’re on the twenty-four-hour clock? Damn.’

  ‘Yes, we are. The court will force legal counsel on him tomorrow morning, regardless. Clock started at Jensen’s store at 0603, officially. Take off the required eight hours of sleep, then we have to stop questioning at . . . 2203 today. Allowing for breaks and everything, we can actually sit in a room with him for maybe five hours today. Tomorrow morning, his new lawyer will ensure he shuts up until he’s in court. The good news is, he’s been told all that, and he’s still sure he doesn’t want a lawyer.’

  ‘He’s a homicide suspect. Blood, literally, on his hands. And he doesn’t want a lawyer. Does he really know what’s going on here?’

  Bill smirked and looked through the two-way mirror.

  ‘Now that, Dana, is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.’

  Chapter 5

  ‘Mr Whittler?’

  Nathan shuffled in his chair and nodded slightly at his foot. Dana placed her files and a legal pad on the table. The topmost folder held some data collected at the crime scene and some internet searching and database mining. The three unmarked files below it were expense forms from five years ago, there only to imply depth of evidence.

  She held out her hand. ‘I’m Detective Dana Russo.’

  Nathan squirmed a little, before offering a quick, lukewarm handshake. His hand was damp, he was distracted; he gazed at the corner of the room and withdrew his hand as if she were toxic. Various ideas flipped through her mind. Scared? Misogynist? Autistic?

  ‘May I sit down, Mr Whittler?’

  She nearly always made a point of asking. Some suspects took it to mean they had control of the room – it made them complacent and sloppy. Some suspects assumed she was weak – it made them underestimate her. This time, she simply wanted Nathan to know she was polite and courteous. She sensed this might matter to him. Dana believed she always had control of the room: she was allowed to walk out of it, after all. Once again, Nathan nodded at his foot.

  ‘I’ll be conducting an investigation concerning the events that happened this morning. Would you like something to drink?’

  Nathan scratched his arm without responding, as if everything she’d said were birdsong. Just when she thought he maybe hadn’t heard, and she felt she needed to ask if he had hearing problems, he mumbled, ‘Some water, please.’

  Dana flicked a hand towards the mirror and turned back to Nathan. She saw now what Bill had meant. His gestures – those that existed – seemed separate from his thoughts. There was no eye contact at all. In retrospect, they should have set up the room differently; chairs at near right angles, rather than facing each other. Like a counselling session. What was that old saying? Women talk face to face, men talk shoulder to shoulder. But if she moved the chair now it would seem intimidating and obvious.

  ‘Mr Whittler, there are a couple of items we need to cover before the interview begins.’ She could feel herself slowing down, focusing on syntax and manners. ‘Would you please confirm that your name is Nathan Whittler and your date of birth is November 25, 1980?’

  Again, a nod at the floor. He now seemed fixated on an ingrained stain halfway between him and the mirror. The stain was raspberry cordial, but it looked like dried and faded blood: it was left there as subtle insinuation. If he moved his eyes at all, it was a quick flick at his reflection. Perhaps wondering who was on the other side of the mirror; or possibly, fascination with his own image.

  ‘I’m switching on the tape now, Mr Whittler.’

  She held her fin
ger on the button and waited until he glanced at it. The agreement would have been unnoticeable if she hadn’t been searching for it. Small movements with no social graces: Dana was already filing and calibrating.

  Two recorders: one digital, one old-school. The tape made its familiar grating sound in the first few seconds then settled down to a hum. Nathan returned to a hunched, slightly foetal position. If he’d been allowed to turn his back, she sensed he would do so.

  ‘Please confirm to the tape that you have, at this time, decided not to have a lawyer present. You can at any time request a lawyer and one will be provided for you.’

  Another slight nod to himself.

  ‘Please state this out loud, Mr Whittler. It relates to your rights.’

  Nathan leaned forward, arching slowly towards the tape machine and away from Dana. When his face was centimetres from the tape, he spoke.

  ‘I confirm that, Detective Russo.’ There was no trace of a regional accent, distinctive pattern or clear intonation – his voice could have been ordering a burger or recounting a car accident. His speech was slightly testy, precise and, she sensed, fussy. He sat back and resumed his coiled vigil.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Whittler. When you speak, you don’t need to—’

  There was a sharp knock and an officer brought in a bottle of water. Dana watched Nathan frown.

  ‘Mike, I think Mr Whittler will need a cup for drinking that. A cup with a handle, in fact.’

  Mike snorted, until he realised from her face that she was serious. He sighed and left the room.

  Dana turned back to Nathan, who was thumbing a chipped edge of the table. ‘I’m sorry about that, Mr Whittler. I’m afraid we’ve raised a generation with no etiquette.’

  Nathan smiled at the table for a second, then stared at his shoe. Mike returned with a cup and plonked it down noisily.

  ‘We won’t need you again, thank you, Mike,’ she called to his departing back. The door closed with a solid thump.

  Dana took the chance to pause. The room was heavily insulated; there was a busy plaza nearby and police vehicles came and went below them, but noises rarely filtered into this space. She wrote slowly on the pad, watching him from the corner of her eye. Eventually, he opened the water bottle and poured. His motor skills were slow and measured; he tilted the cup as if he were pouring a beer. The glugging sound was incongruously loud. She watched him scrape the cup’s rim along the side of the bottle to catch a drip. He didn’t take a drink; instead, he turned the water bottle so that the label faced him.