Hermit Read online

  ‘None whatsoever that I can see. No record yet that he worked there or had an account with the place.’ Mike tilted forward and waved a pen in her general direction. ‘We’re starting to round up the staff and former staff, so that might yield something. But no, nothing yet.’

  Dana thought for a moment. She was already invested in Nathan Whittler, already trying to coax some form of relationship. He was the man arrested at the scene, bloodied and blinking. Yet they currently had no scope on his psychology, or pathology. It would be a long, arduous battle to open him up – plenty of thankless efforts, blind alleys and failures. But it was important that he wasn’t the only game in town.

  ‘Talk me out of Nathan Whittler,’ she said.

  Mike tapped his pen against the desk. This was what they did – the primary detective pursued what seemed like the best live option and the other detective mopped up the rest, chewing on alternatives and constantly chipping at assumptions and lazy groupthink. Dana had introduced the concept when they first met, and Mike liked it. Not only was it effective, but it spoke to Dana’s commitment to finding truth, rather than guilt.

  ‘Okay. At the moment the evidence is strong but circumstantial. Forensics probably won’t completely prove anything but will tilt you in a particular direction. Barring a major shift, that direction will be Whittler. Yes?’

  She nodded, settling back down on to the corner of the desk, tweaking her kneecap as it threatened to lock. ‘Yes. Bloodied hands always makes an impact. So what’s wrong with that picture?’

  Mike wasn’t veering towards the most common kinds of stabbings – drug arguments gone bad, gang wars, ‘disrespected’ teenagers. Partly because they usually happened in the street, or at a location known to police already. Partly because those kinds of crimes rarely if ever happened just before dawn. They were daytime or evening crimes – done by 2 a.m. Plus, there was nothing right now to suggest Lou Cassavette knew that kind of person – at best, it would have to have been an accidental meeting.

  ‘So, first, if Whittler’s the burglar with the rucksack, he’s forensically aware. Very much so.’ Mike nodded to himself, as if working through the idea on the run. ‘He was leaving no trace at that burglary. So why be found with a dead body and blood on the gloves? That’s a major flip. It’s possible he was caught out, but even so. Anything that cuts across his previous behaviour should make us wary. And his behaviour up to that point was to yield no forensics whatsoever.’

  Dana agreed but had an alternative. ‘What if he had an accomplice for the burglary, who scrammed? The accomplice could be the forensically aware one, and Whittler is the dim one left behind with a dead body. He might be too scared to give up his partner.’

  ‘True.’ He liked the comeback – she wasn’t simply soaking up what he was suggesting. His previous partner had been a little lazy and very passive: he’d accepted instantly anything Mike said, even if it contradicted a conversation from five minutes before. Dana did not do that. ‘But Whittler strikes me as brighter than that, and nothing about his demeanour suggests he’s a team player.’

  Yes, thought Dana. Nathan Whittler’s demeanour loomed large; she had a nagging feeling it was crucial. The type of person Nathan Whittler was, could be decisive.

  ‘All right,’ continued Mike, ‘so there’s the deviation from known behaviour: both forensically, and to commit a murder. Because we’ve nothing on him, and certainly nothing violent.’ He tilted his head to indicate either/or. ‘But he does have means and opportunity, which is why we count him in. That leaves . . . motive. He has no apparent motive.’

  That was, at this juncture, true. But they might find a connection later.

  ‘So who has?’

  Mike pointed at the screen, where Megan Cassavette’s picture held his gaze.

  ‘Well, she probably has. Or drives the person who has. Cherchez la femme, and all that. When you first came from Fraud, you looked for rational and logical connections that led to motive. You wanted, especially, a financial reason for crimes. You still do, to some extent. If you want me to pick up on potential missed opportunities, I’ll always go back to that. You want motives from spreadsheets. Whereas I want motives from bedsheets.’

  She had no problem yielding that point. It was in her nature to go digging in data, as though every answer lay there. She was still learning – usually from Mike – about all manner of alternatives. Learning, in her view, too slowly.

  ‘You think she has a lover and he killed Lou Cassavette?’

  Mike grinned. ‘Or she. Twenty-first century, right? Or maybe Lou has a lover and it’s her angry husband. Or Lou finished it and the lover objected. Stabbing is close up, personal; often driven by passion, even if it’s in the moment. Nathan Whittler doesn’t seem like a passionate person, does he? I don’t see him as someone driven by high-enough emotion to stab someone in the heart, and high emotion is what it takes.’

  Dana chewed her lip. It was a strong point. Nathan Whittler was too frightened even to look at her and had broken down in the first interview. Did he have the ferocity, the heightened anger or jealousy? He didn’t seem to, and she couldn’t yet picture something monstrous enough to cause it. Whereas a jilted or determined lover? Maybe they would.

  ‘Good job, Mikey. If we’re going to pursue that angle, then the rubbish bin on Megan’s lawn looked out of place. No other house had it. That could be a signal, if Megan is the one with the lover. Or maybe Lou left it out last night, to signal no-go to his paramour: hence, they meet at the store. See what Tech can find from the laptops: lovers usually give themselves away. So I’m told.’

  Mike made a note.

  ‘Where are we with the rest of it?’ she asked.

  ‘I have a call in to a buddy in Intelligence, so waiting on him. Financials and phone records will be through shortly. I put in a call to the store’s bank to check the business finances, too. Waiting on a reply. Dennis is starting on the computers from the Cassavette house. Search of the house turned up nothing significant, but Megan’s going to stay at her mother’s for a few days, so we have a clear run if we need to go back there. Inventory of that rucksack from the store is on your desk – eclectic mix of ridiculously cheap items, for some reason.’

  ‘You’re so all-encompassingly thorough, Mikey.’

  ‘The phrase you’re looking for is “obsessive neat freak with a control fetish”.’ To prove it, Mike tapped a pile of papers into a flawless bundle.

  ‘Ha. I bet they all swipe right when they see that under your photo.’

  ‘My zany single life ended many years ago.’

  ‘And a nation breathed a sigh of relief that day.’ Dana stood up, a zing of pain from her knee as she did so. ‘Okay, thanks, Mikey. I’ll go push Whittler for a firmer fix on where he’s been hiding out. Keep Bill in the loop as you work through those details – he can feed me anything vital.’

  Chapter 8

  Nathan seemed more relaxed when she looked in through the mirror. Slumped casually, holding the paperback in one hand and gently swirling the water in his cup with the other, he looked placid, almost contented. Already she considered herself so connected to him that she felt responsible for his wellbeing. She had to consciously note that her primary duty was to Lou Cassavette’s memory and to finding the truth.

  But when the door handle squeaked he snapped to attention. Jumped, almost. He spilled a few drops of water as he put the cup back on the table. His posture became stilted and wary. She’d broken into his own peculiar brand of reverie.

  Dana took a deep breath and entered. She resumed her seat and flicked on the tape machine.

  ‘How’s the book, Mr Whittler?’

  Nathan glanced at the cover – a weathered man in a black hat squinting as he fired at a dusty foe, Monument Valley icons behind him. ‘Terrible, I’m afraid.’

  Dana nodded as she set out her paperwork and files. ‘Yes, I’m sorry we couldn’t find anything better at short notice. The best thing about Zane Grey is the name of the author. Afte
r that, it’s downhill all the way.’ She looked up at him. ‘I sense you’re a big reader, Mr Whittler?’

  Nathan reached for his cup again but merely held it in two palms, like hot chocolate on a cold night. ‘Yes, whenever I can.’

  She waited for him to expand, as most people would, then chastised herself. That was not how he operated. The rhythm she was trying to engender would have to be driven by her.

  ‘Soothing, isn’t it? Someone else’s world?’ She tilted her head to one side and was silently thrilled when, seeing her shadow move, he unconsciously mirrored it. ‘When you get a good book, it’s like someone gifted you a piece of their imagination.’

  Nathan blinked hard at his cup. ‘Yes, quite so. You were a child who escaped to the library, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she replied. ‘There were a bunch of us who did that.’

  Although, she recalled, never together: just an archipelago of individual, quiet souls among the shelves, breathing slowly, grateful for the solitude and acceptance. They didn’t have to justify or explain themselves – they were appreciated for their mere presence. She would see the others like wraiths, a horizontal splinter of another child between book and shelf. Like her, she imagined, praying the sun would magically stop setting and the clocks become still.

  ‘What sort of thing do you normally read, Mr Whittler?’

  This seemed to stump him. He looked again to his hands for tell-tale blood lines. ‘Uh, well, anything I can get, really. I don’t always have a full choice, so I pretty much read anything. Especially in the evening.’

  ‘Too busy in the daytime?’ She left the question hanging.

  Nathan took a sip. She understood that he wanted the water as much as a prop to hide his unconventional body language as for the refreshment. Dana pondered whether he’d be more forthcoming without the cup to hide behind, or if it was helping him to feel more respected and trusted – because he had asked for something and got it.

  ‘Well, actually, I find my eyes get strained if I read too much.’ He nodded to himself, as if he’d escaped a tight corner.

  Dana pretended to write – her own prop. ‘Mr Whittler, I mentioned the last time we spoke that I’d return to the subject of your address. May I do that now?’

  ‘Yes, Detective Russo. If you wish.’

  She tapped finger and thumb together under the table. ‘We established previously that you’ve not had a formal address that could be found. Is that a fair summary?’

  ‘Of what?’

  She’d stumbled. ‘Of your living arrangements, and our current understanding of them.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  She inwardly cursed herself – inaccurate language was going to be picked up: it was a given. He had to respect her intellect in these ‘conversations’. If he didn’t, she felt sure he’d close down and cut her out entirely.

  ‘We also established that the most recent address was not a boat, or a caravan. But we can’t find a fixed residential address. I wonder, therefore, if you were out of state during the period from 2004 to 2019.’

  His slight smile told her that he wasn’t, even before he confirmed it.

  ‘I haven’t been out of state since I was a child, Detective Russo. Never felt the need.’

  ‘I see. In that case, I would tend towards the idea that you’ve been living in the countryside.’

  He tried to remain flintily neutral, but a muscle near his collar bone twitched. He stayed silent and touched the water-bottle cap again.

  ‘I’m assuming, Mr Whittler, that you haven’t been living in any of the cabins near the tri-lakes?’

  He looked up sharply at the mirror. ‘No. I have not. Those cabins belong to other people.’

  His voice was steelier than she’d heard it before. She decided not to react, not to confront him with his own answer. She needed him talking, so on this issue discretion had to be the better part of valour – for now. She should park it; discuss it with Bill later. It was a potential line of attack: his bristling defence of his own ethics about where he slept, when he was the primary suspect for killing a man.

  ‘Quite so. In that case, Mr Whittler, I’m left with the only reasonable alternative – that you’ve been living in the woods’ – he flickered – ‘recently?’ He stopped flickering. ‘No . . . for a very long time?’

  He pretended to cough and opened the water bottle again. She sat motionless while the glugging filled the crackling air between them. In the distance, a freight train’s shuffling seeped through the wall insulation. When he finished pouring he carefully replaced the cap, twisting the bottle so that the label faced him, and touched the cap. He left the cup alone.

  Again, she waited him out. While he was clearly comfortable with his own space and silence, she now sensed that this operated only when he was alone. When there was someone else engaging with him, he was acutely aware of their need for him to respond. Nathan Whittler seemingly comprehended enough of social graces to know people’s expectations. His first response would be flight, she was sure; when that wasn’t an option, he floundered. He found it easy to wipe out for a minute, maybe two. Most people would have given up by then, she reasoned, so he could get away with it. The uniform officers, the doctor, the cell duty, Bill: they’d all quit a few seconds after asking him something. If you could bear to stretch it for three or four minutes, there was the chance he’d break first.

  He whispered. ‘Since 2004.’

  Suddenly the air felt saturated. She could imagine Bill behind the mirror, punching the air at the breakthrough. All they needed now was . . .

  ‘And where is that camp of yours, Mr Whittler?’

  He squirmed under the question. She felt she’d pinned him, like a butterfly in a collection. His hands performed a writhing, dry-washing motion and he looked rigidly at the label on the water bottle. His lips moved slowly and silently – possibly some kind of mantra – and he scratched his face hard. It was painful to watch; Dana toyed with the idea of reaching across and gently squeezing his hand in consolation. It would have been a monstrous and hugely counter-productive gesture to make, but his anguish was plain to see and physically difficult to observe. Being Nathan Whittler was clearly not easy and the sudden insight into what it involved jarred her.

  ‘I’m sorry to ask something so personal, Mr Whittler,’ she began. ‘I can see this is distressing for you, but it’s something we must know in this situation.’

  ‘You can’t . . . don’t you see? I can’t tell you. Won’t tell you.’ He folded his arms and hunched forward. But it was the movement of a small child who knew he’d lose in the end and was making himself feel better with apparent defiance.

  Dana considered for a moment. There were any number of reasons why he wouldn’t divulge where he lived. She didn’t discount the possibility that the camp held key evidence that would implicate him. He might simply be covering his own back and hoping that, at some point, he could return to camp and destroy what might bring him down. He was, after all, the main suspect in a homicide.

  But she felt that wasn’t at the root of it; or if that was the case, it was incidental to his main problem. It felt to her that he simply found it a grotesque intrusion, a physical assault on his privacy. Perhaps she could attack it another way.

  ‘Mr Whittler, you said that you’d lived in this camp since 2004. Have you lived anywhere else in that time, or has this camp been your only home during that period?’

  Nathan took a sip. ‘It’s my only home, Detective Russo. My only home. I’m sure you understand someone’s need for their home to be their refuge. I’m sure you’re very careful who you let into your space.’

  He said it to the floor, almost to himself, but she still shook when she heard it. Despite his disconnect, he seemed able to strike at the root of her. Yet there was no malice in it, she felt; his words appeared to be benign and open to a simpler interpretation.

  ‘I understand your reticence, Mr Whittler, but—’

  ‘Would you?’ he asked.


  ‘Excuse me, would I what?’

  ‘Answer questions about your home. From a complete stranger?’

  It was not an idle enquiry; Dana could sense that Nathan did not ask such things. If he posed the query, he meant for it to be answered. She needed his co-operation and this might be a way to secure it. But she felt he needed her honesty just as much. She gambled.

  ‘To be honest, Mr Whittler, it would depend on the circumstance. I’d have to weigh up some factors.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘In no particular order, then. In this context, am I guilty or innocent? Who is asking? Exactly what are they asking? What does it cost me to tell them? What will they do with the information? What I might gain by telling. What will be inferred if I don’t. Whether it’s acceptable to withhold in the face of a reasonable question, from a reasonable person, who can be trusted with the reply.’

  He didn’t answer, but chewed on her response.

  ‘I live in an old house near here. I let very few people into it. I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. It’s filled with things I love, and many that only I could love. I can’t imagine my life anywhere but that house.’

  Nathan bit his lip and stared solidly at the floor. Then he nodded slightly and took a sip of water. It seemed to be a prelude, an acquiescence of some kind.

  Dana reminded herself that she wasn’t only asking questions here for her own knowledge; there were people behind the glass who wanted, and needed, information to act upon.

  ‘Am I correct to assume that you lived there by yourself?’

  Nathan nodded slowly.

  ‘Has anyone, at any time, visited the camp?’

  ‘I hope not. No one to my knowledge, Detective. That is, I didn’t want or need anyone to visit. So no. I don’t believe so.’

  Again, thought Dana, that running over of the sentence – continuing long after the point had been made. There was something about that which signified desperation on his part, she was certain of it. This desperation would, she already understood, make him clam up. He was buckling but also closing down; she needed to change tack.