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, Bilclass="underline" 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.