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 celclass="underline" 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 chances 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.’