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 finger 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.