In the window-hole he stood still for a moment; I saw the thought go through his mind, but before I could say anything he must have realized that from that height he would be lucky to break anything more than his ankles. He swung himself out of the window and started climbing, docile as a dog.
This guy I used to know gave me the nickname back in training college, when I scored a scorcher of a goal in some football match. I let it stick because I thought it would give me something to live up to. In the second when I was alone, in that terrible room filled with moonlight and sea-roar and months of waiting and watching, a tiny part at the back of my mind thought:
10
We stuck to the uninhabited streets, Richie and me with our hands tucked through our man’s elbows, like we were helping our buddy home after a long night’s bad drinking. None of us said a word-most people would have at least a few questions if you slapped cuffs on them and hauled them off to a cop car, but not this guy. Slowly the sound of the sea subsided and left room for the rest of the night, bats shrilling, wind tugging at forgotten scraps of canvas; for a while teenagers’ jagged shouts reached us, thin and faraway, bounced back and forth off concrete and brick. Once I heard a harsh swallow that made me think our man might be crying, but I didn’t turn my head to look. He had called enough shots.
We put him in the back of the car, and Richie leaned on the bonnet while I moved out of earshot to make phone calls: sending the patrol floaters to hunt for a car parked somewhere not far from the estate, telling the bait floater she could go home, letting the night admin know we would need an interview room ready. Then we drove back to Dublin in silence. The haunted blackness of the estate, scaffolding bones looming up out of nowhere, stark against the stars; then the smooth speed of the motorway, cat’s-eyes flicking in and out of existence and the moon keeping pace off to one side, huge and watchful; then, gradually, the colors and movement of town building up around us, drunks and fast-food joints, the world coming back to life outside our sealed windows.
The squad room was quiet, just the two guys on call looking up from their coffees as we passed the door, to see who had been out night-hunting and was bringing something home. We put our man in the interview room. Richie undid the cuffs and I talked the guy through the rights sheet, in a bored drone like this was just meaningless paperwork. The word “solicitor” got a violent shake of his head; when I put the pen in his hand, he signed without a single question. The signature was a jerky squiggle that gave away nothing but an initial C. I picked up the sheet and left.
We watched him from the observation room, through the one-way glass. It was the first time I had had a proper look at him. Short-cropped brown hair, high cheekbones, a jutting chin with a couple of days’ worth of reddish stubble; he was wearing a black duffle coat that had seen plenty of use, a heavy roll-neck gray jumper and faded jeans, all dressed up for a night’s stalking. He had on hiking boots: the runners were gone. He was older than I had thought, and taller-late twenties, and not far off six foot-but he was so thin that he looked like the last stages of a hunger strike. It was the thinness that had minimized him into something younger, smaller, harmless. That illusion could have got him in the Spains’ door.
No cuts or bruises that I could see, but anything could be hidden under all those clothes. I turned the interview-room thermostat up higher.
It felt good, seeing him in that room. Most of our interview rooms could do with a shower, a shave and a full makeover, but I love every inch of them. Our territory fights on our side. In Broken Harbor he had been a shadow that moved through walls, an iodine scent of blood and seawater, with shards of moonlight stuck in his eyes. Now he was just a guy. They all are, once you get them between those four walls.
He sat hunched rigidly in the uncomfortable chair, staring down at his fists on the table like he was bracing himself for torture. He hadn’t even glanced around the room-linoleum pocked with old cigarette burns and lumps of chewing gum, walls scored with graffiti, bolted-down table and filing cabinet, the video camera’s dull red light watching him from a high corner-to get his bearings. I said, “What do we know about him?”
Richie was watching so intently that his nose was practically touching the glass. “He’s not on anything. At first I was thinking he could be on the gear, ’cause he’s so skinny, but no.”
“Not right now, anyway. That’s good for us: if we get anything, we don’t want him saying it was the drugs talking. What else?”
“Loner. Nocturnal.”
“Right. Everything says he’s more comfortable keeping his distance from other people, rather than making close contact-he got his kicks by watching, broke in when the Spains were out rather than when they were asleep. So when it comes time to push him, we want to get in close, get in his face, both of us at once. And since he’s nocturnal, we want the push to come towards dawn, when he’s starting to fade. Anything else?”
“No wedding ring. More than likely he lives alone: no one to notice when he’s out all night, ask him what he’s at.”
“Which would have its upside and its downside, as far as we’re concerned. No flatmate to testify that he got in at six on Tuesday morning and ran the washing machine for four hours straight, but on the other hand, no one for him to bother hiding things from. When we find his gaff, there’s a chance he’ll have left us a little present-the bloodstained clothes, that honeymoon pen. Maybe a trophy he took the other night.”
The guy stirred, groped at his face, rubbed clumsily at his mouth. His lips were swollen and cracked, like he had gone a long time without water.
Richie said, “He’s not working a nine-to-five. He could be unemployed, or self-employed, or maybe he does shift work or a part-time gig-something that means he can spend the night up in that nest when he wants to, without banjaxing himself for work the next day. Just going by the clothes, I’d say middle-class.”
“So would I. And he’s never been in the system before-his prints came up clean, remember. He probably doesn’t even know anyone who’s ever been in the system. He’s got to be disoriented and scared. That’s good stuff, but we want to save it for when we need it. We want to get him as relaxed as we can, see how far that takes us, then scare the living shite out of him when it comes to the big push. The good thing is, he won’t walk out on us before then. Middle-class guy, probably got respect for authority, doesn’t know the system… He’ll stay till we kick him out.”
“Yeah. Probably he will.” Richie was drawing absent, abstract patterns in the mist his breath had left on the glass. “And that’s all I can figure out about him. You know that? This fella’s organized enough to set up that nest, disorganized enough that he doesn’t even bother taking it down again. Clever enough to get himself into that house, thick enough to take the weapons away with him. He’s got enough self-control that he waited for months, but he can’t even wait two nights after the murder before he’s back up to his hide-and he must’ve known we’d be on the lookout, must’ve done. I can’t get a handle on him.”
On top of all that, the guy looked much too frail to have done this. I wasn’t fooled. Plenty of the most brutal predators I’ve caught looked soft as kittens, and they’re always at their tamest just after the kill, spent and sated. I said, “He’s got no more self-control than a baboon. None of them do. We’ve all wanted to kill someone, at some point in our lives-don’t tell me you haven’t. What makes these guys different from us is that they don’t stop themselves from actually doing it. Scratch the surface and they’re animals: screaming, shit-flinging, throat-ripping animals. That’s what we deal with. Never forget that.”
Richie didn’t look convinced. I said, “You think I’m being hard on them? Society’s given them a raw deal, and I should have a little more empathy?”
“Not exactly. Just… if he’s got no control, then how’d he manage to hold back for so long?”
I said, “He didn’t. We’re missing something.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Like you said, this guy spent at least a few months, probably more, just watching the Spains, maybe occasionally sneaking into the house when they weren’t around. That wasn’t his amazing self-control in action: it was because that was all he needed to get his fix. And then, all of a sudden, he comes
