Hermit

by S. R. White

  Dana’s finger and thumb twitched. She wondered how many minutes were left in her Day.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know if he’s rattled that Whittler didn’t know, or angry that his little brother has stayed alive and out of his reach. He’d have expected Whittler to come crawling back, unable to cope with the real world.’

  Mike couldn’t work out which part of Dana’s characteristic finger-twitching was the backdraught of Jeb, and which part was the underlying tension she’d shown all day.

  ‘Having watched them both,’ he said, ‘I’d have bet on the latter. Jeb wants everyone within reach and scared – any other scenario annoys him. Whittler coming back would have been swiftly followed by Jeb offing him and burying him on the farm. Turns out running and hiding saved his little brother’s life.’

  ‘Yes, yes it did, and he knows it, too, I’m sure. Feels it deep down. That notion infected everything he did from that moment on.’ She checked the drawer for nebulisers. ‘Any further news on that intelligence between Lou Cassavette and the Alvarez family?’

  ‘Yeah, no, that looks like a dead end. It’s true that Lou knew the Alvarez boys, grew up alongside them, shared the same accountant. But Kaspar’s minions haven’t found anything to connect them in a criminal sense. No intel on money laundering or protection, or anything. No evidence they’re in touch.’

  Lucy poked her head around the doorframe. ‘Need an update?’

  ‘What do you have, Luce?’

  ‘So, I’ve looked into this whole insulin thing. Which, by the way, is totally screwed up. Anyway, it seems it is technically possible, but immensely inadvisable. The body’s chemical reaction to exactly the right dosage is as Whittler described. So theoretically, it’s possible to do that, and then I suppose, in theory, do it on more than one occasion.’

  Something in the back of Dana’s mind said she’d heard of such a thing before. ‘But since this isn’t happening all over the nation, there are some big problems, no?’

  ‘Précisément, chérie. So, the first problem is getting the dosage right. I mean, it’s a very fine line between right and totally wrong. Get it totally wrong and they can die. Blood sugar’s a constantly moving target. Even if you knew the required dosage now, it might be potentially fatal an hour from now. I’m assuming Jeb had controlled their diet and circumstances before injecting them. That would help, but it would only turn it from near impossible to pretty near impossible. Basically, Jeb got incredibly lucky to identify the correct dosage, then incredibly lucky again that the same dosage didn’t produce a different outcome the next time. When I say “different outcome” I mean of course, serious illness or death.’

  Mike gave Dana a sidelong glance. ‘Like we said, Russian Roulette.’

  ‘Which was probably part of the appeal for him,’ Dana mused. ‘I bet Jeb didn’t get it right every time – sometimes overcooked it, sometimes left them partially mobile. Of course, under-cooking was fine. He could do what he liked anyway; having to control two people acting like drugged kittens wouldn’t be a stretch. So the window of “correct dosage” was wider than, for example, a doctor would deem acceptable.’

  She shivered at the thought that Nathan had been subjected to that.

  ‘What else, Luce?’

  ‘I was just going to add on that point: Jeb would never be able to take them to hospital, would he? I mean, if they were in diabetic coma and wouldn’t wake up, he couldn’t allow a doctor to see them. They’d be in a diabetic coma, but clearly not diabetic. The doctor would twig and Jeb would be prime suspect.’

  ‘Good point. I hadn’t thought that part through.’ The gamble was bigger than she’d first calculated: Jeb was playing with his parents’ lives but, in addition to that, he couldn’t ask for help if anything went wrong.

  Lucy beamed. ‘Second problem is the cumulative effect – like anything where you continually whack the human body to an extreme, especially when the extreme is unhealthy. In the longer term, the human body starts to break down. It would be like bingeing, or burning: something the body can’t keep trying to cope with. Jeb apparently did this regularly. The nurse I spoke to said the victims’ systems would be under severe stress. The organs, especially – prone to collapse.’

  Dana was doing a quick calculation based on Nathan’s evidence of frequency. The irony was that the Whittler parents were – on one measure – two of the luckiest people on the planet.

  ‘Third,’ continued Lucy, ‘you asked if there was some wonder drug that could bring them back from the brink? There is, sort of. It’s called Glucagon. It’s used in ERs, and diabetics often carry it for a one-off emergency. It restores blood sugar levels, and fast.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Dana, ‘so if he mis-cooks, he can remedy that with the antidote.’

  Lucy nodded. ‘All the same, it’s not perfect. It only acts temporarily, it’s an imperfect science, and it has some side effects. In other words, if you’re an untrained psycho jabbing a restorative into a comatose person, you’re not doing it right. Not accurate enough, not controlled enough, and no way to monitor if you’re getting it right. So, again, their bodies are put under immense strain. Jeb got very lucky, constantly.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Mike, shaking his head, ‘it was a wonder they were still alive when Whittler left. Jeb had no idea what he was doing.’

  ‘And he seemingly couldn’t care less about that,’ replied Dana. ‘Especially once he had that power of attorney and the property, the parents would gradually feel like disposable toys to him.’

  She thought about after Nathan had left. Jeb getting bored with only two helpless victims; maybe knowing that he was pushing his luck each time; eager to move on with a new phase of life, and having the money he needed to do it.

  ‘Makes me think their car accident might be no such thing,’ she continued. ‘Maybe they were killed by freezing and Jeb put them in a car and rolled them down a cliff.’

  ‘Yeah, or faced with endless abuse and no respite, they deliberately . . .’ Mike left it unfinished as Dana blanched.

  ‘Ah,’ said Lucy. ‘Once again I can assist in a way that’s almost spookily clever. I’ve had the estimable Rainer following all the detail on that car crash. It looks absolutely . . . uh, “benign” is the wrong word. Legit: that’s the word. Icy evening, a corner. There was a truck driver coming the other way, had to slam on the brakes. He thinks the car driver would have fought the skid all the way: car found a small gap between two trees, then down into the ravine. Not really suspicious’ – she glanced at Dana – ‘but the digging isn’t over.’

  ‘Notwithstanding all that, Luce, it still doesn’t sit well with me. I mean, of course it is possible to go into an icy corner too quickly and come a cropper. But equally, it’s possible for the driver to plan it.’

  Dana could feel the judder in her voice as she recollected this Day twelve months ago: staring at a tree while the engine purred. The calculations of speed and trajectory; the need for the impact to be on the driver’s side; the assessment of where the debris might fly and who it could strike; the imagined faces of the emergency services and her role in their subsequent PTSD; the will and testament sitting on her kitchen table that morning; the anticipation of what colleagues might say. She knew how the Whittler parents would have prepared: what they would anticipate, how it would sit in their guts. She could guess that they held hands as the car left the tarmac. Dana could see it all.

  ‘I don’t like the convenience of it. The parents’ death frees up Jeb nicely, doesn’t it, at precisely the time he wants autonomy? Or, their death is the only way for the parents to escape because the whole insulin story is true? Either way, I want some more details around it. I don’t like the idea of Jeb getting away with anything.’

  She was about to ask another question when the phone intervened.

  ‘Hey, Rainer. Your ears must be burning. Okay. Yes, push through.’

  She grabbed a pen and scratched Pitman speedily for a couple of minutes. Mike and Lucy played rock,
paper, scissors. Lucy remained unbeaten.

  ‘Uh-huh. Oh, really? Yes, certainly, as long as it’s not needed in court it won’t be public: that’s all we can offer.’ She sat back. ‘Thanks. Good sleuthing, Rainer, Lucy would be proud.’

  She replaced the receiver. Lucy leaned forward expectantly.

  ‘What will make me proud? What did my protégé-stroke-minion do?’

  ‘He just verified the insulin story. When Rainer went out to the Whittler farm earlier, the new owner told him someone was sniffing around the place a day or two after Jeb shot through. They reported it, and it was investigated and the woman identified. She claimed she was an old friend who hadn’t realised Jeb had moved. Rainer got the initial report and followed up. Turns out, it’s a little more complex than that. She’s Natalie Brewer, former girlfriend of Jeb’s. She was a nurse at Earlville Mercy at the time. She’d told Jeb about the whole coma thing, never thinking he’d actually try it. He already knew of it. He muscled her into stealing some – not hard to picture that – and he started on his parents.

  ‘She made a statement just now at Earlville Mercy. Rainer will email the statement and the interview in about an hour. That places Jeb right in the spotlight, capable of doing exactly what Nathan said he’d been doing. Makes a little more sense now. No doubt Natalie procured the insulin and the . . .’

  ‘Glucagon.’

  ‘. . .yes, what you just said. Might have got the needles for him, too. Apparently when she heard Jeb had sold up and left she went there looking for the extra packs she figured he hadn’t used, because they might be traceable back to her.’

  ‘So we know for sure why Whittler ran, and we can prove it,’ said Mike.

  Dana nodded, almost ecstatic that, however outlandish it had seemed, everything Nathan Whittler had said was true.

  The phone rang again.

  ‘Dana Russo.’ She paused, and the others could hear a tinny microcosm of Bill’s voice.

  ‘Is he okay? . . . All right, yes. Sure. The doc’s fine with that? Uh-huh. I think we’ – she glanced at her watch – ‘we can do that, yes. I’ll see him in Interview One in ten. Thank you.’

  She put the phone down and took a deep breath.

  ‘Whittler okay?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘Yes. Well, sort of.’ Dana was distracted, trying to race ahead even as she ran out of petrol. ‘I mean, he passed the psych test and he’s bandaged up. So, all good there.’

  Mike frowned. ‘So what’s up?’

  ‘They say Whittler has asked to talk.’

  Chapter 34

  It was unusual for Dana to arrive first. For the first time today, Nathan was setting the agenda and the timings. Dana didn’t feel she could delay: he might change his mind and decide to wait for legal advice. It was hard to escape the notion that this was still a window that might slam shut at any moment. But alongside that was an uncomfortable sense that she wasn’t controlling and shaping what now took place.

  She frantically read back through her notes, trying to make sure she could slip from fact to fable, number to date, speculation to concrete, without breaking stride. She wanted to be able to interpret everything Nathan said without disturbing his flow. If she screwed it up and let the momentum fail, they probably wouldn’t get another chance. Nathan’s faith in her was genuine, but fragile.

  Dana was aware that he was considered vulnerable. She guessed that his defence lawyer – when they arrived, and if they were worth their salt – would claim he was in no fit state. She knew better; as did Nathan himself. They both understood, after hours facing each other across the table, what Nathan could deal with and what was beyond him. They both knew Dana wasn’t pushing him into anything. The trust that stemmed from that was precisely why he was now seemingly prepared to talk. This was the pay-off for the patience, the empathy, the politeness. The humanity.

  Nathan came in and she experienced the novelty of his shadow falling across hers before sweeping away. She hadn’t had to pay attention to his stride before. It was a shuffle. Nathan was embarrassed to be here: not only in this room under these circumstances, but to exist at all. She poured his water while he tapped his fingers together. When he moved his gaze from shoe to table, he was able to see her touch the bottle cap for him.

  ‘How are your hands, Mr Whittler?’

  He examined them, as though for the first time. She would have called his skin pale, but against the dazzling white of fresh bandages she could see some ravages of sun and wind. His hands were locked in a crabby half-grip.

  ‘Oh, good, thank you, Detective. The doctor was very efficient. Self-inflicted, so . . . I can hardly complain.’

  ‘I’m sorry we had to tell you something that led to that.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I’m glad to know. I . . . missed that information. Sometimes I would acquire a newspaper. Always an old one, though: the ones they kept out the back for return later. Useful insulation. Emergency toilet paper. Crosswords. But I didn’t read anything like that. No. Thank you, Detective.’

  It had occurred to her that Nathan might very quickly pass through the shock and feel his parents had escaped to a better place – free at last of Jeb and his sick little hobbies.

  ‘I think, Mr Whittler,’ she began, ‘we’ve reached the time where we talk about this morning. Specifically, what happened in Jensen’s Store before dawn.’

  ‘Oh?’ Nathan raised his eyebrow, staring at the floor.

  Dana thought for a moment. She could phrase the next question strategically, to make it seem inevitable that he should then talk about Lou Cassavette.

  ‘Is there anything else you’d like to discuss before we talk about this morning?’

  Nathan sat back and puffed his cheeks. He held his hands together in his lap; he looked as if he were clasped in invisible handcuffs. His body language resembled that of the condemned.

  ‘I can’t . . . no, I can’t think of anything. The insulin? You’ve satisfied yourself on that score, Detective? I sensed you had reservations of some kind.’

  ‘It was quite a lot to take in, Mr Whittler. It needed verification, research. Yes, we have, thank you. We contacted someone, and we have a statement from them.’

  Nathan nodded slowly, trying to pull back a specific detail.

  ‘Ah, probably . . . Natalie? Yes. I only met her a couple of times. Nice girl, pretty. Terrified of Jeb, of course. Like all of us. Still, all that’s in the past now.’

  Nathan blinked and a tear escaped. Dana pretended not to notice.

  ‘Any crime investigation I undertake, Mr Whittler, is a search for the truth. Innocence, guilt, or anything in between: that’s a matter for lawyers and courts. My job is veracity, integrity and evidence. Whatever we say here, about this morning, is simply one more piece of evidence.’

  Nathan frowned at his bandaged hands.

  ‘Well, of course. But it might be compelling, mightn’t it? I mean, if I confess.’

  Much of her discussions with Bill during the day had been, obliquely, about how Nathan’s potential confession would sit. Hence the concerns she’d had about not tiring him out, about showing due concern for his welfare. If he sat here and admitted killing Lou Cassavette, she needed it to be on terms that couldn’t be attacked by a defence lawyer. Nathan was rested, supported, had overtly refused legal help and had been treated well: all that added weight to any admission. All the same, she wanted to minimise any pressure he might impose on himself.

  ‘Hmm. People often think confessions are the be-all and end-all, but they seldom are. For example, sometimes people confess when they’re nowhere near the crime in question. They might want attention, they might need help, they might be fantasists. Any confession, by anyone, is never more than another brick in the wall – it has to be corroborated, just as much as a witness statement.’

  ‘I see. Yes, I can see that. But thinking from the other end, Detective, if I had done something wrong, why would I confess?’

  It was a logical question. Dana hadn’t yet come at him with killer
forensics, for example, or CCTV coverage of the killing. He didn’t know what she had or didn’t have; perhaps, strategically, it would make sense for Nathan to simply wait and see what she could throw. But he didn’t seem inclined to follow that path.

  ‘Well, each to their own, Mr Whittler. But in my experience there are three main reasons why people confess to what they’ve done. Firstly, they may simply consider it part of a longer process and set little store by it. In that sense, it doesn’t matter to them if they confess or not: it’s simply another minute of the interview. Or secondly, they seek to gain an advantage from it. They believe they can either influence future processes or they can gain favour. Or thirdly, they think they’ll feel better for having done so.’

  Nathan snorted. ‘Good for the soul, or something?’

  Dana didn’t consider herself an expert on what was good for the soul. Others decided that – seldom well, in her experience. No: confession was only good for the soul when the torment of not confessing was even greater. It was a judgement call; a balance. It was perfectly possible, she knew, to carry a guilty conscience for the rest of your life without it ever quite breaking you. The vice tightens every day; but you never quite snap. As Nathan had said earlier, everything can be survived, if you go about it right.

  ‘Everyone’s soul is different, Mr Whittler. I won’t presume to know the state of yours. But didn’t you run through this very scenario while you were sitting in your cell? That you’d be sitting in front of me, at this kind of moment?’

  Nathan nodded. ‘Yes, I did. Imagined it every which way. But now, when you actually ask me . . .’ He ran to a halt and squeezed his hands together. A small bloom of blood pulsed against the bandage.

  She gave him a minute. A long, silent minute where she made sure not to move a muscle. The only thing in motion was Nathan’s mind: whirling and twisting, predicting consequence, mulling angles and options.

  ‘I’m glad you understand what sort of person Jeb was,’ he said, ‘and what sort of home I grew up in. The iconography in the house, the threat; the dread in my anticipation of each day. I was permanently waiting for the dam to burst. I think – no, I’m certain – you understand that feeling, Detective. Am I wrong?’