A Killer Man

The man sitting before me is gorgeous. His long, expensively cut hair, is tied in a bun accentuating his chiseled cheekbones and strong jawline. His head sits proportionally atop his neck on strong, wide shoulders. The black button-down he wears fits comfortably across his chest, pectorals and biceps clearly defined, with just a little bit of chest hair searching for full exposure. Peaking from rolled-up sleeves, an intricate maze of surfaced veins unfold across his forearms suggesting similarly strong hands under the table. His well-fitting jeans allow his thigh muscles to define themselves without movement. Wow, simply wow.

Who is he? I know only the facts: 46, an artist and single. His address reads a South London postcode not far from mines. He identified the body of a girl as being that of his assistant. She was found this morning in a skip behind his house. His hands emerge from under the table. He places them palms down, the relaxed curl of his fingers displaying the never ending web of veins.

           With a straight back and relaxed shoulders, he’s poised for this moment. What’s he thinking? His head slowly twists to the left, then right, dips back to the left and does the same on the right. A deep inhale follows and he closes his eyes.Whether guilty or innocent most people who find themselves in that chair are nervous and fidgety. He’s at ease. I’d like to take his pulse. I look between the three monitors recording the room from different angles. I wish I could ask for them to zoom in. The eyes are a portal to the soul and the look in this man’s eyes means…

…Whatever I want it to mean. Because I can’t tell a bloody thing from a video. Actually, come to think of it, why am I here? What illuminating sounding observation can be concocted from where I’m standing to justify the Superintendent’s request I observe this interview? ‘Well, guv, I can tell he’s an intelligent man, the type of fella who knows what he wants and how to get it,’ hardly sounds professional. Wouldn’t I just love to admit there is a softness around those chiseled edges? It's been a while for you, hasn’t it Valle?

The man takes another deep breath that’s punctuated with a flick of the tongue across his lower lip. His facial muscles move; I lurch closer to the television monitor.Yes, it’s unmistakable, he’s-- The crimp in his eyes is a prelude to a smile.He’s smiling.

Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Bialac enters the room with his usual air of chaotic functionality. Tommy perpetually looks like he’s been taking a nap in the backseat of car covered in newspapers. The state of his hair some would call bedroom chic, I’d categorise as an irregular, seemingly unwashed and uncombed nest of thick grey and white wisps. In his tried-and-true khaki’s, white shirt and ancient brown jumper, he looks decades older than his actual age. For all his disastrous appearance—and even more charming personality--he’s a great copper, and one the best lads for a laugh. Asher thinks Tommy could be a

superintendent one day, but I know Tommy hasn’t the stomach for politics. He’s smart enough to know where he fits.

Tommy switches on the tape and introduces himself, taking the chair across the table from the interviewee. The man in the opposite chair speaks with a British inflected foreign accent. A cross between posh and what? Scandinavian? Yes, his accent is London and somewhere else. He confirms his name to be Alexander Johannes Schiller and his address to be in Stockwell.

‘Mr. Schiller, you understand that you’re here because you identified the body found in the skip behind your home as being that of your assistant, Peaches Cain?’

‘Yes.’

‘Therefore, you understand that this is an informative interview and you are not suspected of committing a crime?’

‘Yes.’

‘That said, do you feel you require representation?’

‘You have told me I am suspected of no crime.’ He says ‘have’ with a hard ‘h’ and ‘f’ for ‘v.’

‘Yes, but you have the right to a solicitor should you wish.’

‘Detective, I do not have much time. Please ask your questions.’

Tommy clears his throat. ‘Mr. Schiller, did you identify the body of Peaches Cain in the presence of a constable and me, at 10:45 this morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘And can you please confirm how you know the deceased?’

‘She has been my assistant for some months.’

‘What do you do,Mr. Schiller?’

‘I am a sculptor.’

‘For clarification, Peaches was your sculpting assistant?’

‘No. She works for Emprorsorium, the people who represent my work. She was a receptionist and did little jobs for me.’

‘Were you expecting to find her body in a skip behind your house?’

           Tommy’s not wasting time either. Schiller doesn’t flinch an inch of his silky dark brown hair.

‘No. I was not expecting her to be dead next to my home. But I would like to know what she was doing there. She knew where I lived, she has been to my home many times. But this? It is strange, yes?’

‘What exactly was the nature of yours and the deceased’s relationship, Mr. Schiller?’

‘She was my assistant and we fucked from time to time. She had a nice smile and good tits.How could I resist?’

His matter-of-factness is neither laced with sleaziness nor boasting, he’s just stating the facts.

           ‘How could you not,’ Tommy comments with raised eyebrows. ‘When was the last time you saw Ms. Cain?’

‘It has been sometime now. A few months, I think.’

‘She wasn’t with you last night?’

Tommy’s asking questions without asking them.

‘Yesterday evening I was at home with my friend Miki. You saw him today.’

‘I did. A Miki Jungsen, was it?’

Schiller nods.

‘When exactly was the last time you saw the deceased, Mr. Schiller?’

‘August. I do notwork directly with the clients, you see, so coming to my home with changes to commissions was a way for us to see each other. You understand?’

‘Crystal.’

‘We had a drink on my veranda and talked. And then she left.’

‘Can you recall the exact dates, Mr. Schiller?’

‘The middle of August, I think. I had just returned from Berlin.’

‘Was it light or dark?’

Schiller momentarily looks perplexed by the question.

‘It was an evening.’

‘Yes, but where was the sun?’

‘The sun was coming down. It was light and dark,’ he replies with a smirk.

‘What did you and Peaches talk about?’

The man smiles coyly. ‘She wanted to have sex. I did not want it and asked her to leave,

Mr. Bialak.’ He pronounces Tommy’s last name with a hard ‘k.’

‘And why did you not want it, Mr. Schiller?’

‘I needed to work.Also, I was no longer enjoying myself with Peaches.’

‘She was upset then?’

‘To tell a woman you are finished with her is not always so nice.’

‘Was she noticeably upset Mr. Schiller?’

‘Yes. She wanted to know why. I spared her and asked her to leave.’

‘Do you think she would have harmed herself?’

Schiller laughs at the absurdity of the question. ‘I cannot answer this question, Mr. Bialak. How can we know such things about people?’

There’s a prolonged pause as the men stare at each other. Both trying to understand who they’re dealing with.

‘I’m sure you’re quite busy,’ Tommy breaks the stalemate, ‘and see no reason to keep you longer.Do you plan on leaving the U.K. in the near future?’

The detective watching the interview with me in the observation room sits to attention. The confused expression we share, relieves us both.

‘No, detective,’Alexander Schiller replies without a bit of concern.

‘Don’t worry,’Tommy assures Schiller and us, we just might have a few more questions for you.So far, you’re the only one who knew her intimately. If you do plan on going somewhere, an art show or something, please let us know.’ Tommy slides his card across the table with an accompanying toothless smile.

‘Of course.’

‘Interview of Alexander Schiller terminated at 3:48pm on Wednesday, the 12^th of October.’

The tape clicks. Tommy opens the door of the interview room and gestures for the waiting constable to escort Mr. Schiller. The video is still running and from the monitor D.I.Rivers and I watch Alexander Schiller abruptly stop at the door.

The secondary audio on the video is faint, but we clearly hear Schiller: ‘Why did you not ask me how I felt about her being dead, Mr. Bailaak?’ He poses with an air of confusion. ‘Peaches being dead is inconvenient for me also.’

The camera’s odd angle prevents us from seeing Tommy’s face, but his body language show’s him to be caught in his tracks.

We do not hear Tommy’s reply, if he’s said anything, we see only the tip of his hand as he gestures Schiller out the door.

‘What the bloody hell was that?’ Detective Inspector Rivers asks me.

‘I don’t know.’

           The junior police officer switches off the TV monitors and turns on the lights.

‘Shit,’ I say aloud. Irritated I crumple part of Alexander Schiller’s vitals in my hand.There was something in that exchange with Tommy.

‘You alright, Dr.Abiah?’ Rivers asks from outside the observation room.

‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine.’ I violently switch off the lights.

Sauntering down the corridor, I feel like a child who hasn’t gotten her way. I turn the corner to the lifts and it happens: I lock eyes with Alexander Johannes Schiller. It’s one of those encounters you’re not sure of how it’s happened, one minute you were there and now you’re here and it’s a moment.

His hazel eyes change to green as he focuses on me. I know my pupils are dilated and my heart rate has increased. This is what they call coup de foudre. As fast as our eyes meet, they disconnect. I’m the first to get on the lift. He after me.

Standing behind him I see how tall he is. My chin could rest perfectly at the top of his shoulder blades, with my face in the crook of his neck. Even through his loose rain parka, the muscled definition of his upper body is noticeable. I close my eyes and breath in deeply: musk and jasmine. The doors open and he walks out into reception. People step on as I watch Alexander Schiller look slightly over his shoulder as he exits the building. He’s satisfied in the knowledge he’s being watched. The lift doors close and he vanishes into the crisp London air.I ride back to the Criminal Investigation Department, wondering how this has come to pass, knowing full well, I should be asking why.

*

With hesitation, I knock on Ash’s door. I timidly poke my head in before being granted permission.He’s standing looking out the window, his back turned to me.

           ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Colm, do you have a moment?’

‘Yes, Dr. Abiah,’ he turns and faces me, ‘I do.’

He takes a seat at his desk and I drop myself onto the sofa. The heavy shadows under his eyes are noticeable from where I sit.

           ‘How are you?’ I begin.

           ‘I’m alright. You?’

           ‘A little confused. I’m not sure…’ This is not what I want to say. I start again: ‘Why did you ask me to sit in on Alexander Schiller’s interview? He wasn’t charged?’Again, not what I want to say, but I’ve already started.

           ‘I know,’ he says in his Edinburgh brogue. ‘Tommy’s curious about the way he volunteered himself.’

           ‘In coming to the knick?’

           ‘No,at the crime scene.’

           ‘He was going to be questioned at some point--’

           ‘So why not get it over with?’ He finishes my sentence.

           I shrug. ‘He’s eager. What’s wrong with that?’

           Asher nods in agreement, yet more to placate me than because he believes it.

           ‘Has Tommy told you about the body?’

           ‘No.What about it?’

           ‘The girl was stark naked, yet Brucie couldn’t determine exact cause or time of death.’

           ‘What?’

           He nods. ‘No visible signs of trauma at all.’

           I’m wracking my brain for the multitude of biological scenario’s that’d make it difficult to determine time of death. All I can think of is drowning.

           ‘And no, she didn’t drown.’ He can always read my mind.

           The pause that follows is filled with both our familiarity and discomposed nerves.My eyes search the room for the courage to continue the rapport, he sits patiently in wait.

            ‘Tommy’s a good enough cop, Asher. Why did you need me to sit in?’

           I’m intuitive enough to know the answer to this question, I just want to hear it from him.

An exasperated sigh. ‘We wanted to know what you think of him.’

‘Tommy can spot a liar faster than I,’ I retort.

He’s tired and I’m pushing him. ‘Just a gut feeling, Dr. Abiah. We only wanted your opinion.’

‘A gut feeling does not qualify him as a possible suspect, Chief Superintendent.’ Why have I soured my tone?

‘No, it doesn’t,’he grits. ‘We just wanted to know what you thought.’ He noticeably tenses.

This was never going to be an enjoyable conversation. Tartly, I give him the opinion he’s after: ‘I’d say Alexander Schiller is telling the truth about knowing the deceased. He’s freely admitted to having a sexual relationship with her, which answers that question. Thus far, the most enticing evidence is that of the girl’s body. Until you know more, and share it with me, there’s nowhere to go with this.’

‘Would you like more information?’ His body relaxes into a satisfied ooze, he knows he’s got me.

‘Yes,’ I stutter,‘if you’re asking me to professionally assess the interviewee.’

‘Fine. I’ll keep you up to date,’ he bluntly resolves, switching the gears to work. His mobile vibrates on the desk and he reaches for it.

There’s an awkward lull as he inspects his phone, leaving me with the driving impulse to speak, to not let ourselves settle into the void.

‘Um, have you read my evaluation of D.C. Jones?’

‘Yes,’ he replies not looking up from his device.

‘Do you agree with my assessment?’

His briefly looks up at me. ‘We’ll keep him at a desk and see how things go from there.’

‘That’s fair.’

D.C. Jones has been seeing me as he recovers from a particularly brutal run-in where he was badly beaten and sustained a stab wound to his calf. Suffice it say, he’s not sure he’s got what it takes anymore.

There’s more emptiness in the room that beckons me to fill it. ‘How are you?’ I mumble.

He sets down his mobile. ‘We’re not going to have this conversation now,’ he says quietly.

I shrug; I made the effort.

‘Fair enough,’ I concede. ‘I’ll be home tonight if you want to come round.’ I pick myself up and walk out the office. I don’t know what that was, but I can’t deny it didn’t make me happy to talk with him.

Dragging down the corridor I pass a of couple officer’s I know, those I don’t I’ll meet soon enough. The C.I.D has a reputation for wreaking psychological havoc.  

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