Frozen Tracks

31

WINTER CAME TO THE ROUNDABOUT AT LINNÉPLATSEN, CONTINUED along the service road, and turned off toward Änggården.

The Waggoners lived in one of the English-type town houses. Of course. There was a Christmas tree outside the front door. There was still snow on the lawn, a thin rectangular drift that could have been a snowman once upon a time. Winter thought he could make out an orange carrot as he rang the doorbell. He rang again. He was carrying his equipment himself.

Simon Waggoner had not spoken, not drawn anything, not said anything about what had happened. It hadn’t worked in the room they’d set up at police headquarters. Maybe it would work now.

When a child is about one, it communicates in single words; at about eighteen months it starts using two-word sentences, and later it uses three-word sentences. He knew that from the interrogations he’d conducted with children, and from the literature. Christianson, Engelberg, Holmberg:

Advanced Interview and Interrogation Methodology.

And he knew from his conversations with Elsa.

He knew that a child’s language exploded between the ages of two and four.

After the age of two a child is aware that it is an individual in its own right.

The child can start to link its experiences to a concept of itself, and explain to others what it has experienced. It has a memory. It is possible to find that memory, find paths leading to it. Forgetfulness disappears as language develops.

Four-year-olds can talk about experiences they have been through.

Simon Waggoner was four. He was nowhere to be seen as Winter stood in the hall, greeting the parents, Paul and Barbara. There was a smell of Christmas spices in the house, but not quite the same as in a typical Swedish home. Perhaps there was a Christmas pudding on the stove, slowly cooking for another few hours.

“Simon is very tense,” said Paul Waggoner.

“I understand that,” said Winter.

“As far as we can gather he’s been telling his teddy bear what happened,” said Barbara Waggoner. “He confides in his teddy bear.” She looked at her husband. “I don’t know what we should make of that.”

“The teddy bear can be present at the interview,” said Winter. “What’s his name?”

“Billy.”

Billy can do the talking, Winter thought. Billy can talk via Simon.

“We’ve prepared the guest room,” said Barbara Waggoner. “We moved some of the furniture.”

“Is Simon used to being in the room?”

“Oh yes. He’s in there every day. He likes to sit there drawing.”

“Good.”

“Follow me, I’ll take you to it.”

The room was on the ground floor. They passed through the kitchen, which was big and light and had a window facing east. Sure enough something was cooking in a large saucepan, and it wasn’t a Christmas ham. There were newspapers and drawing paper and colored pencils on the kitchen table, various small molds, wrapping paper, and a stick of sealing wax. Two candles were burning in low candlesticks. There were Advent candles in the window, with three of them burning. The fourth one would be lit tomorrow, on Christmas Eve. But being an English family, their main celebration would be the day after, on Christmas Day. With full stockings in the morning.

The radio was murmuring away on the kitchen counter, just as in Winter’s flat, and he recognized the BBC voice, dry, reliable, clear. Facts, no rumors.

He hoped the Waggoners would avoid reading the newspapers, miss all the rumors and speculation.

The guest room was good, out of the way, no voices audible from elsewhere. No distracting toys on the floor or table, no Christmas decorations.

“Good,” said Winter again.

“Where shall I put the tripod?” asked Paul Waggoner.

“We need the camera to be as far away from Simon as possible,” said Winter. “But he must be able to see it.”

They placed it against the north wall, in the middle, clearly visible. Winter would work it himself, using the remote control.

The picture would have to contain both himself and Simon all the time, it was the interplay between them that had to be documented; he would need to keep coming back to the recording to see if something he did, some movement or other, affected the boy.

And he needed to capture Simon’s face, his body movements. The technology would assist him; he had the latest camera, which enabled him to focus on Simon’s face in a separate picture.

“It’s ready,” said Winter. “I’m ready.”

He went out of the room and waited in the little hallway that led to the staircase. There was a window in the wall behind, so he couldn’t really see Simon’s face properly as he came down the stairs against the light, holding his mother’s hand.

This wasn’t the first time Winter had met Simon. It might have been the third time, possibly the fourth.

He squatted down so that he could greet Simon at eye level.

“Hi, Simon.”

The boy didn’t answer. He clung to his mother’s hand and took a step to one side, diagonally backward.

Winter sat down on the floor, which was polished and varnished wood, possibly pine. It was soft.

Simon sat down on Barbara Waggoner’s knee. After a short while he slid down onto the floor.

He was holding Billy tucked under his arm. The teddy bear’s eyes were aimed straight at Winter.

“My name’s Erik,” Winter said, “and we’ve met before, haven’t we?”

Simon didn’t answer. Clung to his teddy bear.

“What’s your teddy called?” Winter asked.

The boy looked at his mother, who nodded and smiled.

“I used to have a teddy called Willy,” said Winter. It was absolutely true. It suddenly occurred to him that there was a photograph of Willy in the family album, with Winter wearing overalls, sitting and looking up at something outside the picture, holding the teddy bear with his left hand. When had he last looked at it? Why hadn’t he shown it to Elsa yet?

Simon looked at Winter.

“Mine was called Willy,” said Winter again, looking at Simon’s friend.

“Billy,” said Simon.

That was the first word Winter had heard Simon utter.

“Hello, Billy,” said Winter.

Simon held Billy out with his uninjured arm.

“I’m a policeman,” said Winter to both his interviewees, and then he looked at Simon: “My job is to find out about things. Things that have happened.” He slowly adjusted his position on the floor. “I want to ask you about that.”

Winter knew how important it was to start by placing the interview in a frame. He needed to de-dramatize the whole thing while still being clear and natural, and to make the boy feel secure. He must use simple words, short sentences, try to speak like Simon did. He must approach the center in ever-decreasing circles. Perhaps he would never get to the very center. Or perhaps he would get there amazingly quickly.

“I want to have a little talk with you,” Winter said.

Simon looked at his mom.

“You don’t have to answer, Simon.”

He moved again. He was getting stiff from sitting on the floor.

“Erik’s going to talk to you in the guest room,” said Barbara Waggoner.

Winter nodded.

“Why?” asked Simon.

“I have a camera there. It will film us,” said Winter.

“A camera?”

“It will film us,” said Winter. “When I press a button.”

“We have a video camera too,” said Simon, looking at his mother.

“We lent it to Grandma,” said Barbara Waggoner. “You remember when we were there with it, Simon, don’t you?”

The boy nodded.

“Do you want to see my camera?” Winter asked.

The boy seemed to hesitate, then he nodded.

Winter stood up and led the way into the guest room. That was important. Simon came in with his mother. Normally relatives were not allowed to sit in on interviews, but this wasn’t normal. Winter knew that Simon wouldn’t say a word if he couldn’t see his mother.

“It’s not very big,” said Simon.

“I’ll show you,” said Winter, and nodded to Mrs. Waggoner, who lifted Simon up while Winter sat on the chair Simon would be sitting on. Simon looked into the camera.

“Can you see me?” Winter asked.

Simon didn’t answer.

“Can you see when I move my hand?” asked Winter.

“Yes,” said Simon.

They sat down where they were supposed to sit. The camera was rolling. Winter started his journey toward the center in ever-decreasing circles. He had to start with neutral subjects: That would give him an indication of how well Simon spoke, what he could talk about, his linguistic ability, imagination, behavior patterns. His ability to pin down time in relation to events.

“Have you made a snowman, Simon?”

Simon nodded.

“When did you make it?”

The boy didn’t answer.

“Where’s the snowman now?”

“Out there,” said Simon, pointing at the window.

“On the lawn out there?”

“It’s broken,” said Simon, gesturing with his uninjured hand.

Winter nodded.

“It’s melted,” said Simon.

“I saw the nose when I arrived,” said Winter.

“I fixed the nose,” said Simon.

Winter nodded again.

“Have you made a snowman at the nursery school, Simon?” he asked.

The boy nodded.

“Have you made lots?”

“There hasn’t been snow.”

“Do you play indoors then?”

Simon didn’t answer. He was still holding Billy, the teddy bear, but not so tightly now. He didn’t look as often at the camera, nor at his mother.

For the first few minutes Winter had wondered if it was a mistake to allow her to be in the room, but he didn’t think so now.

“Do you play indoors when it isn’t snowing, Simon?”

“No. Play outside.”

“What games do you play?”

The boy seemed to be thinking about what to say. Winter was trying to make him start saying more. Perhaps it was too soon.

“Do you play hide-and-seek?”

“Yes.”

“Do you play tag?”

Simon didn’t answer. Perhaps he didn’t know what tag was.

“Do you chase each other?”

“Yes.”

“Do you play on the swings?”

“Yes. And the slide.”

“Do you like the slide?”

“Yes. And the train.”

“Do you have a train at the nursery school?”

Simon didn’t answer. Winter thought. Suddenly they were at the playground where Simon had disappeared, next to the big park. A regular outing for the nursery school. There was a wooden train, as close to life-size as it could be for children. Engine and coaches, on the edge of the big playground that was always full of children.

Suddenly they were there, he and Simon. Should he take them back to the secure place where they had been before, back home, and to the nursery school, continue the circular movement? Or should they stay where they were and get closer to the boy’s trauma, continue the inward journey into the darkness? Winter knew that if he moved forward too quickly he might not be able to go back to a position where the boy would say what actually happened. They would revert to silence, and they wouldn’t find anything out.

“Did you drive the train?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you drive the train, Simon?”

“At the playground.”

“Was that an outing from the nursery school?”

Simon nodded.

“Driven lots of times,” said Simon, shuffling on the chair.

Soon we’ll stop for juice and a bun and a coffee and a cig… no, not a cigarillo. But he felt the desire; it increased as he became more tense himself.

“Do you often drive the train?”

“Yes!”

“Are there lots of people traveling with you, Simon?”

“Arvid and Valle and Oskar and Valter and Manfred and… and…” he said, and Winter had time to think about how times change, old-fashioned names become fashionable again, old people revert to their childhood. Twenty years ago Simon could only have been describing a group of old-age pensioners clambering into a toy train.

“Did Billy travel with you as well?”

“No.”

“Where was Billy?”

Simon looked baffled. It was a difficult question.

“Was Billy at home?” Winter asked.

Simon still looked confused. What was wrong? What am I doing wrong? Winter thought.

“Was Billy at the nursery school?” he asked.

Simon looked at Billy and leaned down closer to the bear’s little face, which was turned toward the boy now, as if he no longer had the strength to listen to this conversation. Simon whispered something to Billy, but very quietly. He looked up again.

“Can Billy say where he was?” asked Winter.

“On the train,” said Simon. “Billy rode the train.”

“Billy rode while you were driving?”

Simon nodded again.

“Billy rode on the train all the time?”

Simon nodded.

“Not the car,” he said out of the blue, and leaned over Billy again, as if he wanted to hide his own face in the teddy bear’s. Winter could see that the boy had become more tense, from comfortable calm to sudden unrest.

My God, Winter thought. This is quick. I’ve gotten us to this point, but has it been too quick? But it was Simon who had said that, of his own accord.

“Didn’t ride in the car,” said Simon.

He’s starting to tell us what happened, Winter thought. But what does he mean? We know he was abducted. Wasn’t it in a car?

“Tell me about the car, Simon.”

What Winter needed to do now was let Simon tell his story at his own pace, in his own way. He hoped Simon felt sufficiently secure to start telling the tale. That was all he could ask for.

He remembered what he had read, and passed on to his colleagues:

Hand control over to the child and let the child decide who is going to be described. Let the child decide on the scenario. It’s important that the interviewer makes it clear that he or she doesn’t know what happened.

He would try to break down Simon’s reluctance to tell.

He must give the boy time.

He suddenly felt the need to make a note, but resisted it. He hadn’t said anything about making notes before the interview started. It would only distract Simon now, perhaps spoil something.

“Tell me about the car, Simon.”

Simon turned to Billy again. He whispered something that Winter couldn’t hear.

Now it’s time for Billy. Winter said Billy’s name and then Simon’s. Simon looked up.

“Have you told Billy about the car?” Winter asked.

Simon nodded.

“Do you think he could tell me about it?”

Simon leaned down over Billy again, and Winter waited while the pair of them discussed the matter.

“Billy wants to hear the question,” said Simon.

“I want Billy to tell me what you told him about the car,” said Winter.

“You have to ask,” said Simon.

“Was the car next to the train?”

“Simon says it was in the woods,” said Simon. His tone of voice was darker. The shift was barely noticeable, as if he had left his own body and moved into Billy’s little brown one, which he had now lifted up to face level and was holding out like an overdemonstrative ventriloquist. Winter felt a shudder, and another. I’ve used cuddly toys before, but this is different, he thought. He looked at Barbara Waggoner. She looked scared stiff.

“Tell me about the car, Billy,” said Winter.

Simon held Billy in front of his face, then lowered the teddy a little bit.

“It was a big car in some big, big woods,” chanted Simon in his changed voice, as if he were about to tell a fairy story, or a ghost story. “The boy went into the big woods and the car drove through the woods.”

Simon was looking at Winter now, not at his mother, not at the camera, and not at Billy. Winter stayed motionless. Barbara Waggoner tried not to move.

“The mister had some candies and there were candies in the car,” said Billy. “Brrrrrrmmm, brrrrrrrm, the car drove off with candies!”

Billy paused. Simon looked up.

“Billy rode in the car,” said Simon.

Winter nodded.

“Yes, so he said.”

“No, no, Billy didn’t ride in the car!” said Simon. He looked at Winter, then at his mom.

“No, no,

Billy rode in the train. Billy rode in the car!”

“Did Billy ride in the train and the car as well?” asked Winter.

“No, no.”

Simon shuffled restlessly on the chair. They were getting close to the incident.

“There was a Billy that rode in the car?” said Winter.

“Yes, yes!”

“But it wasn’t your Billy? The Billy who’s sitting here?”

“No, no!”

“Was it a teddy who rode in the car?” Winter asked.

“No!”

“What was it?”

“Billy, Billy. Billy Boy!” Simon was almost shouting now, in yet another voice, almost croaking. “Billy Billy Boy!”

“Did the mister have a Billy?” asked Winter.

Simon picked up his teddy again, returned to the teddy bear’s voice: “The mister had Rotty on the mirror.”

“Rotty?” asked Winter.

Simon lowered the teddy, and croaked: “Rotty, Rotty! Billy Boy, Billy Boy!”

Pretty Rotty, Winter thought. Pretty Polly.

“Did the mister have a parrot?”

Simon put the teddy bear in front of his face again and said:

“Yes, yes. Billy Rotty!”

Rotty on the mirror. The man had a parrot hanging from his mirror. A bird hanging from his rearview mirror.

Jesus, we’re on our way.