There was nothing else. Mr Koppler rubbed his thighs again, sat back in his chair and shut his eyes. Strebel put away his notebook. He glanced again about the room and saw the pink cat-monkey that longed for Sophie’s touch, longed to nestle in her arm when she fell asleep, her soft breath smelling of bubble-gum-flavored toothpaste.
‘She could have come to work with me,’ Mr Koppler said, his eyes open again, tight and small behind thick glasses. ‘She would have been no trouble.’
Statement by Mrs Alicia Berger; interviewing officer: Sergeant Teresa Caspary
14 March 2015 14:32
I left my home about twenty past eight to walk William.
[Sgt Caspary asks Mrs Berger to clarify who is William.]
He’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback. They are very large dogs, and some people therefore find them intimidating, but they have excellent dispositions and are easy to train. Being a widow for more than five years now, I have taken William to be my best friend.
I walk with William every morning, weather permitting, at almost the same time and on the same route. He does enjoy his walks, so the weather must be really bad to deter us. And that morning the rain was holding off. It was just a little on the chilly side.
William and I never alter our route. I believe a dog has a natural territory, and by taking the same route I am allowing William to designate and maintain — to patrol — his territory. I must add here that he is always on a leash. I have a humane collar, a harness that goes over his chest and shoulders rather than around his neck. William is beautifully trained and very obedient. I never have to even tug a little on the leash to remind him of his manners. Which is why I find his behavior perplexing.
[Sgt Caspary asks Mrs Berger to describe the route she walks with William.]
Well, we descend from our house on Hillside Crescent to the pedestrian walkway connecting the crescent to Field Road. We follow Field Road south to the footpath leading down to the village green. We then take the footpath as far as the recycling center. It’s very pretty there, overlooking the river ravine, among the trees. We then cut through the recycling center, cross the road at the pedestrian crossing, and go straight home along the Arnau Road.
Shortly after crossing the Arnau Road—
[Sgt Caspary asks Mrs Berger to define ‘shortly.’]
Two minutes. One minute? Say two minutes after crossing the Arnau Road, William suddenly lunged away from me. He’s never done it before, so I wasn’t expecting it. I don’t know why he did it, as if he saw a cat or something, but even then he’s seen cats before and never behaved in such a manner. I was so surprised that he yanked the leash right out of my hand and I saw him run across the street, right in front of a car. There was a terrible crash and I closed my eyes. I think I might even have fainted for a moment as I thought the driver must have hit William because when I opened my eyes I was sitting on the pavement.
I didn’t see what happened. I didn’t see the American woman’s car. I just kept my eyes tight shut. I couldn’t bear to see what was happening to my William.
The noise seemed to just go on and on, though I suppose it was only seconds. I was certain that William was dead and I couldn’t bear it, just couldn’t bear it. When I finally opened my eyes, I saw that the vehicle had hit the bus stand, but my concern was for William. I saw blood on the ground and I just started screaming. I’m so sorry about the children, but William is like a child to me, and I thought the blood was his. I was just reacting to what I saw at the time, not thinking. I just didn’t have the courage to go over. And then I saw Mrs Emptmann running. I know Mrs Emptmann only really by sight from the market and generally seeing her around the village. I can’t explain it but when she started screaming I knew it wasn’t William. I knew it had to be worse. It was the way she was screaming with her mouth open so it looked like a red hole that went down to Hell and she was making the sound of Hell. I’m sorry, I don’t know how else to describe it. And then I saw William. He was on the grass by the recycling center, sniffing the ground, right as rain, not a scratch on him.
‘As if he saw a cat or something.’ Strebel reread that line and closed the file. It was exactly as he’d wanted. A dog chasing a cat. The ‘as if’ and ‘or something’ would be lost and the story would become: Mrs Berger’s dog saw a cat. He knew an accident must have a cause. The dog, therefore.
The number had been disconnected due to non-payment. What kind of person didn’t pay the phone bill, Strebel wondered. Someone careless, irresponsible, vague? He drove to her address, a subdivided chalet on the high road above Arnau. It was an unexceptional place. What was she doing here? In this village where people raised children or retired with their knitting. Her file said she was in the middle of a divorce from a British human rights lawyer based in Geneva. Perhaps the divorce explained the phone bilclass="underline" an argument over money, the unexpected stress of disarticulating a relationship. Was this relevant?
And why Arnau? Why this exile of faux stucco chalets and window boxes? Strebel could find no trace of a connection to this village or canton — anything that might have drawn her here. Americans were very nostalgic, he believed, they loved their ancestry; but Pilgrim Lankester-née-Jones had no roots here, not a trace of Swiss blood. She was misplaced.
When he rang her doorbell and there was no answer, he tried the concierge. A small woman with a wiry nest of gray hair came to the front door. She wore an apron and slippers. He introduced himself, showed her his ID. She peered at it, checked the photo against his face. She did not give her name in return, but he assumed it was Gassner, the name on the concierge’s bell.
‘Are you Mrs Gassner?’
A curt nod.
‘I’m looking for Mrs Lankester, apartment two.’
‘You have come to arrest her.’
‘No,’ Strebel corrected. ‘Just to speak with her. Her phone isn’t working.’
‘I warned her! I said, “They cut you off no mercy.” She didn’t listen, did she? And now look! Americans. They think they know everything. They think the rules don’t apply to them.’
‘Mrs Gassner, do you know when Mrs Lankester will be back?’
‘It’s shocking, what she’s done. Killing those children. I couldn’t live with myself.’
Silently, Strebel begged to differ. People lived with a lot of awful things, some of them very comfortably. ‘Please, Mrs Gassner,’ he said. ‘I’d just like to know when you think she’ll be back.’
‘She left an hour ago. Just carrying on as if nothing has happened.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t ask. Probably shopping. Spending her rich husband’s money. Ex-husband. He divorced her, you know.’
Strebel let this pass with total indifference. ‘Do you think I might wait for her?’
Mrs Gassner did an odd thing: she blushed. And then spoke very quickly, telling him that he absolutely could not, she wouldn’t have it, a respectable building like this. He studied her — the sudden, clumsy discomfort — and noticed that she couldn’t help but twice glance up the stairs. Was someone there?