Whispers of the Dead

by Simon Beckett

  I showered and changed, then bought a sandwich and ate lunch at the side of the river, watching the tourist-carrying paddleboats churn past. There's something about water that's primordially soothing. It seems to touch some deep chord in our subconscious; stir some gene memory of the womb. I breathed in the faintly swampy air, watching a flight of geese heading upriver, and tried to tell myself that I wasn't bored. Objectively, I knew I shouldn't take what had happened at the cemetery personally. I'd been caught in Hicks's crossfire, collateral damage of professional politics that didn't concern me. I told myself that I shouldn't regard it as a loss of face. It didn't make me feel any better. After lunch, I wandered aimlessly around the streets, waiting for my phone to ring. It was a long time since I'd been in Knoxville, and the city had changed.The trolley cars were still there, though, and the golden mirror-ball of the Sunsphere remained an unmistakable feature on the skyline. But I wasn't in the mood for sightseeing. My phone remained stubbornly silent, a dead weight in my pocket. I was tempted to call Tom, but I knew there was no point. He'd ring me when he could. It was late afternoon when I finally heard from him. He sounded tired as he apologized for what had happened that morning. 'It's just Hicks trying to stir up a fuss. I'm going to talk to Dan again tomorrow. Once the dust has settled I'm sure he'll see sense. There's no reason why you can't carry on working with me at the morgue, at least.' 'What are you going to do in the meantime?' I asked. 'You can't manage by yourself. Why don't you let Paul help?' 'Paul's out of town today. But I'm sure Summer will lend a hand again.' 'You need to take it easy. Have you seen a doctor yet?' 'Don't worry,' he said, in a tone of voice that told me I was wasting my breath.'I'm really sorry about this, David, but I'll sort it out. Just sit tight for now.' There wasn't much else I could do. I resolved to try to enjoy the rest of the evening. A little leisure time won't kill you.The bars and cafes had started filling up, office workers stopping off on their way home. The murmur of laughter and conversation was inviting, and on impulse I stopped at a bar with a wooden terrace overlooking the river. I found a table by the railing and ordered a beer. Enjoying the last of the afternoon sun, I watched the slow-moving Tennessee slide by, invisible currents forming dimples and swirls on the gelid surface. Gradually, I felt myself begin to relax. By the time I'd finished my beer I couldn't see any pressing reason to leave, so I asked for the menu. I ordered a plate of seafood linguine and a glass of Californian Zinfandel.Just the one, I vowed, telling myself I should make an early start next day, regardless of whether I was helping Tom or not. But by the time I'd finished the rich, garlic-infused food, that no longer seemed quite such a compelling argument. I ordered another glass of wine. The sun sank behind the trees, but it was still warm even as dusk began to settle. The electric lights that lit the terrace drew the first of the evening's moths. They bumped and whirred against the glass, black silhouettes against the white globes. I tried to recall visiting this stretch of river when I'd first come to Knoxville all those years ago. I supposed I must have at some point, but I'd no recollection of it. I'd rented a cramped basement apartment in a different - and cheaper - part of town, on the fringes of the increasingly gentrified old quarter. When I'd gone out I'd tended to go to the bars round there rather than the more expensive ones on the riverfront. Thinking about that shook loose other memories. Out of nowhere the face of a girl I'd seen for a while came back to me. Beth, a nurse at the hospital. I hadn't thought of her in years. I smiled, wondering where she was now, what she was doing. If she ever thought about the British forensic student she'd once known. I'd returned to England not long after that. And a few weeks later I'd met my wife, Kara. The thought of her and our daughter brought with it the usual vertiginous dip, but I was used enough to it by now not to be sucked in. -as-

  I picked up my mobile from the table and opened my list of contacts. Jenny's name and number seemed to jump out at me even before I'd highlighted them on the illuminated display. I scrolled through the options until I came to Delete, and held my thumb poised over the button. Then, without pressing it, I snapped the phone shut and put it away. I finished the last of my wine and pulled my thoughts from the track they'd been following. An image of Jacobsen sitting in the car earlier replaced them, bare arms toned and tanned in the short-sleeved white top. It occurred to me that I didn't know anything about her. Not how old she was, where she was from or where she lived. But I'd noticed there was no wedding ring on her left hand. Oh, give it a rest. Still, I couldn't help but smile as I ordered another glass of wine.

  It's darkening outside.Your favourite time.The point of transition between two extremes: day and night. Heaven and hell. The earth's rotation caught on the cusp, neither one thing nor the other, yet full of the potential of both. If only everything were so simple. You brush the camera lens carefully, then gently wipe it with a square of buttery soft chamois until the finely ground glass is mirror bright. Tilting the lens to catch the light, you examine it for any last speck of dust that might mar its perfect surface. There's nothing, but you polish it again anyway, just to be sure. The camera is your most prized possession. The old Leica has seen some heavy use in the years since you bought it, and never once let you down. Its black and white images are always crystal clear, so sharp and fine-grained you could fall into them. It isn't the camera's fault you haven't found what you're looking for. You try to tell yourself that tonight will be just like all the other times, but you know it isn't. You've always operated under cover of obscurity before, been able to act with impunity because no one knew you existed. Now that's all

  I changed. And even though it was your own decision, your own choice to emerge into the limelight, it alters everything. For good or bad, you're committed now. There's no going back. True, you've prepared for it.You wouldn't have started this without an exit strategy. When the time comes you'll be able to slide back into the shadows, just like before. But you've got to see it through to the end first. And while the rewards might be great, so is the risk. You can't afford any mistakes. You do your best to believe that what happens tonight doesn't matter in the greater scheme of things, that your real work will continue regardless. But it rings false. The truth is there's more at stake now. Although you hate to admit it, all the failures have taken their toll. You need this, you need the affirmation that you haven't wasted all these years. Your entire life. You finish polishing the camera lens and pour yourself a glass ofmilk.You ought to have something to soak up the acid in your stomach, but it's too knotted to eat. The milk's been opened for a day or two now, and the scum on top says it's probably turned. But that's one of the benefits of not being able to smell or taste anything. You drink it straight off, staring out of the window at the trees silhouetted against the sky. When you set the empty glass back on the kitchen table, the smeared interior gives it a ghostly translucency in the gathering dark. You like that idea: a ghost glass. But the pleasure soon fades. This is the part you hate most, the waiting. Still, it won't be much longer now. You look across the room at where the uniform hangs on the back of the door, barely visible in the deepening shadows. It wouldn't stand close inspection, but most people don't look too closely. They see only a uniform in those first few seconds.

  And that's all you need. You pour yourself another glass of milk, then stare out of the dirty window as the last of the light vanishes from the sky.

  13

  The dentist lay exactly as he had the last time I'd seen him. He was still sprawled on his back, lying with the immobility only the dead can achieve. But he'd changed in other ways. The flesh had dried in the sun, skin and hair slipping from him like an unwanted coat. After a few more days stubborn tendons would be all that remained of the soft tissue, and before much longer there would be nothing left but enduring bone. I'd woken with a nagging headache, regretting the last glass of wine I'd had the previous night. Remembering what had happened before that hadn't made me feel any better. As I'd showered I'd wondered what I should do until I heard from Tom. But there was really no decision.s I'd had enough of
being a tourist. The car park had been nearly empty when I'd arrived at the facility. It was still in shadow, and I shivered in the early morning chill as I pulled on a pair of overalls. I took out my phone, weighing up whether or not to leave it on. Normally I turned it off before I went through the gates - there seemed something disrespectful about disturbing the quiet inside with phone conversations -- but I didn't want to miss Tom's call. I was tempted to leave it on vibrate, except that then I'd spend all morning waiting for its telltale buzz. Besides, realistically I knew Tom wouldn't ring Gardner until later anyway. Making up my mind, I switched off the phone and thrust it away. Hoisting my bag on to my shoulder, I headed for the gates. Early as it was, I wasn't the first there. Inside, a young man and woman in surgical scrubs, graduate students by the look of them, were chatting as they made their way back down through the trees. They gave me a friendly 'Hi' as they passed, then disappeared about their business. Once they'd gone, silence descended on the wooded enclosure. Apart from the birdsong, I might have been the only living thing there. It was cool inside, the sun not yet high enough to break through the trees. Dew darkened the bottoms of my overalls as I went up the wooded hillside to where the dentist's body lay. The protective mesh cage meant that, among other things, I could observe how his body decomposed when no insects or scavengers were able to reach it. It wasn't exactly original research but I'd never carried it out before myself. And charting something first hand was always better than relying on the work of others. It had been a few days since I'd been here, though, so I'd some catching up to do. Stepping through a small door in the cage, I took a tape measure, calipers, camera and notepad from my bag and squatted down to work. I made heavy going of it; the headache was still a nagging throb behind my eyes, and the thought of the phone in my bag was a constant drag on my attention. When I found myself taking the same measurement twice I shook myself angrily. Come on, Hunter, focus. This is what you came here for. Closing my mind to distractions, I buckled down to the task. Headache and phone were temporarily forgotten as I was drawn into the microcosm of decay. Viewed dispassionately, our physical dissolution is no different from any other natural cycle. And, like any other natural process, it has to be studied before it can be fully understood. Eventually, sensations of discomfort began to make themselves known. My neck was stiff, and when I paused to flex it I realized I was hot and cramped. The sun was high enough now to reach through the trees, and I could feel myself starting to sweat in the overalls. Checking the time, I saw with surprise it was almost midday. I stepped out of the cage and closed the door behind me, then stretched, wincing as my shoulder popped. Pulling off my gloves, I started to take a bottle of water from my bag, but stopped when I caught sight of my hands. The skin was pale and wrinkled after being in the tight rubber gloves. There was nothing unusual about that, yet for some reason the sight prompted something to bump against my subconscious. It was the same sense of almost-recognition as I'd had the day before at Steeple Hill, and just as elusive. Knowing better than to force it, I took a drink of water. As I put the bottle away I wondered if Tom had spoken to Gardner yet. The temptation to switch on my phone to check for messages lured me for a moment, but I firmly put it aside. Don't get distracted. Finish what you're doing here first. It was easier said than done. I knew there was a good chance that Tom would have called by now, and the awareness nagged at my concentration. Refusing to give in to it, I took almost perverse care over the last few measurements, checking and noting them down in a log book before I packed away. Locking the mesh cage behind me, I headed for the gates. When I reached my car I stripped out of my overalls and gloves and put everything in the boot before I allowed myself to turn on the phone. It beeped straight away to let me know I had a message. I felt my stomach knot with anticipation. It had been left not long after I'd arrived at the facility, and I felt a stab of frustration when I realized I'd missed Tom's call by minutes. But the message wasn't from him. It was from Paul, to tell me that Tom had had a heart attack.

  L We don't realize how reliant we are on context. We define people by how we normally see them, but take them out of that, place them in a different setting and situation, and our mind baulks. What was once familiar becomes something strange and unsettling. I wouldn't have recognized Tom. An oxygen tube snaked up his nose, and a drip fed into his arm, held in place by strips of tape. Wires ran from him to a monitor, where wavering electronic lines silently traced the progress of his heart. In the loose hospital gown, his upper arms were pale and scrawny, with the wasted muscles of an old man. But then it was an old man's head that lay on the pillow, grey skinned and sunken-cheeked. The heart attack had struck at the morgue the night before. He'd been working late, wanting to make up for the time lost out at Steeple Hill earlier that day. Summer had been helping him, but at ten o'clock Tom had told her to go home. She'd gone to change, and then heard a crash from one of the autopsy suites. Running in, she'd found Tom semi-conscious on the floor. 'It was lucky she was still there,' Paul told me. 'If she hadn't been he could've been lying there for hours.' He and Sam had been coming out of the Emergency Department as I arrived, blinking as they emerged into the bright sunlight. Sam looked calm and dignified, walking with the stately, leaned-back balance of late pregnancy. By comparison Paul seemed haggard and drawn with worry. He'd only found out about the heart attack when Mary had phoned him from the hospital that morning. Tom had undergone an emergency bypass during the night and was still unconscious in intensive care. The operation had gone as well as it could under the circumstances, but there was always the danger of another attack. The next few days were going to be critical. 'Do we know anything else yet?' I asked.

  Paul raised a shoulder. 'Only that it was a massive attack. If he hadn't been so close to Emergency he mightn't have made it.' Sam squeezed her husband's arm.'But he did.They're doing everything they can for him. And at least the CAT scan was OK, so that's good news.' 'They did a CAT scan?' I asked, surprised. That wasn't a routine diagnostic for heart attacks. 'For a while the doctors thought he might have had a stroke,' Paul explained. 'He was confused when he was brought in. Seemed to think something had happened to Mary instead of him. He was pretty agitated.' 'C'mon, hon, he was barely conscious,' Sam insisted. 'And you know how Tom is with Mary. He was probably just worried that she'd be upset.' Paul nodded, but I could see he was still concerned. So was I.The confusion could have been caused by Tom's brain not receiving enough oxygen or by a blood clot from his misfiring heart. A CAT scan should have shown up any obvious signs of a stroke, but it was another worrying factor, even so. 'Lord, I just wish I'd not been away yesterday,' Paul said, his face lined. Sam rubbed his arm. 'It wouldn't have made any difference. You couldn't have done anything. These things happen.' But this needn't have. I'd been berating myself ever since I'd heard the news. If I'd bitten my tongue instead of provoking Hicks, the pathologist might not have been so hell bent on having me thrown off the investigation. I could have taken some of the workload from Tom, might even have spotted the danger signs of the impending heart attack and done something about it. But I hadn't. And now Tom was in intensive care. 'How's Mary?' I asked. 'Coping,' Sam said. 'She's been here all night. I offered to stay with her, but I think she'd rather be alone with him. And their son might be flying in later.' 'Might?' 'If he can tear himself away from New York,' Paul said bitterly. 'Paul. . .' Sam warned. She gave me a small smile. 'If you want to say hello I'm sure Mary would appreciate it.' I'd known Tom would be too ill for visitors, but I'd wanted to come anyway. I started to go inside, but Paul stopped me. 'Can you stop by the morgue later? We need to talk.' I said I would. It was only just starting to dawn on me that he was effectively the acting director of the Forensic Anthropology Center. The promotion didn't seem to give him any pleasure. The clinical smell of antiseptic hit me as soon as I stepped inside the emergency department. My heart raced as it sparked a flashback to my own time in hospital, but I quickly quelled the memory. My footsteps squeaked on the resin floor as I made my way along the cor
ridors to the intensive care unit where Tom had been taken. He was in a private room. There was a small window in the door, and through it I could see Mary sitting next to his bed. I tapped lightly on the window. At first she didn't seem to have heard, but then she looked up and beckoned me in. She'd aged ten years since I'd been to their house for dinner two nights ago, but her smile was as warm as ever as she moved away from the bedside. 'David, you needn't have come.' 'I only just heard. How is he?' We both spoke in a low whisper, even though there was little chance of disturbing Tom. Mary made a vague gesture towards the bed. 'The bypass went well. But he's very weak. And there's a danger he might have another attack . . .' She broke off, moisture glinting in her eyes. She did her best to rally. 'You know Tom, though. Tough as old boots.' I smiled with a reassurance I didn't feel. 'Has he been conscious at all?' 'Not really. He came round a couple of hours ago, but not for long. He still seemed mixed up over who was in hospital. I had to reassure him that I was all right.' She smiled, tremulously, her anxiety showing through. 'He mentioned you, though.' The?' 'He said your name, and you're the only David we know. I think he wanted me to tell you something, but I could only make out one word. It sounded like "Spanish".' She looked at me hopefully. 'Does that mean anything to you?' Spanish? It seemed like more evidence of Tom's confusion. I tried to keep my dismay from my face. 'Nothing I can think of.' 'Perhaps I misheard,' Mary said, disappointed. She was already glancing towards the bed, obviously wanting to get back to her husband. 'I'd better go,' I said.'If there's anything I can do . . .' 'I know. Thank you.' She paused, frowning. 'I almost forgot. You didn't call Tom last night, did you?' 'Not last night. I spoke to him yesterday afternoon, but that was about four o'clock. Why?' She gestured, vaguely. 'Oh, it's probably nothing. Just that Summer said she heard his cell phone ring right before he had the attack. I wondered if it was you, but never mind. It can't have been anything important.' She gave me a quick hug. 'I'll tell him you stopped by. He'll be pleased.' I retraced my steps and went back outside. After the oppressive quiet of the ICU the sun felt glorious. I tilted my face up to it, breathing in the fresh air to clear the smell of illness and antiseptic from my lungs. I felt ashamed to admit it even to myself, but I couldn't deny how good it felt to be in the open again.