Whispers of the Dead dh-3

by Simon Beckett

  ‘I stand corrected,’ Irving said, his smile glassy. ‘But that only supports my theory. There’s a definite progression. And if this Dexter character faked his own death six months ago, as looks likely, then that’s hugely symbolic. I thought at first that the killer might be in denial about his sexuality, sublimating his suppressed sexual urges into violence. But this puts a different slant on things. The first victim was covered in a shroud and buried—hidden away in shame, almost. Now, six months later, the body in the cabin is left on display for the world to see. It’s shouting, “Look at me! Look what I’ve done!” Having “buried” his old self the killer’s now coming out of the closet, if you like. And given such a huge shift in the way he treated these two victims, I wouldn’t be surprised if there are some interim ones we don’t know about.’

  He sounded quite excited at the prospect.

  ‘So you still think these are gay killings,’ Tom said.

  ‘Almost certainly. This all but confirms it.’

  ‘You seem very confident.’ I hadn’t meant to get involved, but Irving’s manner set my teeth on edge.

  ‘We’ve got two naked corpses, both male. That does seem to point that way, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Bodies are sometimes transported nude from the morgue. If there was no family to provide clothes then that’s how they’d be buried.’

  ‘So this second naked male body is just coincidence? Interesting theory.’ He favoured me with a patronizing smile. ‘Perhaps you’d also like to explain why the fingerprint Dexter left on the film canister was smeared with baby oil?’

  The surprise I felt was mirrored on Tom’s face. Irving feigned dismay.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, hadn’t Gardner mentioned that? No reason why he should, I suppose. But unless the killer has a penchant for moisturizing, there’s only one reason I can think of why he was using baby oil at the cabin.’

  He let that hang, making sure the barb was sunk before going on.

  ‘In any event, a sexual motivation would also explain the different racial profiles of the victims—the crucial common denominator isn’t their skin colour, it’s the fact that they’re men. No, we’re definitely dealing with a sexual predator here, and given the conspicuous absence of this Willis Dexter from his own grave, I’d say he’s a pretty likely candidate.’

  ‘From what Dan said, I don’t think Dexter had a criminal record or any history of violence,’ Tom said.

  Irving allowed himself a smug smile. ‘The really clever predators never do. They keep themselves concealed, often as respectable members of society, until they either slip up or deliberately reveal themselves. Pathological narcissism isn’t an uncommon trait amongst serial killers. They tire of hiding their light under a bushel and decide to flex their muscles in public, as it were. Fortunately, most of them eventually trip themselves up with their own vanity. Like this.’

  Irving gestured theatrically at the corpse in the casket. By now he’d adopted an almost lecturing tone, as though Tom and I were a pair of not especially bright undergraduates.

  ‘Given the logistics involved, Dexter couldn’t have done this without at the very least the help of someone at the funeral home,’ he went on confidently. ‘Either Dexter worked there himself—which given his background as a mechanic or whatever is unlikely—or he has an accomplice. A lover, maybe. It’s possible they might even be working as a team; one dominant and one submissive. Now that really would be interesting.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ Tom murmured.

  Irving gave him a sharp look, as though only now suspecting that his pearls were being wasted on swine. But we were deprived of whatever other insights he might have shared with us by Summer’s entrance.

  She came into the radiography room but stopped when she saw us standing around the casket. ‘Oh! Sorry, shall I wait outside?’

  ‘No need to on my account,’ Irving said, favouring her with a broad smile. ‘Although I’ll defer to Dr Lieberman, of course. He has rather strong views on sheltering students from the facts of life.’

  Tom ignored the jibe. ‘Summer’s one of my graduate students. She’s helping us out.’

  ‘Of course.’ Irving’s smile broadened as he eyed the studs and rings decorating Summer’s face. ‘You know, I’ve always been fascinated by body art. I once considered a tattoo myself, but such things are frowned upon in my line of work. But I love the paganistic aspect of piercings, that whole concept of the modern primitive. So refreshing to find that sort of individualism in this day and age.’

  Summer’s face bloomed red, but with pleasure rather than embarrassment. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No need to thank me.’ Irving’s charm was on full wattage. ‘I have one or two textbooks on primitive body art you might find interesting. Perhaps—’

  ‘If that’s all, Professor Irving, we need to make a start here,’ Tom interrupted.

  Annoyance flickered behind Irving’s smile for a moment. ‘Of course. Nice meeting you, Miss…’

  ‘Summer.’

  Irving showed his teeth again. ‘My favourite season.’

  Peeling off his gloves, he glanced round for somewhere to put them. Failing to find anywhere suitable, he held them out for Kyle to take. The young morgue assistant looked startled, but meekly accepted them.

  With a last smile at Summer, Irving went out. There was a hush after the door closed behind him. Summer’s face was dimpled in a smile, cheeks blushed crimson beneath the bleached blond hair. Kyle looked crestfallen, the profiler’s gloves still dangling from his hand.

  Tom cleared his throat. ‘So where were we…?’

  While I took more photographs of the uncovered remains, he went out to call Gardner. A forensic team would need to examine the casket, but usually that wouldn’t happen till after we’d removed the body. The fact that it was naked probably wouldn’t alter anything, but I didn’t blame Tom for checking with the TBI agent first.

  Kyle lingered in the radiography suite, even though there was no real reason for him to be there any more. But seeing the way he looked at Summer I hadn’t the heart to tell him he wasn’t needed. His expression put me in mind of a kicked puppy.

  Tom wasn’t long. He came back, his manner brisk. ‘Dan says to go ahead. Let’s get the body out.’

  I started towards the container, but Tom stopped me. ‘Kyle, would you mind helping Summer?’

  ‘Me?’ The assistant’s face turned crimson. He shot a quick glance towards her. ‘Oh, uh, sure. No problem.’

  Tom gave me a wink as Kyle went to join Summer by the aluminium container.

  ‘Shouldn’t you have a bow and arrow?’ I murmured, as they prepared to lift the body.

  ‘Sometimes you have to help these things along.’ His smile faded. ‘Dan’s keen to get things moving. Normally I’d leave these remains till I’d finished working on the ones from the cabin, but as things stand—’

  There was a sudden exclamation. We looked over to see Kyle straightening beside the casket, staring at one of his gloved hands.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Tom asked, going over.

  ‘Something pricked me. When I touched the body.’

  ‘Has it broken the skin?’

  ‘I’m not sure…’

  ‘Here, let me see,’ I said.

  The gloves were heavy-duty rubber gauntlets that reached almost to the elbow. Kyle’s was slimed with fluids from the decomposing body, but the jagged hole on its palm was clearly visible.

  ‘It’s fine, really,’ Kyle said.

  I took no notice as I pulled off his thick glove. Kyle’s hand was wrinkled and pale from being in the rubber. In the centre of his palm was a dark smear of blood.

  ‘Let’s get it under the tap. Is there a first aid kit?’ I asked.

  ‘There should be one in the autopsy suite. Summer, can you go and get it?’ Tom said.

  Kyle allowed me to lead him to the sink. I put his hand under the fast-flowing cold water, washing off the blood. The wound was tiny, little more than a pinprick. But that
made it no less dangerous.

  ‘Is it OK?’ he asked, as Summer returned with the first aid kit.

  ‘If you’ve had all your shots I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ I said, putting as much confidence into it as I could. ‘You have had all your shots?’

  He nodded, watching anxiously as I cleaned the wound with antiseptic. Tom had gone over to the casket.

  ‘Whereabouts did you touch the body?’

  ‘It was, uh, the shoulder. The right one.’

  Tom leaned closer to look, but didn’t touch the corpse himself. ‘There’s something there. Summer, can you hand me the forceps?’

  He reached down and took hold of whatever was embedded in the putrefying flesh. With a little gentle tugging it came free.

  ‘What is it?’ Kyle asked.

  Tom’s expression was studiedly neutral. ‘Looks like a hypodermic needle.’

  ‘A needle?’ Summer exclaimed. ‘Omigod, he stabbed himself on a needle from that?’

  Tom shot her an angry look. But the same thing was going through all our minds. As a morgue worker Kyle would have been immunized against some of the diseases that could be carried by cadavers, but there were others for which there was no protection. Normally, provided care was taken, there was little risk.

  Unless you had an open wound.

  ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, but we better get you to the Emergency Room all the same,’ Tom said, outwardly calm. ‘Why don’t you get changed and I’ll see you outside?’

  Kyle’s face had gone white. ‘No, I—I’m OK, really.’

  ‘I’m sure you are, but let’s get you checked out just to make sure.’ His tone didn’t leave room for argument. Looking dazed, Kyle did as he’d been told. Tom waited until the door had closed behind him. ‘Summer, are you absolutely certain you didn’t touch anything?’

  She nodded quickly, still pale herself. ‘I didn’t have the chance. I was going to help Kyle lift the body when he… God, do you think he’ll be OK?’

  Tom didn’t answer. ‘You might as well get changed too, Summer. I’ll let you know if I need you for anything else.’

  She didn’t argue. He put the needle into a small glass sample jar as she went out.

  ‘Do you want me to go with Kyle?’ I asked.

  ‘No, it’s my responsibility. You carry on with the other remains for the time being. I don’t want anyone going near the casket again until I’ve X-rayed the body myself.’

  He looked as grim as I’d ever seen him. It was possible that the hypodermic needle had snapped off and become embedded by accident, but it didn’t seem likely. I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing: the idea that the needle had been deliberately planted, or what that implied.

  That someone expected the body to be dug up.

  Your first time was a woman. More than twice your age and drunk. You’d seen her in a bar, so alcohol-addled she could barely sit still. She’d slipped and swayed on her bar stool, blowsy and overblown, face haggard and red, cigarette burning down to her tobacco-stained finger ends. When she’d thrown her head back and guffawed at the flickering TV screen above the bar, her phlegmy laugh had sounded like a siren call.

  You’d wanted her right away.

  You’d watched from across the room, your back to her but your eyes never leaving her reflection in the mirror. Swathed in cigarette smoke, she’d approached most of the men in the bar, draping a wattled arm around them in drunken invitation. Each time you’d tensed, jealousy burning like acid in your guts. But each time the arm had been shrugged off, the advances rebuffed. She’d return unsteadily to her stool, loudly demanding another drink to drown her disappointment. And your nervousness would increase, because you knew this was going to be the night.

  It was meant to be.

  You’d bided your time, waiting until she’d exhausted the barkeeper’s patience. You’d slipped out unnoticed while she’d still been screaming at him, obscenities alternating with maudlin entreaties. Outside you’d turned up your collar and hurried to a nearby doorway. It had been fall and a rain-mist had fogged the streets, cloaking the streetlights with yellow penumbras.

  You couldn’t have asked for a better night.

  It had taken longer for her to appear than you’d expected. You’d waited, shivering from cold and adrenaline, nerves beginning to eat away at your anticipation. But you’d held firm. You’d put this off too often already. If you didn’t do it now you were frightened you never would.

  Then you’d seen her emerge from the bar, her gait unsteady as she tried to pull on a coat that was too thin for the season. She’d walked right past the doorway without noticing you. You’d hurried after her, your heart rapping a staccato counterpoint to your footsteps as you trailed her down the deserted streets.

  When you saw the glow of a bar sign up ahead you knew the time had come. You’d caught up to her, fallen in step at her side. You’d planned to say something, but your tongue was thick and useless. Even then she’d made it easy for you, peering around in bleary surprise before the too-red mouth cracked open with a cigarette chuckle.

  Hey, lover. Wanna buy a girl a drink?

  You had a van parked a few blocks away, but you couldn’t wait. When you drew level with the black maw of an alleyway, you’d shoved her into it, trembling as you pulled out the knife.

  After that, it had been all fumble and confusion, the quick penetration followed by a rush of fluid. It was over too soon, finished before it had really begun. You’d stood over her, panting, the excitement already starting to turn to something grey and flat. Was that it? Was that all there was to it?

  You’d run from the alleyway, chased by disgust and disappointment. It was only later, when your head had started to clear, that you’d begun to analyse where you’d gone wrong. You’d been too eager, in too much of a hurry. These things needed to be done slowly; to be savoured. How else could you hope to learn anything? In all the rush you hadn’t even had a chance to bring the camera from beneath your coat. And as for the knife, you thought, remembering the suddenness of it all…

  No, the knife was definitely wrong.

  You’ve come a long way since then. You’ve refined your technique, honed your craft into an art form. You know now exactly what it is you want, and what you have to do to get it. Still, you look back on that clumsy attempt in the alleyway with something like affection. It had been your first time, and first times were always a disaster.

  Practice makes perfect.

  CHAPTER 8

  ‘THIRTEEN?’

  Gardner picked up a sample jar from the collection on the stainless steel trolley and held it up to see its contents. Like all the rest it contained a single hypodermic needle taken from the exhumed body, a slender steel sliver encrusted with dark matter.

  ‘We found another twelve,’ Tom said. He looked and sounded exhausted, the strain of the day’s events clearly visible. ‘Most of them were embedded in the soft tissue of the arms, legs and shoulders, where anyone who tried to move the remains would be most likely to take hold.’

  Gardner set down the jar again, his world-weary features folded into lines of disgust. He’d come alone, and I’d tried to ignore my disappointment when I saw that Jacobsen wasn’t with him. The three of us were in an unused autopsy suite, where Tom and I had taken the remains after we’d finished X-raying them. The hypodermic needles had shown up as stark white lines against the greys and blacks. He’d insisted on removing them all himself, declining my offer of help. If he could have lifted the body from the casket by himself as well he would. As it was, he’d checked it thoroughly with a handheld metal detector before allowing either of us to touch it.

  After what had happened to Kyle, he wasn’t taking any chances.

  The assistant had been sent home after spending all afternoon at Emergency. He’d been pumped full of broad spectrum antibiotics, but neither they nor anything else would be effective against some pathogens the needle might have introduced into his bloodstream. He’d have the results of s
ome tests in a few days, but others would take much longer. It would be months before he’d know for sure if he’d been infected or not.

  ‘The needles had been planted with the points facing outwards, so that whoever handled the body was almost certain to impale themselves,’ Tom went on, his face drawn with self-reproach. ‘This is my fault. I should never have let anyone else handle the remains.’

  ‘You can’t blame yourself,’ I said. ‘There was no way you could have known what was going to happen.’

  Gardner gave me a look that said he still wasn’t happy about my presence, but kept his thoughts to himself. Tom had already made it clear that he considered I’d as much right to be there as he had, pointing out that it could just as easily have been me who’d been injured.

  If Tom hadn’t felt sorry for Kyle it might well have been.

  ‘There’s only one person to be blamed, and that’s whoever did this,’ Gardner said. ‘It’s lucky no one else was hurt.’

  ‘Try telling that to Kyle.’ Tom stared at the specimen jars, his eyes ringed with fatigue. ‘Have you got any idea yet whose corpse was in the casket?’

  Gardner’s eyes flicked to the body lying on the aluminium table. We’d hosed it down thoroughly, washing off the worst of the decompositional fluids before Tom had removed the needles. The smell was nothing like so intense as when the casket had first been opened, but it was there, all the same.

  ‘We’re working on it.’

  ‘Someone at the funeral home has to know something!’ Tom protested. ‘What does York have to say about it?’

  ‘We’re still questioning him.’

  ‘Questioning him? Christ almighty, Dan, never mind that there was the wrong body in the grave, someone stuck thirteen hypodermic needles in it while it was at Steeple Hill! How the hell could that have happened without York knowing about it?’

  The TBI agent’s face had set. ‘I don’t know, Tom. That’s why we’re questioning him.’