Whispers of the Dead dh-3

by Simon Beckett

  I screwed the lid on to the jar. ‘The only thing I can think of is that the body must have been left on the surface before it was buried. Did Tom tell you about the decomposition?’

  ‘That it was worse than it should have been after six months?’ He nodded. ‘The casing’s empty, so the body must have been left out for at least ten or eleven days for the fly to hatch. And six months ago puts the time of death sometime last fall. Warm and wet, so the body wouldn’t mummify like it would in summer.’

  It was starting to make sense. Either by accident or design, the body had been left to rot before it was put into the casket, which would explain why it was so badly decomposed. Paul was silent for a moment. I knew what he was thinking, and when he turned to me I saw that his excitement matched my own.

  ‘Is the casket still here?’

  We left the autopsy suite and went to the storeroom where the casket and aluminium container were awaiting collection by forensic agents. When we opened it the smell of putrefaction was as bad as ever. The shroud was crumpled inside, clotted and rank.

  Using a pair of forceps, Paul drew it open.

  Until now it had been the body itself that had commanded everyone’s attention, not what it had been wrapped in. Now we knew what to look for, though, they weren’t hard to find. More pupal cases lay in the cotton sheet, camouflaged by the viscous black slurry from the corpse. Some were broken and empty, already hatched like the one I’d found, but others were still whole. There were no larvae, but after six months their softer bodies would have long since disintegrated.

  ‘Well, that settles it,’ Paul said. ‘You might explain away one, but not this many. The body must have been pretty badly decomposed before it was sealed in here.’

  He reached for the casket lid, but I stopped him. ‘What’s that?’

  Something else was half hidden in the folds of cotton. Taking the forceps from Paul, I gently teased it free.

  ‘What is it, some kind of cricket?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  It was an insect of some kind, that much was obvious. Well over an inch in length, it was slender with a long, segmented carapace. It had been partially crushed, and its legs had curled in death, emphasizing the elongated teardrop shape of its body.

  I set it down on the sheet. Against the white background, the insect looked even more out of place and alien.

  Paul leaned forward for a closer look. ‘Never seen anything like that before. How about you?’

  I shook my head. I’d no idea what it was either. Only that it had no right to be there.

  I worked for another two hours after Paul left. Finding the unknown insect had blown away any vestiges of my earlier tiredness, so I’d carried on until I’d got all the exhumed remains soaking in vats of detergent. I was still buzzing with adrenaline as I left the morgue. Paul and I had decided not to bother Tom with our discovery that night, but I felt convinced that it was a breakthrough. I didn’t know how or why, not yet. But my instincts told me the insect was important.

  It was a good feeling.

  Still preoccupied, I made my way across the car park. It was late and this part of the hospital was deserted. My car was almost the only one there. Streetlights ran round the edges of the car park, but its interior was in almost total darkness. I was halfway across, starting to reach in my pocket for my car keys, when suddenly the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  I knew I wasn’t alone.

  I turned quickly, but there was nothing to see. The car park was a field of darkness, the few other cars there solid blocks of shadow. Nothing moved, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something—someone—nearby.

  You’re just tired. You’re imagining things. I set off for my car again. My footsteps sounded unnaturally loud on the gravelled surface.

  And then I heard a stone skitter behind me.

  I spun round and was blinded by a bright stab of light. Shielding my eyes, I squinted past it as a dark figure with a torch emerged from behind the tank-like shape of a pick-up truck.

  It stopped a few feet away, the torch still directed on to my face. ‘Mind tellin’ me what you’re doing here?’

  The voice was gruff and threateningly civil, the accent a heavy twang. I made out epaulettes beyond the torch beam, and relaxed as I realized it was only a security guard.

  ‘I’m going home,’ I said. He didn’t move the light from my face. Its brightness prevented me from making out anything apart from the uniform.

  ‘Got some ID?’

  I fished out the pass I’d been given for the morgue and showed it to him. He didn’t take it, just dipped the torch beam on to the plastic card before raising it to my face again.

  ‘Could you shine that somewhere else?’ I said, blinking.

  He lowered the torch a little. ‘Workin’ late, huh?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Blotches of light danced in my vision as my eyes tried to adjust.

  There was a throaty chuckle. ‘Graveyard shift’s a bitch, ain’t it?’

  The torch beam was switched off. I couldn’t see anything, but heard his footsteps crunch away across the gravel. His voice floated back to me from the darkness.

  ‘Y’all drive carefully, now.’

  You watch the lights from the car recede, waiting until they’ve disappeared before you step out from behind the pickup. Your throat is sore from deepening your voice, and your pulse is racing, either from excitement or frustration, you can’t be sure.

  The idiot never realized how close he came.

  You know you took a chance confronting him like that, but you couldn’t help it. When you saw him coming across the car park it seemed a God-given opportunity. There was no one else around, and chances were no one would have missed him till the next day. Without even thinking about it, you dogged his steps from the shadows, closing the distance between you.

  But quiet as you were, he must have heard something. He stopped and turned round, and although you could still have taken him if you’d wanted, it made you think again. Even if your foot hadn’t stubbed that damn stone, you’d already decided to let him go. Lord knows, you’re not afraid to take chances, but some Brit no one’s ever heard of wasn’t worth the risk. Not now, not when the stakes are so high. Still, you’d been sorely tempted.

  If it hadn’t been for what you’ve got planned for tomorrow you might have gone ahead anyway.

  You smile as you think of it, anticipation bubbling up inside you. It’s going to be dangerous, but no one wins any prizes by playing safe. Shock and awe, that’s what you want. You’ve hidden your light under a bushel for long enough, watched your lessers take all the glory. High time you got the recognition you deserve. And after tomorrow no one’s going to be in any doubt what you’re capable of. They think they know what they’re dealing with, but they’ve no idea.

  You’re just getting started.

  You take a deep breath of the warm spring night, savouring the sweetness of blossom and the faintly treacly smell of asphalt. Feeling strong and confident, you climb into the pick-up. Time to go home.

  You’ve got a busy day ahead.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE LAST REMNANTS of an early morning mist still hung between the trees bordering the woodland path. Shafts of low sunlight broke through the canopy of new leaves and branches, dappling the ground with a cathedral light.

  A lone figure sat reading a newspaper at a picnic bench made from rough-cut pine. The only sound came from the rustle of the pages, and the hollow rattle of a woodpecker in the trees nearby.

  The newspaper reader glanced up, idly, as a piercing whistle came from the trail off to the left, where it curved out of sight. A moment later a man appeared. He wore an irritated expression, and was looking into the undergrowth at either side as he walked. He had a dog lead in one hand, the empty chain swinging in rhythm with his brisk steps.

  ‘Jackson! Here, boy! Jackson!’

  His calls were interspersed with more whistles. After a single inc
urious glance, the reader went back to the news headlines. The dog walker paused as he drew level, then came across.

  ‘Haven’t seen a dog, have you? A black Labrador?’

  The reader glanced up, surprised to have been addressed. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  The dog walker gave a snort of annoyance. ‘Damn dog. Probably off chasing squirrels.’

  The reader gave a polite smile before going back to the newspaper. The man with the dog chain chewed his lip as he stared up the trail.

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye open for him,’ he said. ‘You see him, don’t let him get away. He’s friendly, he won’t bite.’

  ‘Sure.’ It was said without enthusiasm. But as the dog walker looked forlornly around the reader reluctantly lowered the newspaper again.

  ‘There was something making a noise in the bushes a while ago. I didn’t see what was making it, but it could have been a dog.’

  The dog walker was craning his head to see. ‘Where?’

  ‘Over there.’ The reader gestured vaguely towards the undergrowth. The dog owner peered in that direction, chain swinging loosely in his hand.

  ‘By the trail? I can’t see anything.’

  With a sigh of resignation, the reader closed the newspaper. ‘I suppose it’s easier to show you.’

  ‘I appreciate this,’ the dog walker said with a smile, as they entered the trees. ‘I haven’t had him long. Thought I’d gotten him trained, but every now and again he’ll just take off.’

  He paused to whistle and call the dog’s name again. The reader gave the heavy dog chain an uneasy glance, then looked back towards the trail. No one was in sight.

  Suddenly the dog walker gave a cry and ran forward. He dropped to his knees by a clump of bushes. The body of a black Labrador lay behind them. Blood matted the dark fur on its crushed skull. The dog walker’s hands hovered over it, as though scared to touch it.

  ‘Jackson? Oh, my God, look at his head, what happened?’

  ‘I broke his skull,’ the newspaper reader said, stepping up behind him.

  The dog walker started to rise, but something clamped round his neck. The pressure was unrelenting, choking off his cry before he could make it. He tried to struggle to his feet, but he was off balance and his arms and legs had no strength. Belatedly, he remembered the dog chain. His brain tried to send the necessary commands to his muscles, but the world had already started to turn black. His hand spasmed once or twice, then the chain dropped from his limp fingers.

  High above in the branches, the woodpecker cocked its head to assess the scene below. Satisfied there was no threat, it resumed its hunt for grubs.

  Its rat-a-tat echoed through the woodland morning.

  I woke feeling better than I had in months. For once my sleep had been undisturbed, and the bed looked as though I’d barely moved all night. I stretched, then ran through my morning exercises. Normally it was a real effort, but for once it didn’t seem so bad.

  After I’d showered I turned on the TV, searching for an international news channel as I dressed. I skipped through one station after another, letting the stream of advertisements and banal chatter wash over me. I’d gone past the local news station before I registered what I’d seen.

  Irving’s smoothly bearded face reappeared on the screen as I flicked back. He was looking thoughtfully sincere as he spoke to a female interviewer who had the painted-on prettiness of a shop-window dummy.

  ‘… of course. “Serial killer” is a phrase that’s badly over-used. A true serial killer, as opposed to someone who merely kills multiple victims, is a predator, pure and simple. They’re the tigers of modern society, hiding unseen in the tall grass. When you’ve dealt with as many as I have, you learn to appreciate the difference.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I groaned. I remembered that Irving had been late at the morgue the day before because he was pre-recording a TV interview, but I hadn’t given it much thought. My mood curdled as I watched.

  ‘But it is correct that you’ve been called in by the TBI to provide an offender profile following the discovery of a mutilated body in a Smoky Mountain rental cabin?’ the interviewer persisted. ‘And that a second body has been exhumed from a cemetery in Knoxville as part of the same case?’

  Irving gave a rueful smile. ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to comment on any ongoing investigations.’

  The interviewer nodded understandingly, her lacquered blond hair remaining immobile. ‘But since you are an expert on profiling serial killers, presumably the TBI are worried that’s what they may be dealing with, and that this may be just the start of a killing spree?’

  ‘Again, I’m afraid I really can’t comment. Although I’m sure people will draw their own conclusions,’ Irving added innocently.

  The interviewer’s smile revealed perfect white teeth beneath the blood-red lipstick. She crossed her legs. ‘So can you at least tell me if you’ve formed a profile of the killer?’

  ‘Now, Stephanie, you know I can’t do that,’ Irving said, with an urbane chuckle. ‘But what I can say is that all the serial killers I’ve encountered—and believe me, there have been quite a few—have one defining characteristic. Their ordinariness.’

  The interviewer cocked her head as though she’d misheard. ‘I’m sorry, you’re saying that serial killers are ordinary?’ Her surprise was transparently artificial, as though she’d known what he was going to say in advance.

  ‘That’s right. Obviously, that isn’t how they regard themselves: quite the opposite. But in truth they’re nonentities, almost by definition. Forget the glamorous psychopath of popular fiction; in the real world these individuals are sad misfits for whom killing has become the primal urge. Cunning, yes. Dangerous, certainly. But their one defining feature is that they blend into the crowd. That’s what makes them so difficult to detect.’

  ‘But surely that also makes them harder to catch?’

  Irving’s smile widened into a wolfish grin. ‘That’s what makes my job so challenging.’

  The interview ended, cutting to a studio anchorwoman. ‘That was behaviouralist Professor Alex Irving, author of the bestselling Fractured Egos, speaking yesterday to—’

  I snapped off the set. ‘Nothing wrong with his ego,’ I muttered, tossing aside the TV remote. There had been no justification for the interview. It had served no purpose except to give Irving the opportunity to preen on TV. I wondered if Gardner had known about it. Somehow I couldn’t see him taking kindly to Irving using the investigation to promote his new book.

  Still, not even the psychologist’s smugness could spoil the anticipation I felt as I drove to the morgue. For once I was there before Tom, but only just. I’d barely changed into scrubs when he arrived.

  He looked better than he had the night before, I was relieved to see. Food and a good night’s sleep might not cure everything, but they rarely hurt.

  ‘Someone’s eager,’ he said when he saw me.

  ‘Paul and I found something last night.’

  I showed him the pupal cases and the mystery insect, explaining how we’d stumbled across them.

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ he said, studying the insect. ‘I think you’re right about the body decomposing on the surface before it was buried. As for this…’ He lightly tapped the jar containing the dead insect. ‘I haven’t a clue what it is.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’d assumed Tom would have been able to identify it.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you. Blowflies and beetles are one thing, but I haven’t come across anything like this before. Still, I know someone who should be able to help us. You haven’t met Josh Talbot, have you?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I’d met several of Tom’s colleagues, but the name didn’t ring a bell.

  ‘He’s our resident forensic entomologist. The man’s a walking insect encyclopaedia. If anyone can tell us what this is, Josh can.’

  While he called Talbot I set about rinsing the bones from the exhumed body that had been soaking
in detergent overnight. I’d got as far as setting the first of them to dry in the fume cupboard when Tom closed his phone.

  ‘We’re in luck. He’s about to leave for a conference in Atlanta but he’s going to drop by first. Shouldn’t take him long.’ He began helping me put the bones in the fume cupboard. ‘Did you catch our friend Irving on TV last night, by the way?’

  ‘If you mean the interview, no, but I saw it this morning.’

  ‘Lucky you. Must be re-running it.’ Tom smiled and shook his head. ‘You have to hand it to him, he doesn’t miss a chance, does he?’

  He’d barely finished speaking when there was a light knock on the door. He frowned. ‘Can’t be Josh already,’ he said, going to open it.

  It wasn’t. It was Kyle.

  Swallowing his surprise, Tom moved aside to let him in. ‘I didn’t expect to see you back yet. Why aren’t you taking some time off?’

  Kyle gave a strained smile. ‘They offered, but it isn’t right that the other guys should have to cover for me. I feel fine. And I guess I’d rather work than sit at home.’

  ‘How’s the hand?’ I asked.

  He held it up to show us. A small plaster on the palm was the only sign of what had happened. Kyle looked at it as though it wasn’t part of him. ‘Not much to look at, is it?’

  There was an awkward silence. Tom cleared his throat. ‘So… how are you bearing up?’

  ‘Oh, pretty good, thanks. Be a while before I get the test results, but I’m looking on the bright side. The hospital said there’re post-exposure treatments for HIV and some other things if I want them. But the way I see it, the body might not even have been infected. And even if it was I might not catch anything, right?’

  ‘You should still consider them, at least,’ Tom said. He gestured helplessly. ‘Look, I’m sorry about—’

  ‘Don’t!’ The sharpness showed how much pressure Kyle was under. He gave an embarrassed shrug. ‘Please, don’t apologize. I was just doing my job. Stuff happens, y’know?’

  There was an uncomfortable pause. Kyle broke it.