Whispers of the Dead dh-3

by Simon Beckett

  I thought about the blatant way Irving had flirted with Summer and even Jacobsen, despite publicly slapping her down. It didn’t surprise me that they weren’t the only ones. Evidently not everyone fell for his charm.

  ‘So you think he pulled a vanishing act?’ Tom asked doubtfully.

  ‘Like I said, we’re considering every possibility. But Irving didn’t just have the harassment case hanging over him. The IRS have been investigating him for unpaid tax on all those book deals and TV appearances. He was looking at a bill of over a million dollars, maybe even a jail sentence. He was facing professional and financial ruin no matter what. This might have seemed like an ideal opportunity to get out from under.’

  Tom pulled at his lower lip, frowning. ‘Even so, killing his own dog?’

  ‘People have done worse for less. And you might as well know, we found a clear set of fingerprints on the bar used to kill Irving’s dog. When we ran them we got a match with a petty thief called Noah Harper. He’s a career criminal, with a string of car theft and burglary convictions.’

  ‘If you’ve got a suspect then why aren’t you looking happier?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Because for one thing all of Harper’s offences in the past have been minor league. And for another he’s been missing for nearly seven months. He didn’t turn up for his last parole appointment and no one’s seen him since. All his belongings were left in his apartment, and the rent was paid up till the end of the month.’

  ‘Is he African American?’ I asked. ‘Fifty to sixty, with a bad limp?’

  It was hard not to enjoy Gardner’s surprise. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because I think he’s in the autopsy suite down the corridor.’

  I watched realization put even more folds into his already crumpled face. ‘I’m getting slow,’ he said, disgusted with himself.

  Jacobsen was looking uncertainly from one to the other of us. ‘You mean the body that was in Willis Dexter’s grave? That’s Noah Harper?’

  ‘The timing fits,’ Gardner said. ‘Except if Harper’s dead, how did his fingerprints get to be on the weapon that killed Irving’s dog?’

  ‘Maybe the same way that Willis Dexter’s came to be at the cabin,’ Tom suggested.

  There was a silence as we considered that. It had always been possible that Willis Dexter might not have faked his own death after all, that the killer had simply appropriated both his body and his fingerprints. But that couldn’t have happened in this case.

  ‘Were either of the hands missing from the corpse in Willis Dexter’s casket?’ Jacobsen asked.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘And all the fingers were there, too.’

  ‘It’s possible someone could’ve saved the film canister and steel bar with Dexter’s and Harper’s fingerprints already on them,’ Tom suggested.

  ‘The film canister, maybe. Dexter’s print was smeared with a mineral oil that’s used for most baby oils. There’s no way of knowing how long it had been there,’ Gardner said. ‘But Harper’s prints were left in the blood on the bar. It was only a few hours old.’

  ‘Then the body from the casket can’t be Noah Harper’s. It’s just not possible,’ Jacobsen insisted.

  Nobody said anything. Logic said she was right, not if the fingerprints had been left that morning. But judging from the expressions in the office no one felt very confident.

  Tom took off his glasses and began to clean them. He looked more tired and somehow vulnerable without them. ‘You might as well tell them what else you’ve found, David.’

  Gardner and Jacobsen listened in silence as I described finding the pupal cases and dragonfly naiad in the casket, and the intact hyoid and pink teeth of the exhumed body.

  ‘So it looks as though Terry Loomis and whoever was in the casket were killed the same way,’ Gardner said when I’d finished. He turned to Tom. ‘And you think these pink teeth could have been caused by strangulation?’

  ‘Seems more likely than drowning,’ Tom agreed mildly, and I tried not to smile. He hadn’t mentioned Gardner’s jibe at me in the cabin, but he obviously hadn’t forgotten it. ‘There wouldn’t be much doubt at all if not for the obvious blood loss and wounds on Loomis’s body.’

  Gardner rubbed the back of his neck. ‘The spatter patterns in the cabin looked authentic. But there’s no way of knowing for sure if the blood came from Loomis until we get the DNA results.’

  ‘That’ll take weeks,’ Tom commented.

  ‘Tell me about it. It’s times like this I wish we still did blood grouping. That’d at least tell us if the blood was the same type as his. But that’s progress for you.’ His expression made it clear what he thought of that. ‘I’ll get on to the lab. They’re supposed to be fast-tracking this already, but I’ll see if they can’t speed things up a little.’

  He didn’t sound hopeful. While DNA provided a much more accurate method of matching and identification than the old technique of blood grouping, the testing process was also frustratingly slow. It was the same on both sides of the Atlantic; I’d heard more than one UK police officer complain that lab work took far longer than was portrayed on film or TV. The fact was that in the real world, fast-tracked or not, such things could take months.

  Tom examined the lenses of his glasses, then resumed polishing them. ‘You still haven’t answered my question, Dan. Should we be worried?’

  Gardner threw up his hands. ‘What do you want me to say, Tom? I can’t read this guy’s mind; I don’t know what he’s going to do next. I wish I could. But even if he is responsible for Irving’s disappearance it doesn’t mean anyone else working on the case is in danger. I’m sorry as hell about Irving, but let’s face it, the man courted publicity. Going on TV like that could have stirred up any number of psychos, not just this one.’

  ‘Then we should just carry on like nothing’s happened?’

  ‘Within reason, yes. If I thought there was any real risk, believe me, I’d slap a twenty-four-hour guard on all of you. As it is, provided you take reasonable precautions, I’m sure there’s no reason to worry.’

  ‘“Reasonable precautions”?’ Tom repeated impatiently. ‘What’s that mean? Don’t take candy from strangers?’

  ‘It means don’t go walking dogs in woods by yourself,’ Gardner retorted. ‘Don’t go down dark streets alone at night. C’mon, Tom, I don’t have to spell it out.’

  No, you don’t. I thought about the scare the security guard had given me the night before. Perhaps I’d park somewhere less isolated in future.

  ‘All right. Reasonable precautions it is,’ Tom agreed, though he didn’t sound happy. He put his glasses back on. ‘So what do you think the chances are of finding Irving?’

  ‘We’re putting our full resources into it,’ Gardner said, his guardedness returning.

  Tom didn’t press. We all knew exactly what Irving’s chances were. ‘Will you be bringing in another profiler?’

  ‘That’s under consideration,’ Gardner said carefully. ‘We haven’t discounted Irving’s profile of the killer altogether, but we’re also looking at alternative viewpoints. And Diane’s come up with an interesting theory.’

  Colour bloomed on Jacobsen’s otherwise impassive features. The blush reflex is a hard one to control. For someone who seemed to cultivate such outward composure, I imagined it must be infuriating.

  ‘With all due respect to Professor Irving, I don’t think the killings are sexual in nature, or that the killer is necessarily homosexual,’ she said. ‘I think Professor Irving might have become distracted by the fact that both victims were male and naked.’

  She’d voiced the same views when the profiler had gone to see Terry Loomis’s body in the cabin, and been put in her place for daring to disagree. For Irving’s sake, I found myself hoping she was right.

  ‘So how would you explain it?’ Tom asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t, not yet. But the killer’s actions suggest that he’s not following a sexual agenda.’ She was talking to Tom as an equal now, any reticence forg
otten. ‘We’ve got two crime scenes, and two sets of fingerprints from individuals who are very probably victims themselves. And then there’re the hypodermic needles embedded in the body in Willis Dexter’s grave, waiting for us to exhume it. The killer’s showing off, running us round in circles to show who’s in charge. It isn’t enough for him to kill, he wants recognition. I’d agree with Professor Irving that the killings show evidence of pathological narcissism, but I’d say it goes further than that. This is more psychiatric territory than mine, but I think the killer bears all the hallmarks of a malignant narcissist.’

  Tom looked blank. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, but I haven’t a clue what that means.’

  Jacobsen was too involved by now to be embarrassed. ‘All narcissists are self-obsessed, but malignant narcissists are at the top of the scale. They have a pathological self-belief—a sense of grandiosity, even—which demands attention and admiration. They’re convinced they’re special in some way and want other people to acknowledge it as well. Crucially, they’re also sadists who lack any conscience. They don’t necessarily get fulfilment from inflicting pain, but they enjoy the sense of power it gives them. And they’re indifferent to any suffering they might cause.’

  ‘That sounds like a psychopath,’ I said.

  Jacobsen’s grey eyes turned to me. ‘Not quite, although there are shared characteristics. While a malignant narcissist is capable of extreme cruelty, he or she can still feel admiration and even respect for other people, provided the object of their respect displays what they consider “suitable” characteristics—generally a degree of success or power. According to Kernberg—’

  ‘I don’t think we need the footnotes, Diane,’ Gardner told her.

  Jacobsen looked chastened, but went on. ‘The bottom line is I think we’re dealing with someone who needs to demonstrate his superiority, maybe to himself as much as to us. He’s got a chip on his shoulder and feels his talents and true worth aren’t appreciated. That’d explain the lengths he’s gone to, and also why he reacted as he did to what Professor Irving said on TV. He wouldn’t only be infuriated at being publicly belittled, he’d hate to see someone else stealing his limelight.’

  ‘Assuming this guy is also responsible for what happened to Irving,’ Gardner put in, giving her a warning look.

  ‘You sound like a damn lawyer, Dan,’ Tom told him, but without heat. He gazed into space, absently tapping his chin with a finger. ‘What about the employees from the funeral home? Do they all have alibis for when Irving went missing?’

  ‘We’re checking now, but to be frank I can’t see any of them being behind this. The only two we’ve found so far who worked there around the time of Willis Dexter’s funeral are both in their seventies.’

  ‘What about York himself?’

  ‘He claims to have been at work since five o’clock this morning. And before you ask, no there isn’t anyone who can corroborate that,’ Gardner said, with the air of someone backed into a corner.

  ‘There’s a surprise,’ Tom muttered. ‘Any sign of this mystery employee he claims he hired?’

  ‘Dwight Chambers? We’re still looking into it.’

  ‘Meaning no.’

  Gardner sighed. ‘York’s still a suspect. But whoever’s behind this is too smart to bring all this attention down on himself. We’re carrying out a full-scale search of Steeple Hill, and this time tomorrow the press are going to be all over the place. York’s business is as good as dead no matter what happens.’ He grimaced as he realized what he’d said. ‘And the pun was unintentional.’

  ‘From what I saw, it couldn’t have carried on much longer anyway.’ Light glinted on Tom’s glasses as he stood up from behind the desk. ‘Maybe York would rather go out with a bang.’

  Or perhaps he’s just another victim. But I kept that thought to myself.

  It was growing dark as I pulled on to the quiet, tree-lined road where Tom and Mary lived. I would have worked late again if not for the dinner invitation, and after the day’s interruptions I’d felt frustrated at having to break off. But not for long; as soon as I stepped out of the morgue into the sunny evening, I felt the iron fingers of tension release their hold on the back of my neck. I’d not really been aware of them until then, but Irving’s disappearance, coming after what had happened to Kyle the day before, had shaken me more than I’d thought. Now the prospect of a few drinks and food with friends seemed like the perfect tonic.

  The Liebermans’ home was a lovely timber-framed house, white-painted and set well back from the road. It didn’t seem to have changed from the first time I’d seen it, except for the majestic old oak that dominated the front lawn. On my last visit it had been in its prime; now it was in decline, and half of the sweeping branches were dead and bare.

  Mary greeted me at the door, standing on tiptoe to kiss my cheek. ‘David! Good of you to come.’

  She had aged better than her husband. Her sandy hair had paled but retained its natural colour, and though her face was lined it still shone with health. Not many women in their sixties can wear jeans and get away with it, but Mary was one of them.

  ‘Thank you, how lovely,’ she said, taking the bottle of wine I’d brought. ‘Come on through to the den. Sam and Paul aren’t here yet, and Tom’s on the phone with Robert.’

  Robert was their only son. He worked in insurance and lived in New York. I’d never met him and Tom didn’t talk about him much, but I had the impression that it wasn’t an easy relationship.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ Mary told me, leading me down the hall. ‘Much better than you did last week.’

  I’d had dinner with them on my first night. It already seemed a long time ago. ‘Must be the sunshine,’ I said.

  ‘Well, whatever it is, it agrees with you.’

  She opened the door into the den. It was actually an old conservatory, filled with healthy plants and cushioned rattan chairs. She settled me down in one with a beer, and then excused herself while she saw to dinner.

  The panelled conservatory windows looked out over the back garden. I could just make out the tall shapes of trees in the darkness, outlined against the yellow lights of the next house. It was a nice neighbourhood. Tom had told me once that he and Mary had almost bankrupted themselves to buy the semi-derelict property back in the seventies, and never once regretted it.

  I sipped the cold beer, feeling a little more tension slip away. Putting my head back, I thought about what had happened. It had been another broken day, with first the news about Irving and then Gardner and Jacobsen’s visit taking me away from actual work. Another distraction had come late that afternoon, with the arrival of the amino and volatile fatty acids analysis of Terry Loomis’s tissue samples. Tom had come into the autopsy suite where I’d been processing the casket victim’s remains.

  ‘Well, we were wrong,’ he’d declared without preamble. ‘According to my calculations the time since death confirms the cabin manager’s story. Loomis had only been dead for five days, not nearer seven like we thought. Here, see what you think.’

  He handed me a sheet of figures. A quick look told me he was right, but Tom didn’t make mistakes about things like that.

  ‘Looks fine to me,’ I said, returning them. ‘But I still can’t see how it can be.’

  ‘Me neither.’ He frowned down at the calculations as though offended by them. ‘Even allowing for the heater being left on, I’ve never seen a body decompose to that extent after five days. There were pupating larvae on it, for God’s sake!’

  Blowfly larvae took six or seven days to pupate. Even if both Tom and I had been out in our time since death estimate, they shouldn’t have reached that stage of their development for another day at least.

  ‘Only one way they could have got there,’ I said.

  Tom smiled. ‘You’ve been thinking it through as well. Go on.’

  ‘Someone must have deliberately seeded the corpse with maggots.’ It was the only thing that explained the condition of Terry Loomis’s body. Fu
lly grown larvae would have been able to get to work straight away, with no time lost waiting for the eggs to hatch. ‘It wouldn’t accelerate things by much, perhaps twelve to twenty-four hours at most. Still, with all the open wounds on the body it’d probably be enough.’

  He nodded. ‘Especially with the heater left on to raise the temperature. And there were way too many larvae on the body given that the cabin’s doors and windows were all closed. Somebody obviously decided to give nature a boost. Clever, but it’s hard to see what they hoped to gain, apart from muddying the water for a day or two.’

  I’d been thinking about that as well. ‘Perhaps that was enough. Remember what Diane Jacobsen said? Whoever’s behind this is trying to prove something. Perhaps this was just another chance to show how clever he is.’

  ‘Could be.’ Tom gave me a thoughtful smile. ‘Makes you wonder how he knows so much about it, though, doesn’t it?’ he said.

  It had been a troubling thought.

  I was still mulling that over when Tom came into the conservatory. He was freshly shaved and changed, with the deceptively healthy ruddiness that comes from a hot shower.

  ‘Sorry about that. Our monthly duty call,’ he said. The bitterness in his voice surprised me. He smiled, as though to acknowledge it, and lowered himself into a chair with a sigh. ‘Has Mary fixed you up with a drink?’

  I held up the beer. ‘Yes, thanks.’

  He nodded, but he still seemed distracted.

  ‘Everything all right?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure.’ He plucked irritably at the chair arm. ‘It’s just Robert.

  He was supposed to be visiting in a couple of weeks. Now it appears he won’t have the time. I don’t mind for myself so much, but Mary was looking forward to seeing him, and now… Ah, well. That’s kids for you.’