Whispers of the Dead (Tom Gabriel #2)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘We could do with Billy Hall round about now.’

  ‘He’s dead, and he was a pervert.’

  ‘He may have been a bit weird, but he knew about stuff like this.’

  ‘Don’t you know any other perverts?’

  ‘Lots, but none of them were as gifted as Billy.’

  ‘What about your daughter – Sara?’

  He thought about it. ‘No, she’s not a pervert – at least I don’t think she is. She has other things to do anyway, and she’s not a code-breaker either. Do you still have the email address of that English math student?’

  ‘Of course – Lillian Taylor! Yes, we could see if she can crack it. I’ll email her and ask if she’s interested.’

  ***

  He parked outside the one-storey white building of the St John’s County Medical Examiner.

  ‘Are you coming inside?’ he said to Rae.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He shrugged. ‘See you in a while then,’ he said, climbing out of the SUV.

  As he shouldered his way through the double glass doors, he saw Laura waiting for him in reception. He’d known her since she’d been five years old, since the night she’d called the department to tell them that her father had killed her mother in a drunken rage. That was a good few years ago though. Now, she was in her late thirties with long dark hair, a fringe that made her face look too wide, a neck that would have benefitted from being a couple of inches longer and upper arms that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a sumo wrestler.

  ‘I heard you’d got a new SUV,’ she said, peering through the glass. ‘Why is it yellow?’

  ‘I like yellow.’

  ‘You hate yellow.’

  ‘They’ve stopped making the Nitro. Yellow was the only colour they had.’

  ‘Is that Rae sitting in there?’

  ‘She’s of the opinion that if she comes in here she’ll never leave.’

  ‘A lot don’t.’

  ‘That’s true, but those are the ones that arrive in body bags.’

  ‘Is she joining us for lunch?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you want to see the John Doe?’

  ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  She led him through a door with an oblong glass panel, along a corridor and into an autopsy room. At the far end were a bank of freezers. She opened one of the doors, pulled the middle of three shelves out on its runners and whisked back the sheet covering the body.

  The man appeared as the police report had described him. He was clean-shaven with no distinguishing marks, and his ghost was sitting on the stainless steel autopsy table swinging his legs back and forth. ‘It’s finished,’ he mouthed, and then he was gone.

  Another cryptic message from the dead. What was finished? He gave a deep sigh. There were two other ghosts in the room – a woman with maggots crawling out of her left eye socket, and a crying boy of about nine years old who shuffled across the floor, touched his hand and said, ‘Joseph Fowler knows.’

  He squatted on one knee. ‘Joseph Fowler is dead.’

  The boy disappeared.

  He stood up.

  ‘You still see the dead, huh?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Who’s Joseph Fowler?’

  ‘A link in a chain. You got a copy of the autopsy report?’

  She walked to a worktop and picked up a file. ‘A copy just for you,’ she said, passing it to him.

  ‘Photographs?’

  ‘Inside.’

  ‘You’re not going to get into trouble for giving me this, are you?’

  ‘The ME’s office and the police department have exhausted their resources in this matter. I’ve cleared it with Mona. The case is officially closed. You’re his last chance. If you can’t find out who he is, he’ll be buried in an unmarked grave.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t want anybody to know who he was.’

  Laura pulled a face. ‘If that was his plan, then he’s done a good job in that respect so far.’

  He slipped on a pair of plastic gloves and began examining the body as she spoke.

  ‘I estimated the time of death to be around 7 p.m. on Thursday, October 5. The cause of death . . . well, that’s another matter. He drowned in his own body fluids.’

  ‘The police report said that he was in exceptional health.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Then . . . ?’

  ‘I’m certain he was poisoned, but I have no physical evidence to support that conclusion.’

  ‘Maybe you need to go on a refresher course.’

  She gave a laugh. ‘I wish it were that simple. There was congestion (an accumulation of blood or tissue fluid) evident in the small vessels of the brain, the pharynx, the stomach, the lower half of the duodenum, both kidneys, the liver and the spleen. The superficial layers of the middle of the oesophageal mucosa were discoloured white and ulcerated. There was blood mixed with the food in the stomach. The spleen was three times its normal size, and at the time of death he was suffering from acute gastritis, his liver was failing and he was bleeding internally.’

  ‘Could all that happen naturally?’

  ‘Put it this way: In all my years as a medical examiner, I’ve never seen anything like that. I found no medical or chemical cause for his death.’

  ‘So you’re convinced he was poisoned?’

  ‘Yes, but as I said, I have no evidence to support that diagnosis. His last meal – about three to four hours before he died – was a pasty . . .’

  ‘Was that how the poison got into his body?’

  She shrugged. ‘We’ve run every test known to medicine on him – nothing. As far as the toxicological analysis is concerned, there’s no foreign substance in his body.’

  ‘But surely, based on the congestion and your other findings from the autopsy, you could hazard a guess?’

  ‘No, that’s just it – I can’t. The main function of the liver is to remove toxins from the body. When it’s overloaded, it struggles to cope and eventually congestion occurs. There are a number of drugs that can cause either cytotoxic or cholestatic damage to the liver, or a combination of the two, but in every single case I would expect to find evidence of the causative drug – I found nothing.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a new drug.’

  ‘If it is, then it’s been developed in secret, because neither I nor any of my colleagues know anything about it.’

  ‘That’s not beyond the bounds of possibility with this government. Was he murdered?’

  ‘There’s no evidence of either suicide or murder. However, the consensus from all those involved with the case is that it was murder, but without any evidence or leads . . .’

  ‘What about the cigarettes?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Did you test them for poison?’

  Her brow furrowed. ‘That’s an interesting idea. No, they weren’t tested, but you’re right – they could easily have been used as the means of transporting the poison into the body. I’ll have them all tested and let you know what we find.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He squatted and examined the John Doe’s ear. ‘Looks like a normal ear to me.’

  ‘Yes. It is different from other ears in the general Caucasian population, but it’s only of interest to medical people.’

  ‘It hasn’t helped you identify him though, has it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about the dental disorder?’

  ‘No help either. The anodontia is partial and would only be noticed by a dentist. If the John Doe had never had any x-rays taken, then there would be nothing to compare our dental x-rays against.’

  ‘The pointed feet and high calf muscles?’

  ‘We ran an international television and internet campaign – none of the claims of identification could be verified.’

  ‘Clothing and possession?’

  She withdrew a number of clear plastic evidence bags fr
om a drawer and placed them on a work surface.

  He looked at the items and read the descriptions on the labels stuck on the outside of the bags:

  White shirt;

  Red and blue tie;

  Brown suit;

  Socks;

  Shoes (highly polished);

  Grey double-breasted coat; and

  A bag containing a narrow aluminium comb, a half-empty packet of Juicy Fruit, a packet of Lucky Strike and a green plastic lighter.

  ‘This is all there was?’

  ‘Yes. Except, all the labels are missing from the clothes.’

  ‘No wallet or identification?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You’ve checked the clothing for hidden pockets and so forth?’

  ‘All put through a scanner – nothing. It’s a proper mystery.’

  ‘Not necessarily for much longer.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Rae went to question the paper boy who found our Mr Doe, and discovered that he’d helped himself to a very nice looking gold knife off the body before the police arrived.’

  ‘Really? How does that help us? Does it have a name and address engraved on it?’

  ‘No – no name, but it was attached to a gold chain by a ring, which also had on it a left luggage key from Palatka train station.’

  ‘Oh my God! Really?’

  ‘Yes. We’re going over there after lunch.’

  ‘I wish I could come with you, but the dead need my attention.’

  ‘I’ll let you know what we find – if anything, but keep it to yourself for the time being.’

  ‘Of course. Have you finished?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  Chapter Seven

  After a leisurely lunch in the Stone’s Throw Bar & Grill – just down the street from the ME’s office – they headed out along the 207 to the railway station at Palatka. The satnav gave a time of forty minutes – long enough for a lunch of grilled chicken breasts topped with grilled pineapple to make its way down to somewhere more comfortable.

  Rae stared at him. ‘See, what did I tell you – they know nothing.’

  ‘Do you actually know what “nothing” means?’

  ‘It means “nothing”, which is exactly what Laura and the police know. Unlike this intrepid investigative journalist, who discovered a key to a left luggage locker, which will no doubt crack the case wide open.’

  ‘You do realise that it could be an empty locker, don’t you?’

  ‘Fate would not be so cruel.’

  ‘You’re young, so I’ll excuse your naivety – fate is always so cruel. That’s how she gets her kicks.’

  ‘She? You’re a sexist. Why does fate have to be a woman?’

  ‘Because fate is fickle, and women are fickle. The resemblance is uncanny. And you do know it wasn’t my decision to make fate a female. That’s just the way it is. The fickle finger of fate has always dangled from a woman’s dainty hand.’

  ‘You’re like those men who give all the hurricanes female names.’

  He gave her a wide smile. ‘You’ve got to admit that it’s an apt analogy.’

  ‘I don’t have to admit anything.’

  ‘And anyway, some hurricanes are named after men now.’

  ‘Only because we complained.’

  ‘It’s still not my fault. Fate is a woman. She has many names.’

  ‘Yeah, and I bet a man gave her those names.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

  Palatka Railway Station opened in 1909 and was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1988. It also housed the Browning Railway Museum, which was operated by the Palatka Railroad Preservation Society. The building itself was painted pink, the woodwork white and the grass cut regularly.

  ‘It looks pretty,’ Rae said.

  ‘It’s a train station.’

  ‘Look at those lovely hanging baskets.’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  There didn’t seem to be much point in both of them going into the station to open the locker, so he let Rae go in alone.

  ‘Are you sure it’ll be safe?’

  ‘Just go in there, open the locker, grab whatever’s inside and come right out.’

  While she was gone his phone jangled. No name appeared in the display window, so he guessed it wasn’t anybody in his phonebook. ‘Tom Gabriel.’

  ‘It’s Sara.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Not really? What does that mean?’

  ‘Brad called again – he wants me and Rochelle to go back home.’

  ‘I thought you’d already made your decision.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So, what’s the problem? Last night you had a plan to change the world. You were going back to nursing, and then you were going to train to become a doctor.’

  ‘I know, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I don’t know if I can, dad.’

  ‘So, it was the wine talking?’

  ‘Yes . . . No . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘You used to know your own mind.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I used to have a daughter who wanted to be the first female president of the United States of America.’

  ‘A lot’s changed.’

  ‘You’ve changed, you mean.’

  ‘I guess I have.’

  ‘What’s-his-name has ground you down to believe that all you can ever be is a wife and mother.’

  ‘They’re important jobs.’

  ‘I’m not disputing that, but you could have been so much more – and still can be. You have time on your side.’

  ‘You’re disappointed in me.’

  ‘I’m disappointed for you. All your mother and I ever wanted was for both of our daughters to be happy. Are you happy, Sara?’

  There was a palpable silence.

  ‘If you have to think about it, I guess you’re not. I’m certainly not in the business of breaking up marriages, but if you go back to him – it’ll be more of the same. Is that what you want?’

  More silence.

  ‘He’s already proven himself to be a liar. Is what’s-his-name rushing you to make a decision?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you forgotten that he’s in the wrong, Sara. He’s in no position to make demands. I used to have a daughter with a backbone, but now . . .’

  ‘You’re right, dad.’

  ‘Tell him you’ll need at least a week to reach a decision, and at the end of that week you’ll inform him what that decision is.’

  ‘I’m thinking of running for Governor.’

  ‘I’d vote for you.’

  ‘Thanks, dad.’

  The call ended.

  Rae returned carrying a battered brown leather suitcase, opened the door and tossed it on the passenger seat. Her face was flushed as if she’d just run a four-minute mile. ‘This was in the locker.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s locked.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘What’s interesting about that?’

  ‘Apart from the locker key that was stolen by the paperboy, John Doe had no other keys on him.’

  ‘You’re right. He obviously locked the suitcase – where’s the key?’

  ‘Another mystery. Well, are you going to open it?’

  ‘It’s locked.’

  ‘I don’t think Mr Doe will mind if you break into his suitcase.’

  ‘Have you got something I can use?’

  ‘Use the knife.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so. It’s far too nice to be used for opening a locked suitcase, and the paperboy wants it back after I’ve finished with it.’

  ‘It’s stolen property and evidence in a murder inquiry.’ He climbed out of the driver’s seat, walked to the trunk, found a screwdriver in the bag of tools and carried on round to where Rae was standing. He shouldered her out of the way. ‘Let the suitcase destroyer in the
n.’

  She shifted sideways.

  He made quick work of the flip locks by wedging the screwdriver into the gap between the lock and the leather, and twisting. They snapped open as if he had the key.

  Rae opened the lid and began pulling out the items one by one:

  Red-checked dressing gown;

  Red felt slippers size 7;

  Underpants x 4;

  Blue-striped pyjamas;

  Shaving items: cutthroat razor, shaving brush, a pot of lemon-smelling shaving soap and a bottle of Old-Spice aftershave;

  A light brown pair of trousers with sand in the turn-ups;

  A yellow and red electrician’s Phillips screwdriver;

  A table knife that had been ground to a point;

  A pair of small stainless steel scissors;

  A black bristle No.16 wooden-handled stencilling brush; and

  A roll of black cotton thread with a sewing needle stuck in it.

  She examined the suitcase inside and out, but found no secret compartment, markings or anything else that might be considered useful in determining who John Doe was. Next, she began checking the items that she’d removed from the case . . . ‘All the labels on the clothes have been removed,’ she said. ‘Just like the clothing he was wearing.’

  ‘Don’t forget to turn each item of clothing inside out,’ he said.

  ‘Not the underpants.’

  ‘Especially the underpants. You never know what you’ll find in those.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  She found and removed three different coloured curled-up dry-cleaning tags pinned inside the collar of the dressing gown and the pyjamas jacket, and another one in the waistband of the pyjamas trousers:

  1171/7

  4393/3

  3053/1

  The first one (1171/7) was a faded pink; the second (4393/3) was a faded lime green; and the third (3053/1) was a faded blue. It looked as though they’d been left in the clothes and forgotten about for some time.

  ‘He’s probably an ex-con,’ Tom said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The pointed knife – it’s a shank, which is prison slang for “knife”.