Whispers of the Dead (12 page)

The blood swirls down the sink, marbling the fast-flowing cold water with
carmine strands. A piece of meat, drained to a pale pink now the blood has
been washed from it, catches in the plughole.You jab it with your finger until
it's been forced through.
Whistling absently to yourself, you chop fresh chillies and drop them into
a pan with a handful of garlic salt. When they've started to sizzle you scoop
up the meat and drop that on it as well. The wet flesh spits and hisses when
it hits the hot fat, sending up a blast of steam.You give it a quick stir, then
leave it to brown. Opening the cold cupboard, you take out a carton of orange
juice, cheese and mayonnaise. You select a glass that looks reasonably clean
and wipe it with your finger. Dust covers every surface, but you don't notice.
If you did you wouldn't care. Occasionally, like a veil lifting, you'll register
the dilapidation of your surroundings, the way every corner is furred with the
detritus of years, but it fails to bother you. Decay is part of the natural order
of things, and who are you to deny nature?
You drink a glassful of orange straight off, wiping your mouth with the
back of your hand before you spread mayonnaise on two slices of processed
white bread and top it with thick chunks of cheese. Pouring yourself more
orange, you go to the big table in the centre of the kitchen. There isn't much
room left on it, so you balance your plate on a corner and pull up a chair. The
sandwich tastes of nothing, as usual, but it'll fill your stomach. You don't
really miss not being able to taste or smell anything, not any more.
Not when there's so much else to savour.
Things are going to move fast now, but that's OK. It's only what you
expected, and you're at your best under pressure. Everything's going exactly
like you knew it would, fust like you planned it. Leaving everything at the
mountain cabin was a risk, but a calculated one. It had felt strange, working
out there away from your own environment. The film canister was an inspired
move, but leaving the body therefor them to find had gone against the grain.
Still, it had been necessary. You wanted to make an impact, and how better
than to give them a kill site to play with? Let them run themselves ragged
trying to guess what you're going to do next. It won't do them any good.
By the time they realize it'll be too late.
You finish the sandwich, washing it down with orange juice that tastes of
nothing but cold. A patch of mayonnaise flecks one corner of your mouth as
you go to the stove to check the pan. You lift the lid and inhale the sudden
belch of steam. You can't smell it but it makes your eyes water, and that's a
good sign. The meat is starting to brown nicely. Pork rather than beef, same
as always. Cheaper, and it's not like you can tell the difference anyway.
You pick up a spoon and try some. Even though you can't taste anything,
it's so heavily spiced that it burns your mouth, fust like a good chilli should.
You throw in a couple of cans of tomato, then take the pan off the heat and
cover it. It'll cook slowly on its own now, and by the time you get back it'll
be just right.
You're a great believer in leaving things to stew in their own juices.
You pick up the plastic bag of dirty clothes you need to drop off at the
laundry, reminding yourself that you need to stock up on supplies again, too.
More cans of tomato, and you're getting low on batteries and flypaper. You
examine the sticky strips hanging from the ceiling. At least, they used to be
sticky; now they're matted black with dead flies, as well as the husks of larger,
more colourful insects.
For a moment a blankness comes over your face, as though the reason for
the strips has momentarily escaped you. Then you blink and come back to
life. On your way out you pause by the table. Tlte man lying trussed on it
looks up at you with terrified eyes, snuffling round the gag in his mouth.You
give him a smile.
'Don't you worry, now. I'll be back soon.'
Hoisting the heavy bag of laundry, you go out.
10

Gradually, a picture emerged of what had happened. Irving lived out
near Cades Cove, a beauty spot in the foothills of the Smoky
Mountains. Each morning before breakfast he would take his dog, a
black Labrador, out walking on the trail in the woods behind his
home. It was an established part of Irving's routine, and one that he'd
mentioned more than once in the profile interviews he was so fond
of giving.
At around nine o'clock his PA had let herself into his house, as she
did most mornings, and started the cofFee percolator, so that Irving's
favourite French roast would be ready for him by the time he returned.
Except that this morning he hadn't. The PA -- his third in two
years - had tried calling his mobile but received no answer. When
there was still no sign of him as lunchtime approached, she'd gone
out along the trail herself. Less than a half-mile from his house she'd
seen a policeman talking to an elderly couple, whose Jack Russell
was yapping excitedly on its lead. As she'd passed she'd overheard
them telling him about the dead dog that their terrier had found. A
black Labrador.
That was when she realized her employer might not be back for
lunch after all.
A search of the area revealed a bloodstained steel bar lying near the
Labrador's body, and the muddy ground by the dog's body bore
evidence of a struggle. But while there were several sets of footprints,
none of them were distinct enough for casts.
Of Irving himself, there was no sign.
'We don't know for certain what's happened to him,' Gardner
admitted.'We think all the blood on the bar is from the dog, but until
it's been to the lab we can't be sure.'
We were in one of the morgue's offices, down the corridor from
the autopsy suites. Windowless and small, it could have belonged to
any anonymous business. Gardner had come at Tom's request. This
time Jacobsen was with him, cool and unapproachable as ever in a
knee-length charcoal grey skirt and jacket. Except for the colour, it
looked identical to the blue one I'd seen her in before. I wondered
if she had a wardrobe full of identical suits, running the dark
spectrum of neutral shades.
Although no one had broached the actual reason for the meeting,
we were all aware what it was. Even unspoken it created a palpable
tension in the small office. Gardner had restricted his unhappiness at my
presence to a disapproving glance. He looked even more careworn than
usual, the creases in his brown suit matching those in his face, as though
he were subject to a heavier gravity than the rest of us.
'You must have some theories,'Tom said. He sat behind the desk,
listening with a brooding expression I knew meant he was biding his
time. He was the only one seated. Although there was another chair
in front of the desk no one had taken it. The rest of us stayed on our
feet, the chair remaining vacant as though awaiting the arrival of a
late visitor.
'It's possible Irving was the victim of a random attack, but it's still
too soon to say. We're not ruling out anything at this stage,' Gardner
said.
Tom's exasperation was beginning to show. 'In that case where s
his body?'
'We're still searching the area. For all we know he could have been
injured and wandered off. The dog was found in woodland half a
mile from the nearest road. That's a long way to carry a grown man,
but there's no other way anyone could've got Irving out of there. All
we've found so far are footprints and cycle tracks.'
'Then maybe he was forced to walk out himself at gun or
knifepoint.'
Gardner's chin jutted stubbornly.'In broad daylight? Unlikely. But
like I said, we're considering every possibility.'
Tom considered him. 'How long have we known each other,
Dan?'
TheTBI agent looked uncomfortable. 'I don't know. Ten years?'
'It's twelve. And this is the first time you've ever tried to bullshit
me.'
'That isn't fair!' Gardner shot back, his face darkening. 'We came
here today out of courtesy--'
'Come on, Dan, you know what happened as well as I do! You
can't seriously believe it's coincidence that Irving's gone missing the
morning after he bad-mouthed a serial killer on TV?'
'Until there's proof I'm not going to jump to conclusions.'
'And what if someone else on the investigation goes missing? Will
that be jumping to conclusions too?' In all the years I'd known Tom
I'd never seen him so angry. 'Dammit, Dan, one person was injured
here yesterday, perhaps seriously, and now this! I have a responsibility
to the people working with me. If any of them are at risk then / want to know about UV
Gardner said nothing. He looked pointedly across at me.
'I'll be in the autopsy suite,' I said, heading for the door.
'No, David, you've got as much right to hear this as I have,' Tom
said.
'Tom . . .' Gardner began.
'I asked him to help, Dan. If he's going to share the risk he has
every right to know what he's got himself into.' Tom folded his arms.
'I'll only tell him what you say anyway, so he might as well hear it
from you.'
The two of them stared at each other. Gardner didn't strike me as
the type to be easily browbeaten, but I knew Tom wasn't going to
budge. I glanced at Jacobsen and saw she looked as uncomfortable as
I felt.Then she realized I was watching her, and quickly blanked any
hint of emotion from her features.
Gardner gave a resigned sigh. 'Jesus, Tom. All right, it's possible there's a connection. But it isn't that simple. Some of Alex Irving's
students had complained about his behaviour. Female students. The
university'd been turning a blind eye because he was a celebrity
professor who could walk into a job anywhere in the state. Then a
student accused him of sexual harassment and that opened the floodgates.
The police were brought in, and it looked as though the
university was going to cut him loose rather than risk being hit with
lawsuits themselves.'
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
I

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 1 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 Loornis 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, 1 imagined it must be
infuriating.
'With all due respect to Professor Irving, 1 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.
T 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 forgotten. '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 Wilhs 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.