Whispers of the Dead (4 page)

so far in danger of slipping as she stepped forward. 'It's a
pleasure to meet you, Professor Irving. I've read a lot of your work.'
Irving's smile broadened even further. I couldn't help but notice
how unnaturally white and even his teeth were.
'I trust it met with your approval. And, please, call me Alex.'
'Diane majored in psychology before she joined theTBI,' Gardner
put in.
The profiler's eyebrows rose. 'Really? Then I'll have to be extra
careful not to slip up.' He didn't actually pat her on the head, but he
might as well have. An expression of distaste replaced his smile as
he considered the body. 'Seen better days, hasn't it? Can I have a little
more of that menthol, please?'
The request wasn't addressed to anyone in particular. After a
moment one of the forensic team grudgingly went out to get it.
Steepling his fingers, Irving listened without comment as Gardner
briefed him. When the agent returned, the profiler accepted the
menthol without acknowledgement, dabbing a neat smear on his top
lip before holding out the jar for her to take.
She looked down at the proffered jar before taking it. 'Any time.'
If Irving was aware of the sarcasm he gave no sign. Tom shot me
an amused look as he took another specimen jar from the bag and
turned back to the body.
'I'd rather you wait till I'm done, please.'
Irving spoke without looking at him, as though taking for granted that everyone there would naturally defer to his wishes. I saw annoyance
flash in Tom's eyes, and for a moment I thought he was going
to respond. But before he could a sudden spasm crossed his face. It
was gone so quickly I might have imagined it, except for the pallor
it left behind.
'Think I'll get some fresh air. Too damn hot in here.'
He looked unsteady as he headed for the door. I started to go after
him but he stopped me with a shake of his head.
'No need for you to come.You can start taking photographs once
Professor Irving's finished. I'm just going to get some water.'
'There's iced bottles in a cooler by the tables,' Gardner told him.
I felt concerned as I watched him go, but it was clear Tom didn't
want to make a fuss. No one else seemed to have noticed anything
was wrong. He'd been facing away from everyone except Irving and
me, and the profiler was oblivious anyway. He stood with his hand
on his chin as Gardner resumed his briefing, staring intently at the
dead man on the table. When the TBI agent had finished he didn't
move or speak, his pose one of deep contemplation. Pose being the
operative word. I told myself not to be uncharitable.
'You realize it's a serial, of course?' he said, stirring at last.
Gardner looked pained. 'We don't know that for sure.'
Irving's smile was condescending. 'Oh, I think we do. Look at the
way the body's been arranged. It's been put on display for us to find.
Stripped, bound, and in all probability tortured. And then left face
up. There's no sign of any shame or regret, no attempt to cover the
victim's eyes or turn him face down. This whole thing shouts of
calculation and enjoyment. He was pleased with what he'd done,
that's why he wanted you to see it.'
Gardner accepted the news with resignation. He must have known
as much himself. 'So the killer's male?'
'Of course he is.' Irving chuckled as though Gardner had made a
joke.'Apart from everything else, the victim was obviously a powerful
man. You think a woman's capable of doing this?'
You'd be surprised what some women are capable of. I could feel my scar starting to itch.
'We're looking at a huge, huge amount of arrogance here,' Irving
went on. 'The killer must have known the body would be found
when the rental period was up. My God, he even left the wallet so
you could ID the victim. No, this was no one-off. Our boy's just
getting started.'
The prospect seemed to please him.
'The wallet might not be the victim's,' Gardner said half-heartedly.
'I disagree. The killer's been far too deliberate to have left his own
behind. I'd lay odds that he even made the reservation for the cabin
himself. He didn't just happen along and decide to kill whoever was
renting -it. This was too well planned, too well orchestrated for that. No, he made the booking in the victim's name, then brought him
out here. Somewhere nice and isolated, no doubt scouted in advance,
where he could torture him at leisure.'
'How can you be sure the victim was tortured?' Jacobsen said. It
was the first time she'd spoken since Irving had patronized her.
The profiler seemed to be enjoying himself. 'Why else tie him to
the table? He wasn't just restrained, he was staked out. The killer
wanted to take his time over this, to enjoy it. I don't suppose there's
any way to check for semen deposits or evidence of sexual assault?'
It took me a moment to realize that this last question was aimed
at me. 'Not when the body's this badly decomposed, no.'
'Pity' He made it sound as though he'd missed a dinner party
invitation. 'Still, from the amount of blood on the floor, it's obvious
that the wounding was done while the victim was still alive. And I
think the genital mutilation's highly significant.'
I spoke automatically. 'Not necessarily. Blowflies will lay their eggs
around any body opening, including the groin. The insect activity
doesn't mean there was a wound there. We'll need to carry out a full
examination to determine that.'
'Really' Irving's smile had set. 'But you'll allow that the blood
came from somewhere? Or is the mess under the table just spilt
coffee?'
'I was just pointing out that--' I began, but Irving was no longer
listening. I clamped my mouth shut, angrily, as he turned to Gardner
and Jacobsen.
'As I was saying, we've got a bound and naked victim who was tied
down and in all probability mutilated. The question is whether the
wounds were the result of post-coital rage, or frustrated sexual
tension. In other words, were they inflicted because he got it up, or
because he didn'tV
His words were met by silence. Even the forensic team had broken
off to listen.
'You think the motivation's sexual?' Jacobsen asked, after a
moment.
Irving feigned surprise. I felt my dislike of him edge up a little
more.
'I'm sorry, I thought that would have been obvious from the fact
the victim was left naked. That's why the wounding is important.
We're dealing with someone who is either in denial about
his sexuality, or who resents it and takes out his self-disgust on his
victim. Either way, he isn't openly homosexual. He could be married,
a pillar of society. Perhaps someone who likes to boast about his
female conquests. This was done by someone who hates what he is,
and who sublimated that self-loathing into aggression against his
victim.'
Jacobsen's face was expressionless.'I thought you said the killer was
proud of what he'd done? That there was no sign of shame or regret?'
'Not over the actual killing, no. He's beating his chest here, trying
to convince everyone - including himself - how big and tough he
is. But the reason he did it, that's another matter. That's what he's
ashamed of
'There could be other reasons why the victim's naked,' Jacobsen
said. 'Could be a form of humiliation or another way to exercise
control.'
'One way or another, control usually comes down to sex.' Irving
smiled, but it was starting to look a little forced. 'Gay serial killers are
rare, but they do exist. And from what I've seen I think that may well
be what we've got here.'
Jacobsen wasn't about to back down. 'We don't know enough
about the killer's motivation to--'
'Forgive me, but do you have much experience with serial killer
investigations?' Irving's smile had frost on it.
'No, but--'
'Then perhaps you'd spare me the pop psychology.'
There wasn't even the pretence of a smile now. Jacobsen didn't
react, but the twin patches of red on her cheeks betrayed her. I felt
sympathy for her. Outspoken or not, she hadn't deserved that.
An awkward silence had descended. Gardner broke it. 'What about
the victim? You think the killer might have known him?'
'Maybe, maybe not.' Irving seemed to have lost interest. He was
tugging at the collar of his shirt, the rounded face flushed and beaded
with sweat. The cabin had cooled since the window had been
opened, but it was still stiflingly hot. 'I'm done here. I'll need copies
of forensic reports and photographs, along with whatever information
you have on the victim.'
He turned to Jacobsen with what I imagine he thought was an
engaging grin. 'Hope you didn't mind our little difference of
opinion. Perhaps we could discuss it at more length over a drink
sometime.'
Jacobsen didn't answer, but the way she looked at him made me
think he shouldn't build up his hopes. The profiler was wasting his
time if he was trying to charm her.
The atmosphere in the small cabin became more relaxed once
Irving had left. I went to get the camera from Tom's case. It was a
cardinal rule to take our own photographs of the body, regardless of
whatever crime scene ones there were. But before I could start a
shout went up from one of the agents.
'Think I've got something.'
It was the big man who'd spoken. He was kneeling on the floor
by the sofa, straining to reach underneath. He pulled out a small grey
cylinder, holding it with surprising delicacy in his gloved fingers.
I

'What is it?' Gardner asked, going over.
'Looks like a film canister,' he said, breathless from the effort. 'For
a thirty-five-millimetre camera. Must've rolled under there.'
I glanced at the camera I had in my hand. Digital, the same as most
forensic investigators used nowadays.
'Does anyone still use film?' asked the female agent who'd fetched
Irving the menthol.
'Only die-hards and purists,' the big man said. 'My cousin swears
by it.'
'He into glamour photography like you, Jerry?' the woman asked,
raising a laugh.
But Gardner's face didn't slip. 'Anything inside?'
The big agent peeled off the lid. 'Nope, only air. Wait a second,
though . . .'
He held the shiny cylinder up to the light, squinting along its
length.
'Well?' Gardner prompted.
I could see the agent called Jerry grin even though he was wearing
a mask. He waggled the film container.
'Can't offer you any photographs. But will a nice fat fingerprint
do instead?'

The sun was setting as Tom drove us back towards Knoxville. The
road wound through the bottom of steep, tree-covered slopes that
blocked out the last of the light, so that it was dark even though the
sky above us was still blue. When Tom flicked on the headlights, night
suddenly closed in around us.
'You're quiet,' he said after a while.
'Just thinking.'
'I kind of guessed that.'
I'd been relieved to see he looked much better when he'd returned
to the cabin. The rest of the work had gone smoothly enough. We'd
photographed and sketched the position of the body, then taken
tissue samples. By analysing the amino and volatile fatty acids
released as the cells broke down we'd be able to narrow the time
since death to within twelve hours. At the moment everything
pointed to the victim's being dead for at least six days, and very
possibly seven. Yet according to Gardner the cabin had only been
occupied for five. Something wasn't right, and although I might have
lost confidence in my own abilities, I was certain of one thing.
Nature didn't lie.
I realized Tom was waiting for me to respond. 'I didn't exactly
cover myself in glory back there, did I?'
'Don't be too hard on yourself. Everyone makes mistakes.'
'Not like that. It made me look like an amateur. I wasn't thinking.'
'C'mon, David, it wasn't such a big deal. Besides, you might still be
right. There's something skewed about the time since death. Maybe
the victim was already dead when he was taken to the cabin. The
body could have been tied to the table to make it look like he'd been
killed there.'
Much as I'd have liked to believe that, I couldn't see it.'That would
mean the entire crime scene was staged, including the blood on the
floor. And anyone clever enough to make it as convincing as that
would know it wouldn't fool us for long. So what would be the
point?'
Tom had no answer to that.The road marched between silent walls
of trees, their branches picked out starkly in the headlights.
'What did you make of Irving's theory?' he asked after a while.
'You mean this being the start of a serial spree, or that it was
sexually motivated?'
'Both.'
'He could be right about it being a serial killer,' I said. Most
murderers tried to conceal their crimes, hiding their victims' bodies
rather than leaving them on display. This smacked of a very different
sort of killer, with a very different agenda.
'And the rest?'
'I don't know. I'm sure Irving's good at what he does, but. . .' I
gave a shrug. 'Well, I thought he was too eager to jump to
conclusions. It seemed to me like he was seeing -what he wanted
to rather than what was actually there.'
'People who don't understand what we do might think the same
about us.'
'At least what we do is based on hard evidence. Irving seemed to
me to be speculating an awful lot.'
'Are you saying you never listen to your instincts?'
'I might listen, but I wouldn't let them get in the way of the facts.
Neither would you.'
He smiled. 'I seem to recall that we've had this discussion before.
And no, of course I'm not saying we should rely on instinct too
much. But used judiciously it's another tool at our disposal. The
brain's a mysterious organ; sometimes it makes connections we're not
consciously aware of. You've got good instincts, David. You should
learn to trust them more.'
After my blunder in the cabin that was the last thing I wanted to
do. But I wasn't going to let this turn into a discussion about me.
'Irving's whole approach was subjective. He seemed too keen for the
killer to be a repressed homosexual, something nice and sensational.
I got the impression he was already planning his next paper.'
Tom gave a laugh. 'More likely his next book. He made the
bestseller charts a couple of years ago, and since then he's been a
head for hire for any TV company that'll pay his fees. The man's
a shameless self-promoter, but in fairness he has had some good
results.'
'And I bet they're the only ones anyone hears about.'
Tom's glasses caught the reflection from the headlights as he gave
me a sideways glance. 'You sound very cynical these days.'
'I'm just tired. Don't pay any attention.'
Tom turned back to the road. I could almost feel the question coming. 'This is none of my business, but what happened with the
girl you were seeing? Jenny, wasn't it? I haven't wanted to mention it
before, but. . .'
'It's over.'
The words seemed to have an awful finality to them, one that still
didn't seem to apply to me and Jenny.
'Because of what happened to you?'
'That was part of it.' That and other things. Because you put your work first. Because you were nearly killed. Because she didn't want to sit at
home any more, wondering if it was going to happen again.
'I'm sorry,' Tom said.
I nodded, staring dead ahead. So am I.
The indicator clicked as he turned off on to another road. This one
seemed even darker than the last.
'So how long have you had a heart problem?' I asked.
Tom said nothing for a second, then gave a snort.'I keep forgetting
about that damn medical background of yours.'
'What is it, angina?'
'So they say. But I'm fine, it's not serious.'
It had looked serious enough to me that afternoon. I thought
about all the other times I'd seen him having to stop to catch his
breath since I'd arrived. I should have realized sooner. If I hadn't been
so wrapped up in my own problems perhaps I would.
'You should be taking it easy, not trekking up hillsides,' I told him.
'I'm not about to start babying myself,' he said irritably. 'I'm on
medication, it's under control.'
I didn't believe him, but I knew when to back off. We drove in
silence for a while, both of us aware of things left unsaid. The inside
of the station wagon was lit up as another car came up behind us, its
headlights dazzlingly bright.
'So how do you feel about lending me a hand with the examination
tomorrow?'Tom asked.
The body was going to be taken to the morgue at UT Medical
Center in Knoxville. As a visual ID was out of the question, trying
to identify the body was a priority. The Forensic Anthropology
Center had its own lab facilities - bizarrely based at Neyland sports
stadium in Knoxville -- but they were more often used for research
rather than actual homicide investigations. The TBI also had its own
facilities in Nashville, but the UTMC morgue was more convenient
in this instance. Normally, I would have jumped at the opportunity
to help Tom, but now I hesitated.
'I'm not sure I'm up to it.'
'Bullshit,' Tom said, uncharacteristically blunt. He gave a sigh.
'Look, David, you've had a tough time lately, I know that. But you
came over here to get back on your feet, and I can't think of a better
way to do it.'
'What about Gardner?' I hedged.
'Dan's a little prickly with people he doesn't know sometimes, but
he appreciates talent as much as anyone. Besides, I don't have to ask
his permission to get someone to help me. I'd normally use one of
my students, but I'd rather have you there. Unless you don't want to
work with me, of course.'
I didn't know what I wanted, but I could hardly turn him down.
'If you're sure, then thanks.'
Satisfied, he turned his attention back to the road ahead.
Suddenly, the inside of the car was flooded with light as the car
behind us closed the gap. Tom squinted as its headlights dazzled
him in the rear-view mirror. They were only a few feet away, high
and bright enough to suggest they belonged to either a pick-up or
a small truck.
Tom clicked his tongue in annoyance. 'What the hell's this idiot
doing?'
He slowed, pulling over to the side of the road to let the other car
pass. But its headlights slowed as well, remaining right behind us.
'Fine, you've had your chance,'Tom muttered, speeding up again.
The headlights kept pace with us, staying just behind the station
wagon. I twisted round, trying to see what was following us. But the
glare rendered everything through the rear window invisible,
prevented me from making anything out.
With a screech of rubber, the headlights abruptly swerved to the
left. I caught a glimpse of a high-bodied pick-up, its windows black
mirrors as it tore past with a throaty roar. The station wagon was
rocked by its slipstream and then it was gone, its rear lights quickly
disappearing into the darkness.
'Damn redneck,'Tom muttered.
He reached for the CD player, and the mellow tones of Chet
Baker accompanied us back to civilization.
I