Whispers of the Dead (19 page)

15

'So you think the killer called Dr Lieberman last night.'
Jacobsen's voice was completely inflectionless, making it impossible
to know what she thought of the idea.
'I think it's possible, yes,' I said.
We were in the restaurant of my hotel, the half-eaten remains of
my dinner congealing on the plate in front of me. I'd called Gardner
from the hospital, finding his number in the address book of Tom's
mobile. I'd anticipated his scepticism and readied my arguments for
it.What I hadn't anticipated was that he wouldn't answer, and that I'd
find myself having to explain to his voicemail service.
Rather than go into details, I'd said only that I thought the killer
might have contacted Tom, and asked Gardner to call me. I'd assumed
the TBI agent would want to see the payphone for himself, perhaps
have it checked for fingerprints, although after it had been in use for
another twenty-four hours I doubted there'd be much to find.
But there was no point waiting there until Gardner got my
message and decided to call me. Feeling vaguely stupid, I'd gone to
my car and driven back to my hotel.
It was almost an hour later before I heard anything. I'd just ordered
dinner when my phone rang, but it was Jacobsen rather than Gardner
on the other end. She asked for the number I'd taken from Tom's
phone and told me to wait. The phone line went quiet, and I guessed
she was passing the information on to Gardner. When she came back
on she told me that she'd be with me in half an hour.
It was less than that when I looked up and saw her entering the
restaurant. I pushed my plate away, my appetite suddenly gone.
Jacobsen wore a black suit this time, the tailored skirt swishing with
each stride as she made her way to my table. She could have been an
ambitious young businesswoman except for the gun I glimpsed
under her jacket as she sat down. There was no explanation of why
Gardner hadn't returned my call or come himself, but I could guess.
Declining anything to eat or drink, she listened without comment
as I explained in more detail about the call Tom had received.
Now I was starting to wish I hadn't bothered.
'Do you have Dr Lieberman's cell phone with you?' she asked.
I took it from my jacket and passed it over. I'd put it into my
pocket at the last minute as I'd left my room. Just in case.
'Any news about Irving?' I asked, as Jacobsen examined the record
of Tom's incoming calls.
'Not yet.' It was obvious that was all I was going to get. She copied
the number into her own phone, then put it away without comment.
'What made you check Dr Lieberman's phone in the first place?'
'I was curious who'd called him. I wondered if it was connected
with the heart attack.'
Her face was unreadable. 'You didn't think you might be prying?'
'Of course I did. But under the circumstances I didn't think Tom
would mind.'
'Yet you didn't bother to ask anyone first?'
'Like who? Phone his wife while she's by his hospital bed?'
'I was thinking more of Dan Gardner.'
'Right. Because he values my opinion so much.'
Her smile seemed to take her by surprise as much as me. It lit up
her entire face, changing her features from austerely attractive into
ones that could grace the cover of a magazine. Then it was gone,
leaving me wishing it had lasted longer.
'This is just conjecture,' she went on, the professional facade back
in place.Though perhaps not so firmly as before. 'The call could have
been made by anyone.'
'From a payphone right outside the morgue? At that time of
night?'
She didn't answer. 'Have the doctors said when Dr Lieberman
might be able to talk?'
'No. But probably not any time soon.'
We broke off as the waitress arrived to clear my plate and offer the
dessert menu.
'Look, I'm going to have a coffee. Why don't you join me?' I said.
Jacobsen hesitated, glancing at her watch. For the first time a hint
of tiredness leaked through.
'Maybe a quick one.' She ordered a latte, with skimmed milk and
an extra shot of espresso.
'Are you sure you don't want anything else?' I offered.
'Coffee's fine, thank you,' she said, as though regretting even that
much self-indulgence. I guessed that Jacobsen s blood sugar would
always come off second best to self-discipline.
By tacit consent we put our discussion on hold while the waitress
fetched our order. Jacobsen's fingers tapped restlessly on top of the
banquette where we were sitting. Her nails were cut short, devoid of
any polish.
'Are you from Knoxville originally?' I asked, to break the silence.
'A small town near Memphis. You wouldn't have heard of it.'
It was obvious I wasn't about to now, either. I tried again as the
waitress set down the coffees.
'So what made you do a psychology degree?'

She hunched a shoulder. The movement seemed stiff and forced.
'It was an interest of mine. I wanted to pursue it.'
'But you joined the TBI instead? How come?'
'It was a good career move.'
She took a sip of coffee, closing the topic. So much for getting to
know her better. I didn't think there was much point asking about a
husband or a boyfriend.
'For the sake of argument, let's say you might be right about the
phone call,' she said, lowering her cup. 'What would be the point?
You're not suggesting someone deliberately caused Dr Lieberman's
heart attack?'
'No, of course not.'
'Then why call him?'
Now we came to it. 'To lure him outside. I think Tom was going
to be the next victim.'
The only outward sign of Jacobsen's surprise was her quick blink. 'Go on.'
'Tom seemed confused immediately after the heart attack, convinced
that something had happened to Mary. Even at the hospital
he had to be constantly reassured that she was all right. It was put
down to the attack, but supposing it wasn't? Supposing someone
called him and said his wife had had some kind of accident?'
The furrow was back between Jacobsen's eyes.'So he'd rush out to
go to her.'
'Exactly. When you get a phone call like that you forget about
everything else.You don't worry about being careful or not going to
your car alone. You drop everything and go! I knew that only
too well.The memory of hearing the policeman's voice telling me of
my wife and daughter's accident still haunted me. 'At that time
of night most of the hospital's pretty deserted, and the payphone
where the call was made had a clear view of the morgue entrance.
Anybody using it would have been able to see Tom come out.'
'Why not wait for him to finish work?'
'Because anyone planning to attack or abduct Tom wouldn't want
to risk someone leaving with him. This way they'd be able to pick
their moment, knowing he'd be alone and vulnerable.'
I

Jacobsen still wasn't convinced. 'They'd have to have got Dr
Lieberman's cell phone number somehow.'
'Tom isn't shy about giving it out. Anyone could get it from his
secretary at the university.'
'All right, but Dr Lieberman hasn't drawn attention to himself like
Professor Irving. Why target him?'
'I've no idea,' I admitted. 'But you said yourself that whoever's
behind this has a grandiose opinion of himself. Perhaps he felt that
mechanics and petty thieves weren't getting him the attention he
deserves.'
Jacobsen stared into space as she considered that. I made myself
look away from the full lips.
'It's possible,' she conceded after a while. 'Maybe he's becoming
more ambitious. Professor Irving could've whetted his appetite for
more high-profile victims.'
'Unless Tom was the main target all along.'
I knew I was pushing my luck. Jacobsen frowned. 'There's no
evidence to support that.'
'I know,' I agreed.'It's just that I've been thinking about everything
else the killer's done. Deliberately accelerated decomposition, pig's
teeth substituted for human, and victims with apparently conflicting
causes of death. All things guaranteed to get a forensic anthropologist
scratching his head. Now it looks like Tom himself was nearly the
next victim. Doesn't it strike you the killer could have had that in
mind all along?'
She was still sceptical. 'Dr Lieberman isn't the only forensic
anthropologist theTBI uses.There'd be no way anyone could be sure
he'd be brought into this investigation.'
'Then perhaps the killer just wanted to set his cap against whoever
was brought in, I don't know. But it's no secret that Tom's usually the
TBI's first port of call. Or that he was planning to retire later this
year.' Sooner than that. I pushed the thought of Tom and Mary's
shattered plans away and pressed on. 'What if the killer saw this as his
last window of opportunity to prove himself against one of the
country's leading forensic experts? We know he arranged it so Terry
Loomis's body would be found when the cabin rental expired,
and Tom had only returned from a month's travelling the week
before. That means the killer must have hired the cabin within
a day or so of Tom's getting back. Supposing that wasn't just a
coincidence?'
But I could see from Jacobsen's frown that I'd gone too far. 'Don't
you think that's stretching things?'
I sighed. I wasn't sure myself any more. 'Perhaps. But then we're
dealing with someone who planted hypodermic needles in a corpse
six months before arranging to have it exhumed. Compared to that,
making sure your next victim's going to be in town wouldn't be too
difficult.'
Jacobsen was silent. I took a drink of coffee, letting her reach her
own conclusions.
'It's reading an awful lot into one phone call,' she said at last.
'Yes,' I agreed.
'But I suppose it's worth looking into.'
Tension I'd not even been aware of till then bled out of me. I
wasn't sure if I was relieved that a possible lead was being pursued,
or just grateful to be taken seriously.
'So you'll check the payphone for fingerprints?'
'A crime scene team's there now, although after twenty-four hours
I doubt they'll find anything.' Jacobsen's mouth quirked slightly at
my surprise. 'You didn't think we'd just ignore something like that,
did you?'
The brrr of her phone vibrating on the table saved me from having
to answer. 'Excuse me,' she said, picking it up.
Feeling easier than I had all day, I drank my coffee while she went
outside to take the call. I watched her through the glass doors, her
features intent on whatever was being said. The conversation wasn't
a long one. After less than a minute she came back inside. I expected
her to make her excuses and leave, but instead she sat down at the
table again.
She made no reference to the call, but there was a new coolness
about her.The slight thaw I thought I'd detected earlier had vanished.
She moved the handle of her coffee cup minutely, repositioning it
in its saucer. 'Dr Hunter . . .' she began.

'The name's David.'
She seemed caught off balance. 'Look, you ought to know . . .'
I waited, but she didn't go on. 'What?'
'It isn't important.' Whatever she'd been about to say, she'd
thought better of it. Her eyes went to the almost empty beer glass
that the waitress hadn't yet cleared. 'Forgive me for asking, but should
you be drinking alcohol? Given your condition, I mean?'
'My condition?'
'Your injury.' She tilted her head quizzically. 'Surely you must have
known we'd run a background check?'
I realized I was holding my coffee cup poised in mid-air. I carefully
set it down.'I hadn't given it much thought. And as for alcohol,
I was stabbed. I'm not pregnant.'
The grey eyes regarded me. 'Does it make you feel uncomfortable
talking about it?'
'There are pleasanter subjects.'
'Did you have any counselling after the attack?'
'No. And I don't want any now, thanks.'
An eyebrow cocked. 'I forgot.You don't trust psychologists.'
'I don't mistrust them. I just don't believe that talking about something
is always the best way to deal with it, that's all.'
'Stiff upper lip, and all that?'
I just looked at her. A pulse of blood had started to tick away in
my temples.
'Your attacker wasn't caught, was she?' she said, after a moment.
'No.'
'Does that worry you? That she might try again?'
'I try not to lose sleep over it.'
'But you do, though, don't you?'
I realized my hands were clenched under the table. They were
clammy when 1 opened them. 'Is there a point to this?'
'I'm just curious.'
We stared at each other. But for some reason I felt calm now, as
though I'd stepped over a threshold. 'Why are you trying to provoke
me?'
Her gaze wavered. 'I'm only--'
'Did Gardner put you up to this?'

I don't know where the question came from, but when she looked
away I knew I was right. It was only for a second, but it was enough.
'For Christ's sake, what is this? Are you vetting me?'
'Of course not,' she said, but without conviction. Now it was her
turn to avoid my stare. 'Dan Gardner just wanted to assess your state
of mind, that's all.'
'My state of mind? I gave an incredulous laugh.'I've been stabbed,
I split up with my girlfriend, one of my oldest friends is lying in
hospital, and everyone here seems convinced I'm incompetent. My
state of mind's fine, thanks.'
Twin patches of colour burned on Jacobsen's cheeks. T apologize
if I've offended you.'
'I'm not offended, just. . .' I didn't know what I was. 'Where is
Gardner, anyway? Why isn't he here?'
'He's tied up with something else at the moment.'
I wasn't sure what annoyed me more, the fact he'd felt I needed
assessing or that he hadn't deemed it important enough to do himself.
'Why bother with this now, anyway? The work's all but finished.'
The flush was fading from Jacobsen's cheeks. She stared pensively
into her coffee, absently running a finger round the rim of the cup.
'A situation's developed at Steeple Hill,' she said.
I waited. The grey eyes met mine.
'York's disappeared.'
16

With lights burning in every window and TBI vehicles clustered
outside, York's house had the starkly surreal look of a film set. It was
in the grounds of Steeple Hill, hidden well away from the cemetery
behind a fold in the pine woods. Like the funeral home itself, it was
a low, rectangular block of concrete and glass, a failed attempt to
transplant Californian 1950s modernism to the deep south. Once
upon a time it might have been striking. Now, surrounded by the
shadowy pinnacles of the pine trees, it just looked decayed and sad.
A crazed-paving path led to the front door, its slabs choked by
straggly weeds.The crime scene tape that bracketed it gave the house
an oddly festive air, although that impression was quickly dashed by
the forensic agents searching it, ghost-like in their white overalls. At
one side of the house, across an overgrown rectangle of lawn, a driveway
led to a garage. The door was raised, displaying a patch of
oil-stained floor but no car.
That had disappeared along with its owner.
Jacobsen had briefed me on the drive over. 'We didn't see York as
a realistic suspect for the homicide, otherwise we'd have arrested him
sooner.' She'd sounded defensive, as though she were personally to
blame. 'He fits the standard serial killer profile to some extent - right
age, unmarried, a loner -- and his inflated sense of self-importance is
a typical narcissistic characteristic. But he doesn't have a criminal
record, not even any warnings as a juvenile. No skeletons in his closet
that we could find. Apart from the circumstantial evidence, there's
nothing to link him to the actual killings.'
'The circumstantial evidence seemed pretty strong to me,' I said.
It was too dark in the car to see her blush, but I was sure she did.
'Only if you accept he deliberately incriminated himself by steering
us towards the funeral home in the first place. That isn't unheard of,
but his story about hiring a casual worker seemed to check out.
We've found another former employee who claims to remember
Dwight Chambers. It was starting to look as though Chambers
might be a legitimate suspect after all.'
'So why arrest York?'
'Because holding him on public health charges would give us
more time to question him.' Jacobsen looked uncomfortable. 'Also, it
was felt that there were certain . . . advantages to taking a proactive
approach.'
And any arrest looked better than no arrest. Politics and PR were the same the world over.
Except that York hadn't waited around to be arrested. When TBI
agents went to pick him up that afternoon, there had been no sign
of him either at the cemetery or his home. His car was missing, and
when the TBI had forced entry into his house they'd found signs of
hurried packing.
They'd also found human remains.
'We'd have discovered them sooner, except for a foul-up with the
paperwork,' Jacobsen admitted. 'The original warrant only covered
the funeral parlour and grounds, not York's private residence.'