Whispers of the Dead (9 page)

'There should be one in the autopsy suite, Summer, can you go
and get it?'Tom said.
Kyle allowed me to lead him to the sink. I put his hand under the
fast-flowing cold water, washing off the blood. The wound was tiny,
little more than a pinprick. But that made it no less dangerous.
'Is it OK?' he asked, as Summer returned with the first aid kit.
'If you've had all your shots I'm sure you'll be fine,' I said, putting
as much confidence into it as I could. 'You have had all your shots?'
He nodded, watching anxiously as I cleaned the wound with antiseptic.
Tom had gone over to the casket.
'Whereabouts did you touch the body?'
'It was, uh, the shoulder. The right one.'
Tom leaned closer to look, but didn't touch the corpse himself.
'There's something there. Summer, can you hand me the forceps?'
He reached down and took hold of whatever was embedded in
the putrefying flesh. With a little gentle tugging it came free.
'What is it?' Kyle asked.
Tom's expression was studiedly neutral. 'Looks like a hypodermic
needle.'
'A needleT Summer exclaimed. 'Omigod, he stabbed himself on a needle from that?'
Tom shot her an angry look. But the same thing was going
through all our minds. As a morgue worker Kyle would have been
immunized against some of the diseases that could be carried by
cadavers, but there were others for which there was no protection. Normally, provided care was taken, there was little risk.
Unless you had an open wound.
'I'm sure there's nothing to worry about, but we better get you to
the Emergency Room all the same,' Tom said, outwardly calm. 'Why
don't you get changed and I'll see you outside?'
Kyle's face had gone white. 'No, I - I'm OK, really.'
'I'm sure you are, but let's get you checked out just to make
sure.' His tone didn't leave room for argument. Looking dazed, Kyle
did as he'd been told. Tom waited until the door had closed
behind him. 'Summer, are you absolutely certain you didn't touch
anything?'
She nodded quickly, still pale herself. 'I didn't have the chance. I
was going to help Kyle lift the body when he ... God, do you think
he'll be OK?'
Tom didn't answer. 'You might as well get changed too, Summer.
I'll let you know if I need you for anything else.'
She didn't argue. He put the needle into a small glass sample jar as
she went out.
'Do you want me to go with Kyle?' I asked.
'No, it's my responsibility. You carry on with the other remains for
the time being. I don't want anyone going near the casket again until
I've X-rayed the body myself
He looked as grim as I'd ever seen him. It was possible that the
hypodermic needle had snapped off and become embedded by
accident, but it didn't seem likely. I wasn't sure what was more
disturbing: the idea that the needle had been deliberately planted, or
what that implied.
That someone expected the body to be dug up.

Your first time was a woman. More than twice your age and drunk. You'd
seen her in a bar, so alcohol-addled she could barely sit still. She'd slipped and
swayed on her bar stool, blowsy and overblown, face haggard and red, cigarette
burning down to her tobacco-stained finger ends. When she'd thrown her head
back and guffawed at the flickering TV screen above the bar, her phlegmy
laugh had sounded like a siren call.
You'd wanted her right away.
You'd watched from across the room, your back to her but your eyes never
leaving her reflection in the mirror. Swathed in cigarette smoke, she'd
approached most of the men in the bar, draping a wattled arm around them
in drunken invitation. Each time you'd tensed, jealousy burning like acid in
your guts. But each time the arm had been shrugged off, the advances rebuffed.
She'd return unsteadily to her stool, loudly demanding another drink to
drown her disappointment. And your nervousness would increase, because you
knew this was going to be the night.
It was meant to be.
You'd bided your time, waiting until she'd exhausted the barkeeper's
patience. You'd slipped out unnoticed while she'd still been screaming at him,
obscenities alternating with maudlin entreaties. Outside you'd turned up your
collar and hurried to a nearby doorway. It had been jail and a rain-mist had
fogged the streets, cloaking the streetlights with yellow penumbras.
You couldn't have asked for a better night.
It had taken longer for her to appear than you'd expected. You'd waited,
shivering from cold and adrenalin, nerves beginning to eat away at your
anticipation. But you'd held firm. You'd put this off too often already. If you
didn't do it now you were frightened you never would.
Then you'd seen her emerge from the bar, her gait unsteady as she tried to
pull on a coat that was too thin for the season. She'd walked right past the
doorway without noticing you. You'd hurried after her, your heart rapping a
staccato counterpoint to your footsteps as you trailed her down the deserted
streets.
When you saw the glow of a bar sign up ahead you knew the time had
come.You'd caught up to her,fallen in step at her side.You'd planned to say
something, but your tongue was thick and useless. Even then she'd made it
easy for you, peering around in bleary surprise before the too-red mouth
cracked open with a cigarette chuckle.
Hey, lover. Wanna buy a girl a drink?
You had a van parked a few blocks away, but you couldn't wait. When you
drew level with the black maw of an alleyway, you'd shoved her into it,
trembling as you pulled out the knife.
After that, it had been all fumble and confusion, the quick penetration
followed by a rush of fluid. It was over too soon, finished before it had really
begun. You'd stood over her, panting, the excitement already starting to turn to something grey and flat. Was that it? Was that all there was to it?
You'd run from the alleyway, chased by disgust and disappointment. It was
only later, when your head had started to clear, that you'd begun to analyse
where you'd gone wrong.You'd been too eager, in too much of a hurry. These
things needed to be done slowly; to be savoured. How else could you hope
to learn anything? In all the rush you hadn't even had a chance to bring the
camera from beneath your coat. And as for the knife, you thought, remembering
the suddenness of it all . . .
No, the knife was definitely wrong.
You've come a long way since then. You've refined your technique, honed
your craft into an art form.You know now exactly what it is you want, and
what you have to do to get it. Still, you look back on that clumsy attempt in
the alleyway with something like affection. It had been your first time, and
first times were always a disaster.
Practice makes perfect.
8

'Thirteen?'
Gardner picked up a sample jar from the collection on the stainless
steel trolley and held it up to see its contents. Like all the rest it
contained a single hypodermic needle taken from the exhumed
body, a slender steel sliver encrusted with dark matter.
'We found another twelve,' Tom said. He looked and sounded
exhausted, the strain of the day's events clearly visible.'Most of them
were embedded in the soft tissue of the arms, legs and shoulders,
where anyone who tried to move the remains would be most likely
to take hold.'
Gardner set down the jar again, his world-weary features folded
into lines of disgust. He'd come alone, and I'd tried to ignore my disappointment
when I saw that Jacobsen wasn't with him. The three of
us were in an unused autopsy suite, where Tom and I had taken the
remains after we'd finished X-raying them. The hypodermic needles
had shown up as stark white lines against the greys and blacks. He'd
insisted on removing them all himself, declining my offer of help. If
he could have lifted the body from the casket by himself as well he
would. As it was, he'd checked it thoroughly with a hand-held metal
detector before allowing either of us to touch it.
After what had happened to Kyle, he wasn't taking any chances.
The assistant had been sent home after spending all afternoon at
Emergency. He'd been pumped full of broad spectrum antibiotics,
but neither they nor anything else would be effective against some
pathogens the needle might have introduced into his bloodstream.
He'd have the results of some tests in a few days, but others would
take much longer. It would be months before he'd know for sure if
he'd been infected or not.
'The needles had been planted with the points facing outwards, so
that whoever handled the body was almost certain to impale themselves,'
Tom went on, his face drawn with self-reproach. 'This is my
fault. I should never have let anyone else handle the remains.'
'You can't blame yourself,' I said. 'There was no way you could
have known what was going to happen.'
Gardner gave me a look that said he still wasn't happy about my
presence, but kept his thoughts to himself. Tom had already made it
clear that he considered I'd as much right to be there as he had,
pointing out that it could just as easily have been me who'd been
injured.
If Tom hadn't felt sorry for Kyle it might well have been.
'There's only one person to be blamed, and that's whoever did
this,' Gardner said. 'It's lucky no one else was hurt.'
'Try telling that to Kyle.'Tom stared at the specimen jars, his eyes
ringed with fatigue. 'Have you got any idea yet whose corpse was in
the casket?'
Gardner's eyes flicked to the body lying on the aluminium table.
We'd hosed it down thoroughly, washing off the worst of the decompositional
fluids before Tom had removed the needles.The smell
was nothing like so intense as when the casket had first been opened,
but it was there, all the same.
'We're working on it.'
'Someone at the funeral home has to know somethingV Tom
protested. 'What does York have to say about it?'
'We're still questioning him.'
'Questioning him? Christ almighty, Dan, never mind that there was
the wrong body in the grave, someone stuck thirteen hypodermic
needles in it while it was at Steeple Hill! How the hell could that
have happened without York knowing about it?'
TheTBI agent's face had set.'I don't know,Tom.That's why we're
questioning him.'
Tom took a deep breath. T apologize. It's been a long day.'
'Forget it.' Gardner seemed to regret his earlier reticence. Some of
the tension in the autopsy suite seemed to lift as he leaned against
the workbench behind him, rubbing the back of his neck.The bright
overhead light bleached what little colour there was from his face.
'York claims to have hired someone called Dwight Chambers about
eight months ago. According to him this guy was a godsend; worked
hard, eager to learn, didn't mind putting in the hours. Then one day
he didn't show up and York says he never saw him again. He insists
it was Chambers who oversaw Willis Dexter's funeral, who prepared
the body and sealed the casket.'
'And you believe him?'
Gardner gave a thin smile.'I don't believe anyone, you know that.
York's a worried man, but I don't think it's because of the murders.
Steeple Hill's a mess.That's why he was so keen to help us, hoping if
he was nice we'd go away. By the look of things he's been struggling
to keep it afloat for years. Cutting corners, hiring casual workers to
keep costs down. No taxes, no medical insurance, no questions asked.
The bad news is there aren't any records of who's worked there,
either.'
'So is there any proof this Dwight Chambers actually existed?' It
wasn't until I'd spoken that I remembered I was only there on
sufferance. Gardner looked as though he might refuse to answer, but
Tom was having none of it.
'It's a legitimate question, Dan.'
Gardner sighed. 'The funeral home's employees come and go so
often that Chambers would only have been one of many. It wasn't
easy finding anyone who'd worked there long enough to remember
him, but we found two who thought they could. The description
they gave was pretty vague but matched the one we got from York.
White, dark hair, somewhere between twenty-five and forty.'
'Does that fit Willis Dexter?' I asked.
'It fits half the men in Tennessee.' He absently straightened a box
of microscope slides so it was aligned with the edge of the workbench.
Catching himself, he stopped and folded his arms. 'But we're
looking into the possibility that Dexter and Chambers might be the
same person, and that Dexter was cute enough to preside over his
own funeral as well as fake his own death. According to the autopsy
report he died from massive head trauma when his car hit a tree. No
other vehicle was involved, and there was enough alcohol in his
system to kill a horse. It was assumed he just lost control.'
'But?'Tom prompted.
'But . . . the car caught fire. The body was only identified through
personal effects. So it's possible that a routine autopsy might have
overlooked any racial characteristics. And Dexter didn't have any family,
so the funeral was just a formality. Closed casket, no embalming.'
It wouldn't have been the first time a burnt-out car had been used
to disguise a corpse's identity. But there were still aspects of this that
didn't add up.
Tom obviously thought so too. He looked across at the body lying
on the table. 'From what I've seen so far that doesn't look burned to
me. How about you, David?'
'I wouldn't say so, no.' Although the decomposition could have
disguised it to an extent, the body didn't show any evidence of intense heat. Its limbs weren't drawn up into the boxer's crouch
characteristic of fire deaths, and while they could have been forcibly straightened afterwards, I would still have expected to see some outward
signs, even so.
'Then maybe it was only superficially burned, just enough to
scorch the skin,' Gardner said. 'The fact is that Willis Dexter's still
missing, and until we've got proof that he's dead that makes him a
suspect.'
I spoke without thinking. 'It doesn't make sense for it to be
Dexter.'
'Excuse me?'
Go on. Too late to change your mind now.'If Dexter wanted everyone
to think he was dead, why didn't he arrange it so the body was
cremated instead of buried? Why go to all that trouble and then leave
a corpse in the casket that obviously wasn't his?'
Gardner's face was stone. 'He might have thought that wouldn't
matter if it was burned in the car crash. If not for the fingerprints we
found in the cabin it wouldn't have.'
'But whoever put the needles in the body obviously expected wanted
-- it to be exhumed.'
He studied me, as though debating whether to answer or throw
me out. 'I'm aware of that. And in case you're wondering, it's also
occurred to us that the fingerprint might have been left deliberately.
Maybe Dexter did it himself, or maybe he's buried in another grave
at Steeple Hill, and someone's got his hand in an icebox. But until
we know one way or the other, then he's going to stay a suspect.That
all right by you, Dr Hunter?'
I didn't say anything. I could feel the planes of my face tightening.
'David's only trying to help, Dan,' Tom said, which somehow
made it worse.
'I'm sure he is.' Gardner's expression could have meant anything.
He stood up to go, then paused, addressing Tom as though I wasn't
there. 'One more thing. The X-rays of the body from the cabin
match Terry Loomis's dental records. We might not be Scotland Yard,
but at least we got an ID on one of the victims.'
He gave Tom a nod as he went to the door.
'I'll be in touch.'
The day was nearly over by the time we resumed work. We were
badly behind schedule, and it didn't help that there were just the two
of us. After what had happened to Kyle, Tom wasn't prepared to let
Summer help any more.
'It might be bolting the stable door after the horse has gone, but
she's only a student. I don't want anything else on my conscience,' he
said. He regarded me solemnly over his glasses. 'I'll understand if you
want to back out.'
'What happened to "last chance to work together"?' I joked.
The attempt to lighten his mood failed. He rubbed at his breastbone
with the heel of his hand, but stopped when he realized I was
watching. 'I didn't know then what I'd be getting you into.'
'You didn't get me into anything. I volunteered.'
Tom took off his glasses and began to clean them. He didn't look
at me. 'Only because I asked you to. Maybe it would be better if I
asked Paul or one of the others to lend a hand.'
The depth of my disappointment surprised me.'I'm sure Gardner
would be happier.'
That at least raised a smile. 'Dan doesn't have anything against you
personally. He just likes to do things by the book. This is a high
profile homicide investigation and as ASAC he's under pressure to
get results.You're an unknown quantity as far as he's concerned, that's
all.'
'I get the feeling he'd like me to stay that way'
The smile became a chuckle, but it soon faded. 'Look at it from
my viewpoint, David. After what happened to you last year . . .'
'Last year was last year,' I said, more forcefully than I'd intended.
'Look, I know I'm only here at your invitation, and if you'd rather
bring in Paul or someone else to help out, then fine. But I can't duck
and run whenever things get complicated.You said as much yourself.
Besides, we've found the needles now. What else can happen?'
Tom stared broodingly down at his glasses, still wiping the lenses
even though they must have been spotless by now. I stayed silent,
knowing he had to decide for himself. Finally, he put the glasses back
on.
'Let's get back to work.'
But the relief I felt was soon crowded out as my doubts returned.
I found myself wondering if it wouldn't be better for Paul or one of
Tom's other colleagues to step in after all. I hadn't come here to take
part in an investigation, and my presence was clearly causing friction
with Gardner. Tom was every bit as stubborn as the TBI agent,
especially when it came to who he worked with, but I didn't want
to make things difficult for him.
Even so, I was reluctant to back out now. Whether it was because
of what had happened to Kyle, or just that my professional instincts
had finally kicked back into life, something in me had changed. For
a long time I'd felt as though an essential part of me had been missing,
amputated by Grace Strachan's knife. Now something of the old
obsessiveness had begun to stir; the need to get to the truth behind
a victim's fate. I might only be assisting Tom, but I still felt I had a
stake in the investigation. I was loath to simply walk away.
Unless I wasn't given any choice.
While Tom made a start on reconstructing the skeleton that had
been confirmed to be Terry Loomis's in one autopsy suite, I began
processing the anonymous body from Willis Dexter's casket in the
other. It had been hosed down, but the remaining soft tissue still
needed to be stripped from it. I hadn't been at it long when Tom
poked his head round the door.
'You might want to take a look at this.'
I followed him down the corridor to the other autopsy suite. He'd
arranged the large bones of the arms and legs on the examination
table, laying them out in an approximation of their anatomical
positions.The other bones would follow one by one, until the entire
skeleton had been reassembled; a painstaking but necessary job.
Tom went to where the cleaned skull sat at the top of the table
and picked it up.
'Beautiful, aren't they? As perfect an example of pink teeth as I've
ever seen.'
Cleaned of any decomposing soft tissue, the pink hue was unmistakable.
Something had caused blood to be forced into the pulp
of Terry Loomis's teeth, either as he'd been killed or shortly
afterwards.
The question was what?
'His head wasn't tilted back far enough for gravity to have caused it,'
Tom said, voicing my own thoughts. 'I'd say he'd almost certainly have
to have been strangled, except for the amount of blood at the cabin.'
I nodded. Judging from what we'd seen, Terry Loomis had
virtually bled out. The only problem was if that had happened, then
he shouldn't also have had pink teeth. And while it was possible that
the wounds we'd seen on his body had been inflicted post mortem,
if that were the case they wouldn't have bled nearly so much. So
while there was evidence for both strangulation and stabbing as the
cause of death, it couldn't be both. Either one ruled the other out.
So which was it?
'Any sign of cuts to the bone?' I asked. If there were, that might
indicate a frenzied attack that would point to the wounds being the
cause of death.
'None that I've seen so far.'
'What about the hyoid?'
'Intact. No help there, either.'
If the slender bone that sits around the larynx had been broken, it
would have meant that Loomis had almost certainly been strangled.
But the opposite doesn't apply. It's a common misconception that
strangulation always causes the hyoid to break. For all its delicate
appearance it's stronger than it looks, so the fact that Loomis's was
undamaged didn't prove anything one way or the other.
Tom gave a tired smile. 'Tricky one, isn't it? Be interesting to see
if the body from the casket has pink teeth as well. If it has, then my
money's on strangulation, cuts or not.'
'We'll have to wait till the skull's been cleaned to know that,' I said.
'The teeth are pretty rotten, and by the look of it the victim was a
heavy smoker.There's too much nicotine staining to tell if there's any
other discoloration.'
'Well, I suppose we'll just have to--'
Before he could finish the door to the autopsy suite was flung
open and Hicks barged in. His face held an alcohol flush, and even
from across the room I could smell the sour odour of wine and
onions on his breath. He'd clearly enjoyed a good lunch.
Ignoring me completely, he strode up to Tom, bald head gleaming
under the fluorescent lights.
'Who the hell do you think you are, Lieberman?'
'If this is about Kyle, I'm sorry--'
'Sorry? Sorry doesn't begin to cover it. Use your own damn
students, not one of my dieners!' He made the unofficial term for
morgue assistant sound like an insult. 'Have you any idea of how
much this could cost if Webster decides to sue?'