Whispers of the Dead (11 page)

He paused to whistle and call the dog's name again. The reader
gave the heavy dog chain an uneasy glance, then looked back towards
the trail. No one was in sight.
Suddenly the dog walker gave a cry and ran forward. He dropped
to his knees by a clump of bushes. The body of a black Labrador lay
behind them. Blood matted the dark fur on its crushed skull. The dog
walker's hands hovered over it, as though scared to touch it.
'Jackson? Oh, my God, look at his head, what happened?'
'I broke his skull,' the newspaper reader said, stepping up behind
him.
The dog walker started to rise, but something clamped round his
neck. The pressure was unrelenting, choking off his cry before he
could make it. He tried to struggle to his feet, but he was off balance
and his arms and legs had no strength. Belatedly, he remembered the
dog chain. His brain tried to send the necessary commands to his
muscles, but the world had already started to turn black. His hand
spasmed once or twice, then the chain dropped from his limp fingers.
High above in the branches, the woodpecker cocked its head to
assess the scene below. Satisfied there was no threat, it resumed its
hunt for grubs.
Its rat-a-tat echoed through the woodland morning.

I woke feeling better than I had in months. For once my sleep had
been undisturbed, and the bed looked as though I'd barely moved all
night. I stretched, then ran through my morning exercises. Normally
it was a real effort, but for once it didn't seem so bad.
After I'd showered I turned on the TV, searching for an international
news channel as I dressed. I skipped through one station
after another, letting the stream of advertisements and banal chatter
wash over me. I'd gone past the local news station before I registered
what I'd seen.
Irving's smoothly bearded face reappeared on the screen as I
flicked back. He was looking thoughtfully sincere as he spoke to a
female interviewer who had the painted-on prettiness of a shop
window dummy.
'. . . of course. "Serial killer" is a phrase that's badly over-used. A true
serial killer, as opposed to someone who merely kills multiple victims, is a
predator, pure and simple. They're the tigers of modern society, hiding unseen
in the tall grass. When you've dealt with as many as I have, you learn to
appreciate the difference.'
'Oh, for God's sake,' I groaned. I remembered that Irving had been
late at the morgue the day before because he was pre-recording a TV
interview, but I hadn't given it much thought. My mood curdled as
I watched.
'But it is correct that you've been called in by the TBI to provide an
offender profile following the discovery of a mutilated body in a Smoky
Mountain rental cabin?' the interviewer persisted. 'And that a second
body has been exhumed from a cemetery in Knoxville as part of the same
case?'
Irving gave a rueful smile. 'I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to comment on
any ongoing investigations!
The interviewer nodded understandingly, her lacquered blond hair remaining immobile. 'But since you are an expert on profiling serial killers,
presumably the TBI are worried that's what they may be dealing with, and
that this may be just the start of a killing spree?'
'Again, I'm afraid I really can't comment. Although I'm sure people will
draw their own conclusions', Irving added innocently.
The interviewer's smile revealed perfect white teeth beneath the
blood-red lipstick. She crossed her legs. 'So can you at least tell me if you've formed a profile of the killer?'
'Now, Stephanie, you know I can't do that', Irving said, with an urbane
chuckle. 'But what I can say is that all the serial killers I've encountered and
believe me, there have been quite a few -- have one defining characteristic.
Their ordinariness'.
The interviewer cocked her head as though she'd misheard. 'I'm sorry, you're saying that serial killers are ordinary?' Her surprise was transparently artificial, as though she'd known what he was going to
say in advance.
'That's right. Obviously, that isn't how they regard themselves: quite
the opposite. But in truth they're nonentities, almost by definition. Forget the
glamorous psychopath of popular fiction; in the real world these individuals
are sad misfits for whom killing has become the primal urge. Cunning, yes.
Dangerous, certainly. But their one defining feature is that they blend into the
crowd. That's what makes them so difficult to detect.'
'But surely that also makes them harder to catch?'
Irving's smile widened into a wolfish grin. 'That's what makes my job so challenging.'
The interview ended, cutting to a studio anchorwoman. 'That was behaviouralist Professor Alex Irving, author of the bestselling Fractured
Egos, speaking yesterday to--'
I snapped off the set. 'Nothing wrong with his ego,' I muttered,
tossing aside the TV remote. There had been no justification for the
interview. It had served no purpose except to give Irving the opportunity
to preen on TV. I wondered if Gardner had known about it. Somehow I couldn't see him taking kindly to Irving using the
investigation to promote his new book.
Still, not even the psychologist's smugness could spoil the anticipation
I felt as I drove to the morgue. For once I was there before
Tom, but only just. I'd barely changed into scrubs when he arrived.
He looked better than he had the night before, I was relieved to
see. Food and a good night's sleep might not cure everything, but
they rarely hurt.
'Someone's eager,' he said when he saw me.
'Paul and I found something last night.'
I showed him the pupal cases and the mystery insect, explaining
how we'd stumbled across them.
'Curiouser and curiouser,' he said, studying the insect. 'I think
you're right about the body decomposing on the surface before it
was buried. As for this . . .' He lightly tapped the jar containing the
dead insect. 'I haven't a clue what it is.'
'Oh.' I'd assumed Tom would have been able to identify it.

'Sorry to disappoint you. Blowflies and beetles are one thing, but I
haven't come across anything like this before. Still, I know someone
who should be able to help us.You haven't met Josh Talbot, have you?'
'I don't think so.' I'd met several of Tom's colleagues, but the name
didn't ring a bell.
'He's our resident forensic entomologist. The man's a walking
insect encyclopaedia. If anyone can tell us what this is, Josh can.'
While he called Talbot I set about rinsing the bones from the
exhumed body that had been soaking in detergent overnight. I'd got
as far as setting the first of them to dry in the fume cupboard when
Tom closed his phone.
'We're in luck. He's about to leave for a conference in Atlanta but
he's going to drop by first. Shouldn't take him long.' He began helping
me put the bones in the fume cupboard. 'Did you catch our
friend Irving on TV last night, by the way?'
'If you mean the interview, no, but I saw it this morning.'
'Lucky you. Must be re-running it.' Tom smiled and shook his
head. 'You have to hand it to him, he doesn't miss a chance, does he?'
He'd barely finished speaking when there was a light knock on the
door. He frowned. 'Can't be Josh already,' he said, going to open it.
It wasn't. It was Kyle.
Swallowing his surprise, Tom moved aside to let him in. 'I didn't
expect to see you back yet. Why aren't you taking some time off?'
Kyle gave a strained smile. 'They offered, but it isn't right that the
other guys should have to cover for me. I feel fine. And I guess I'd
rather work than sit at home.'
'How's the hand?' I asked.
He held it up to show us. A small plaster on the palm was the only
sign of what had happened. Kyle looked at it as though it wasn't part
of him. 'Not much to look at, is it?'
There was an awkward silence. Tom cleared his throat. 'So . . .
How are you bearing up?'
'Oh, pretty good, thanks. Be a while before I get the test results,
but I'm looking on the bright side. The hospital said there're postexposure
treatments for HIV and some other things if I want them.
But the way I see it, the body might not even have been infected.
And even if it was I might not catch anything, right?'
'You should still consider them, at least,' Tom said. He gestured
helplessly. 'Look, I'm sorry about--'
'Don't!' The sharpness showed how much pressure Kyle was
under. He gave an embarrassed shrug. 'Please, don't apologize. I
was just doing my job. Stuff happens, y'know?'
There was an uncomfortable pause. Kyle broke it.
'So . . . where's Summer?' He did his best to sound casual, but the
attempt was no more convincing than before. It wasn't hard to guess
the real reason he'd come to see us.
'I'm afraid Summer won't be helping us any more.'
'Oh.' His disappointment was obvious. 'Can I help?'
'Thanks, but David and I can manage.'
'Right.' Kyle nodded emphatically. 'Well, anything you need, be
sure to let me know.'
'I will.You take care now.'Tom's smile lasted only until the door
had closed. 'Lord . . .'
'He's right,' I said. 'He was doing his job. It's no good blaming
yourself. And if it comes down to it, it should have been me helping
Summer, not him.'
'It wasn't your fault, David.'
'Or yours either. Besides, we don't know yet that the needle was
contaminated. He might be fine.'
It was a faint hope, but no good would come from Tom's torturing
himself. He drew himself up.
'You're right. What's done's done. Let's just concentrate on catching
this son of a bitch.'
Tom rarely swore, and it was a sign of his agitation that he didn't
seem to realize he had. He went to the door, then paused.
'Almost forgot. Mary wanted me to ask if you eat fish.'
'Fish?'The change of tack threw me. 'Yes, why?'
'You're coming over for dinner tonight.' The eyebrows climbed as
he enjoyed my discomfort. 'Sam and Paul are coming as well. Don't
tell me you'd forgotten?'
It had completely slipped my mind. 'No, of course not.'
He grinned, some of his usual humour returning. 'Perish the
thought. Not as though you've had anything else to think about, is
it?'
There are two hundred and six bones in the adult human body.
They vary in size from the femur, the heavy thigh bone, to the tiny
ossicles of the inner ear, the smallest no larger than a grain of rice.
Structurally, the skeleton is a marvel of biological engineering, as
intricate and sophisticated as anything designed by man.
Reassembling it isn't a straightforward task.

Stripped of any last vestige of decaying tissue, the bare bones of the
man buried in Willis Dexter's casket told their own story. Their
African ancestry was now unmistakable, immediately evident in the
slightly straighter, lighter bone structure and more rectangular eye
orbits. Whoever this was, he'd been of medium height and build, and
judging from the wear to his joints he was between his mid-fifties
and early sixties. There were long-healed breaks in the right
femur and left humerus, both probably the result of childhood
accidents, and signs of arthritis on his knee and ankle joints.
The damage was more evident on the left than on the right, which
meant he had favoured that side when he walked. And the left hip
was also badly eroded, the ball and socket pitted and worn. If he
hadn't been contemplating hip replacement surgery when
he died, then he would have been all but crippled before much
longer.
Not that it made any difference to him now.
Like Terry Loomis's, the man's hyoid was still intact. That didn't
mean anything either way, but when I lifted the dripping skull from
the vat I smiled grimly to myself. The teeth were still brown and
stained, but below where the gum had once been a band of clean
enamel was now exposed.
There was no mistaking the pink discoloration.
I was still examining the skull when Tom came in. A short,
paunchy man in his fifties was with him. His thinning ginger hair was
swept half-heartedly over a reddened crown, and he carried a
battered leather briefcase that fairly bulged with books.
'Josh, I'd like you to meet David Hunter,'Tom said as he entered.
'David, this is Josh Talbot. What he doesn't know about bugs isn't
worth knowing.'
'He knows I hate that word,' Talbot said affably. He was already
looking round the room, bright-eyed with anticipation. His gaze
lingered on the bones, but not for long. They weren't why he was
here.
'So where s this mystery insect you've got for me?'
When he saw the specimen jar his entire face lit up. He bent down
to study it at eye level. 'Well, now, this is a surprise!'
'You recognize it?' Tom asked.
'Oh, yes. Quite a find, too. There's only one other part of
Tennessee where this species of Odonata has been confirmed.
There've been sightings round here before, but it isn't every day you
come across one of these beauties.'
'I'm glad to hear it,' Tom said. 'Do you think you could tell us
what it is?'
Talbot grinned. 'Odonata are dragonflies and damselflies. What
you've got here is a dragonfly nymph. A swamp darner, one of the
biggest species in North America. They're widespread across most
eastern states, although less so in Tennessee. Here, I'll show you.'
He rummaged in his briefcase and produced a thick, dog-eared
old textbook. Humming to himself, he set it on the workbench and
began flicking through its pages.
He stopped and tapped on one. 'Here we go. Epiaeschna hems, the
swamp or hero darner, as they're sometimes called. Migratory,
generally found by wooded roadsides and ponds in summer and fall,
but adults can hatch in spring in warmer regions.'
The page showed a photograph of a large insect shaped like a
miniature helicopter. It had the familiar double wings and streamlined
body of the dragonflies I'd seen at home, but there the resemblance
ended. This one was as long as my finger and almost as thick, its brown
body tiger-striped with bright green. But the most striking features
were its eyes: huge and spherical, they were a vivid, electric blue.
'I know dragon hunters in Tennessee who'd give their hind teeth to
see an adult hero,' Talbot enthused. 'Just look at those eyes! Incredible,
aren't they? On a sunny day you can spot them a mile away.'
Tom had been examining the book. 'So what we found is the
nymph of one of these?'
'Or naiad, if you prefer.' Talbot steepled his fingers, warming to his
theme. 'Dragonflies don't have a larval stage. They lay their eggs in
still or slow-moving water, and when the nymphs hatch they're completely
aquatic. At least, they are until they mature. Then they crawl
out on to a plant or grass stem to metamorphose into an adult.'
'But dragonflies aren't normally attracted to carrion, are they?' I
asked.
'Oh, Lord, no.' He sounded shocked. 'They're predators. They're
sometimes called mosquito hawks, because that's their main diet.
That's why you generally see them near water, although swamp
darners are partial to winged termites, too. You say this specimen was
found in a casket?'
'That's right. We think it was probably bundled there along with
the body,' Tom told him.
'Then I'd say the body had to have been left close to a pond or
lake. Probably right by the water's edge.' Talbot picked up the jar.
'When this little fella crawled out to metamorphose it obviously got
scooped up as well. Even if it wasn't crushed, burying it in the cold
and dark would have killed it.'
'Are there any particular areas where this species is likely to be
found?'Tom asked.
'Not in fast-running streams or rivers, but pretty much any woodland
where there's standing water. They're not called swamp darners
for nothing.'Talbot glanced at his watch, then packed the book back
into his briefcase. 'Sorry, have to go. If you find any live specimens,
be sure to let me know.'
Tom went to see Talbot out. He returned a few minutes later, his
face thoughtful.
'At least we know now what it was we found,' I said. 'And if the
body was left near a pond or still water it gives Gardner a little more
to go on.'
Tom didn't seem to have heard. He picked up the skull and
examined it, but absently, as though he wasn't really aware of what
he was doing. Even when I told him about the intact hyoid and pink
teeth of the exhumed remains, he still seemed distracted.
'Is everything OK?' I asked at last.
He put down the skull. 'Dan Gardner called just before Josh
arrived. Alex Irving's missing.'
My first thought was that there must be some mistake; I'd only
seen the profiler on TV that morning. Then I remembered that the
interview had been shot the day before: what I'd watched had been
a repeat. 'What happened?'
'No one's sure. Apparently he went out early this morning and
didn't come back. He hasn't been seen since.'
'Isn't it a bit soon to say he's missing if he's only been gone a few
hours?'
'Ordinarily. But he'd taken his dog for a walk.' Tom's eyes were
troubled. 'They found it with its skull smashed in.'