Whispers of the Dead (14 page)

11

Tom called me before I left the hotel next morning. 'The TBI have
found human remains at Steeple Hill.' He paused. 'These haven't
been buried.'
Rather than take two cars he came to the hotel to pick me up.
There was no debate this time over whether I would accompany
him, only a tacit agreement that he wasn't going to try to manage by
himself. I'd wondered what sort of mood he'd be in after the night
before, "whether there'd be any regret over announcing his retirement.
If there was he hid it well.
'So . . . How are you feeling?' I asked, as we set off.
He hunched a shoulder in a shrug. 'Retirement won't be the end
of the world. Life goes on, doesn't it?'
I agreed that it did.
The sun was out this time as we approached the paint-flaking gates
to Steeple Hill. The thick pine woods bordering the lawns looked
impenetrable, as though it were still night amongst their close
packed trunks.
Uniformed police officers stood outside the cemetery gate,
barring entry to the press who had already assembled outside. Word
that something had been found had obviously leaked. Coming on
top of the exhumation, it had served as blood in the water to the
news-hungry media. As Tom slowed down to show his ID, a
photographer crouched to take a shot of us through the car window.
'Tell him he can have my autograph for ten dollars,' Tom
grumbled, pulling inside.
We drove past the grave we'd exhumed last time and up to the
main building. Steeple Hill's chapel looked to have been built in
the 1960s, when American optimism had extended even into the
funeral industry. It was a cheap attempt at modernism, a flat-roofed,
single-storey block that aspired to Frank Lloyd Wright but fell woefully
short. The coloured glass bricks that made up one wall beside
the entrance were grimy and cracked, and the proportions were wrong in a way I couldn't quite put my finger on. A steeple was
perched on top of the flat roof, looking as incongruous as a witch's
hat on a table. Mounted on its peak was a metal cross that resembled
two rusty girders badly welded together.
Gardner was standing outside the chapel, talking to a group of
forensic agents, their white overalls grimed and filthy. He came over
when he saw us.
'It's round the back,' he said without preamble.
A sudden sun-shower came from nowhere as we followed him
round the side of the chapel, filling the air with silvered drops. It
stopped as quickly as it started, leaving tiny rainbow prisms of light
glistening on the grass and shrubs. Gardner led us down a thin gravel path that grew increasingly sparse and weed-choked the
further we went. By the time we reached the tall yew hedge that
screened the rear from view it was little more than a track worn in
the grass.
But if the front of the chapel was run down, it was behind the
hedge that Steeple Hill's true shabbiness was revealed. An ugly,
utilitarian extension backed on to an enclosed yard that was strewn
with rusting tools and empty containers. Squashed cigarette stubs
littered the floor near the open back door like dirty white lozenges.
An air of neglect and dilapidation hung over it, and presiding over it
all were the flies, weaving round in excited circles over the refuse.
'That's the mortuary in there,' Gardner said, nodding towards the extension. 'The crime scene team haven't found anything yet, but
the Environmental Protection Agency aren't too happy about York's
housekeeping.'
The sound of raised voices came to us as we neared the doorway.
Inside I could see Jacobsen, a good head smaller than the three men
she was with, but with her chin lifted defiantly. I guessed two of the
men were the EPA officials Gardner had mentioned. The third was
York. His voice was a near shout, trembling with emotion as he
stabbed a finger in the air.
'. . . outrage! This is a respectable business! I will not be subjected
to all sorts of insinuations--'
'No one's insinuating anything, sir,' Jacobsen cut in, politely but
firmly. 'This is part of an ongoing homicide investigation, so it's in
your own interests to cooperate.'
The funeral director's eyes were bulging. 'Are you deaf? I've
already told you I don't know anything! Have you any idea of the damage this is doing my reputation?'
It was as though he didn't see the squalor around him. He broke
off mid-tirade as he noticed us passing.
'Dr Lieberman!' he shouted, hurrying out towards us. 'Sir, I'd
appreciate it if you'd help clear up this misunderstanding. As one
professional to another, can you explain to these people that I have
nothing to do with any of this?'
Tom took an involuntary step backwards as the funeral director
bore down on him. Gardner moved in between them.
'Dr Lieberman's here on TBI business, Mr York. Go back inside
and Agent Jacobsen will--'
'No, I will not! I am not going to stand by and see the good name
of Steeple Hill dragged in the mud!' In the morning sunlight I could
see that York's suit was grubby and creased, and a greasy scurf mark
striped his shirt collar. He hadn't shaved, and a frosting of grey
whiskers crusted his jowls.
Jacobsen had come to flank him, so that between her and Gardner
the funeral director had nowhere to go. Next to his seediness, she
looked freshly minted. I caught a waft of soap and a clean, unfussy
scent from her.
But there was no softness in her tone, and she held herself with a
poised readiness.'You need to come back inside, sir. The gentlemen
from the Environmental Protection Agency still have questions to
ask.'
York allowed her to steer him back towards the building, but
continued to stare back at us over his shoulder.
'This is a conspiracy! A conspiracy! You think I don't know what's
going on here? Do you ?'
His voice echoed after us as Gardner ushered Tom away. 'Sorry
about that.'
Tom smiled, but he looked shaken. 'He seems pretty upset.'
'Not as upset as he's going to be.'
Gardner led us towards the trees behind the chapel's mortuary.The
funeral home backed on to a substantial pine wood. Crime scene
tape had been strung between the trunks, and through the branches
I glimpsed white-suited figures at work.
'One of the dogs found the remains in there,' Gardner said.
'They're pretty well scattered, but from a single individual so far's we
can tell.'
'Definitely human?'Tom asked.
'Looks like. We weren't sure at first because they're so badly
gnawed. Then we found a skull so it seems safe to assume they're a
matching set. But after Tri-State we aren't taking any chances.'
I didn't blame him. The Tri-State Crematory in Georgia had made worldwide headlines back in 2002, when inspectors had found a
human skull in its grounds. It proved to be the tip of a grisly iceberg.
For no reason that was ever satisfactorily explained, the owner had
simply kept many of the bodies he should have been cremating. Over
three hundred human remains had been crammed into tiny vaults or
stacked on top of each other in the surrounding forest. Some were
even found dumped at the owner's house. Still, bad as Tri-State had
been, there was one important difference from the current situation.
None of the victims there had been murdered.
Gardner took us over to the edge of the woods, where a trestle
table stood laden with masks and protective gear. A few yards away, the pines formed an almost solid wall.
The TBI agent looked at Tom doubtfully, as though only now
wondering about what he was asking of him. 'You sure you're OK
to do this?'
'I've been in worse places.' Tom had already started opening a
pack of disposable overalls. Gardner didn't seem convinced, but when
he realized I was watching he erased the concern from his face.
'Then I'll let you get to it.'
I waited until he'd gone back to the mortuary. 'He's right, Tom.
It's going to be uncomfortable in there.'
'I'll be fine.'
There was a stubbornness about him that told me I was wasting
my time arguing. I zipped myself into the overalls and pulled on
gloves and disposable overshoes. When Tom was ready we headed
into the woods.
A hush enveloped us, as though the world outside had been
abruptly cut off. Pine needles shivered all around, an eerie sound in
the graveyard setting, like the whispering of the dead. A thick mat of
them lay like coir matting underfoot, pebbled with fallen cones. The
clean scent of pine that seeped through my mask was a welcome
relief after the squalor of the funeral home.
But it was short-lived. The air was thick and still underneath the
pines, untouched by any breeze. Almost immediately I felt myself
begin to sweat as we stooped under the low branches and made our
way towards the nearest white-clad agents.
'So what have you found?' Tom asked, trying to disguise his
breathlessness as they made way for us.
It was hard to pick out individuals under the billowing protective
gear and masks, but I recognized the big man who answered from
the mountain cabin. Lenny? No,Jerry. His face was flushed and beaded
with sweat above the mask, his overalls grimy with pine needles and
bark.
'Oh, Lord, this is gonna be a day,' he panted, straightening.'Got a
skull and what's left of a ribcage, plus a few other bones. They're
scattered pretty good, even the bigger ones. There's a fence further
on back there, but it's too fallen down to stop anything getting
in. On four legs or two. And these goddamn trees are a real bitch.'
'Any clothes?'
'Nope, but we got something that looks like an old sheet. Body
could've been wrapped in that.'
Leaving him there, we made our way towards the nearest find. The
forest floor was dotted with small flags, like an unkempt putting
green, each marking a separate discovery. The one closest to us had
been planted by what remained of a pelvis. It lay under a tree, so that
we had to bend almost double to reach it, slipping on the frictionless
carpet of pine needles. I glanced at Tom, hoping this wasn't going
to be too much for him, but with the mask concealing much of his
face it was hard to tell.
The pelvis was so badly chewed it was difficult to say whether it
was male or female, but the femur lying next to it gave a better
indication. Even though both ends of the big thigh bone were scored
and pitted by animal teeth, it was obvious from its length that it was
a man's.
'Quite a size,'Tom said, squatting down to examine it. 'How tall
would you say its owner was?'
'Well over six feet. How tall was Willis Dexter?'
'Six two.' Tom smiled behind his mask, obviously thinking the
same as me. It was starting to look as if we might have found the man

I
who was supposed to have been buried at Steeple Hill. 'OK, let's see
what else there is.'
Branches scratched at us, showering us with needles as we pushed
through the trees. Tom was showing no obvious signs of discomfort,
but it was heavy going. Sweat was running down my face, and I was
beginning to cramp from being forced to walk in a permanent
crouch. The pine scent was nauseating now, making my skin itch
inside the constraining overalls.
The remains of what had once been a sheet lay some distance from
the pelvis. Filthy and shredded, it had been marked with a different
colour flag to distinguish it from the body parts. Near it, partially
camouflaged by fallen pine needles, was a ribcage. A few ants scurried
busily over it, foraging for any last vestiges of flesh, but there was little
left. The bones had long since been picked clean, and the sternum
and several smaller ribs were missing.
'Looks like this was where the body was dumped,' Tom
commented, as I took photographs. 'The scattering looks pretty
typical. Animals rather than dismemberment, I'd say'
Nature abhors waste, and a body lying outdoors soon becomes a
food source for the local wildlife. Dogs, foxes, birds and rodents -- even bears in some parts of the US - will attend the feast, detaching
and carrying away whatever they can. But because the bulkier torso
is too big for all but the largest scavengers to move, it tends to be
eaten in situ. That means the ribcage usually marks the location
where the body originally lay.
Tom peered at the end of one of the ribs. He beckoned me closer.
'See here? Saw marks.'
Like most of the other bones, the rib had been badly gnawed. But
parallel lines were still visible among the teeth marks, fine striations
running across the bone's end.
'Hacksaw blade, by the look of it. The same as you'd get from an
autopsy,' I said. Standard procedure during an autopsy was to cut the
ribcage on either side of the sternum, so that it could be removed to
give access to the organs underneath. Bone cutters were sometimes
used, but an electric saw was often faster.
That would have produced marks just like these.
'Starting to look more and more like we've found Willis Dexter,
isn't it?'Tom said. He started to push himself to his feet.'Male, right
height, with autopsy cuts on his ribs. And Dexter's clothes were
burned in the car crash.Without any family to provide more, chances
are the body would be left in the sheet it came in from the morgue.
Time scale's about right, too.There's no moss or lichen on the bones,
so they've been here less than a year. That seems--'
He gave a sudden gasp and doubled up, clutching at his chest. I
pulled off his mask and had to hide my alarm when I saw the waxy
pallor of his face.
'Where are your tablets?'
His mouth was stretched in a grimace.'Side pocket. . .'
I tore open his overalls, berating myself. You should never have let
him do this! If he collapsed in here . . . There was a button-down
pocket on the thigh of his chinos. I pulled it open but couldn't find
any tablets.
'They're not there.' I tried to sound calm.
His eyes were screwed shut with pain. His lips had developed a
blue tinge.'Shirt. . .'
I patted his shirt pocket and felt a squat hard shape. Thank God! I
pulled it out and unscrewed the top, shaking out one of the tiny pills.
Tom's hand trembled as he slipped it under his tongue. Nothing
happened for a few moments, then the tightness in his face began to
relax.
'OK?' I asked. He nodded, too drained to speak. 'Just take it easy
for a minute or two.'
There was a rustle from nearby as Jerry, the big forensic agent,
came over. 'Y'all OK?'
I felt Tom's hand tighten on my arm before I could answer.'Fine.
Just need to catch my breath.'