Whispers of the Dead (16 page)

I wished I hadn't said anything, but there was no avoiding it now.
'I think there's too much reliance on it sometimes. It's a useful tool
but it isn't infallible. Irving's profile showed that.'
Her chin came up. 'Professor Irving let himself be sidetracked by
the fact that both victims were male and naked.'
'You don't think that's significant?'
'Not that they're male, no. And I think you and Dr Lieberman hit
on the reason why they were naked.'
That threw me, but only for a second. 'A naked body decomposes
faster than one with clothes on,' I said, annoyed with myself for not
having seen it sooner.
She gave a nod. She seemed as keen to skirt past the brief
awkwardness as I was. 'And both Terry Loomis's body and the
exhumed remains were more decomposed than they'd any right to
be. It isn't unreasonable to assume they were both unclothed for
similar reasons.'
Another chance for the killer to sow confusion and demonstrate his cleverness. 'The exhumed body would have to have been stripped for the
needles to be planted anyway,' I said. 'And once they were in place
it'd be too risky to handle it any more than necessary. Certainly not
just to put its clothes back on. But that doesn't alter the fact that all
the victims were male.'
'The ones we know about, you mean.'
'You think there are more we haven't found yet?'
I thought at first I'd gone too far. Jacobsen didn't answer, and I
reminded myself that she didn't have to; I was no longer a part of the investigation. Get used to it.You're just a tourist now.
But just as I was about to withdraw the question she seemed to
reach a decision. 'This is pure speculation. But I'd agree with
Professor Irving that we've only found the victims the killer wanted
us to find. The level of brutality and sheer confidence he's displayed
makes it almost certain that there are others. No one develops that
sort of... sophistication, for want of a better word, first time round.'
That hadn't occurred to me before. It was a disturbing thought.
Jacobsen pulled down the visor as a curve in the road threw the
sun in her face. 'Whatever the killer's agenda is, I don't think his
victims' physical characteristics play a part in it,' she went on. 'We've
got a thirty-six-year-old white insurance clerk, a black male in his
fifties, and -- in all probability -- a forty-four-year-old psychologist,
with no apparent connection between any of them. That suggests
we're dealing with an opportunist who preys on random victims.
Male or female, I doubt it makes any difference to him.'
'What about Irving? He wasn't random, he was deliberately
targeted.'
'Professor Irving was an exception. I don't think he figured in the

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killer's plans until he went on TV, but when he did the killer acted
straight away. Which tells us something important.'
'You mean apart from that he's a dangerous lunatic?'
A quick smile softened her features. 'Apart from that. Everything
we have so far says that this is someone who deliberates and plans his
actions carefully. The needles were planted in the body six months before he left Dexter's fingerprints at the cabin. That shows a
methodical, ordered mind. But what happened with Professor Irving
shows there's also another side. One that's impulsive and unstable.
Prick his ego and he can't help himself.'
I noticed she wasn't even trying to pretend any more that Irving
might not be another victim. 'Is that good or bad?'
'Both. It means he's unpredictable, which makes him even more
dangerous. But if he acts on impulse then sooner or later he'll make
a mistake.' Jacobsen squinted again as the sun reflected off the cars in
front. 'My sunglasses are in my jacket. Could you pass them, please?'
The jacket was neatly folded on the back seat. I twisted round and
reached for it. A waft of delicate scent came from the soft fabric, and
I felt an odd intimacy as I searched its pockets. I found a pair of
aviator shades and handed them to her. Our fingers brushed as she
took them; her skin was cool and dry, but with an underlying heat.
'Thanks,' she said, putting on the sunglasses.
'You mentioned his agenda a moment ago,' I said quickly. 'I
thought you'd already said that he craves recognition, that he's a ...
what was it? A "malignant narcissist"? Doesn't that explain it?'
Jacobsen inclined her head slightly. With her eyes concealed, she
looked more unreadable than ever. 'It explains the extreme lengths
he's prepared to go to, but not why he kills in the first place. He's got
to get something out of it, have some pathological itch he's trying to
scratch. If it isn't sexual, then what?'
'Perhaps he just enjoys inflicting pain,' I suggested.
She shook her head. The small v was visible again above the sunglasses.'No.
He might enjoy the sense of power it gives him, but it's
more than that. Something's driving him to do all this. We just don't
know yet what it is.'
The sunlight was abruptly blotted out as a black pick-up truck
drew up alongside. It towered over the car, a petrol-guzzling
monstrosity with tinted windows, then quickly pulled ahead. It had
only just cleared us when suddenly it cut into our lane. My foot
stamped reflexively on to the floor as I braced for a collision. But
with barely a touch on the brake, Jacobsen swerved into the other
lane, as smoothly as though the move were choreographed.
It was a cool display of driving, all the more impressive because she
appeared unaware of it. She flicked an irritated glance at the pick-up
as it accelerated away, but otherwise dismissed it.
The incident broke the mood, though. She grew distant again after
that, either preoccupied with what we'd said or regretting saying as
much as she had. In any event there wasn't any more time for conversation.
We were already approaching the centre of Knoxville. My
spirits sank further the closer we got. Jacobsen dropped me back at
my hotel, her reserve now as unassailable as any wall. Her sunglasses
hid her eyes as she drove off with the briefest of nods, leaving me on
the pavement, stiff-muscled from hunching over in the pine woods.
I felt at a complete loss as to what to do next. I didn't know if my
exclusion extended to the morgue, and didn't want to phone Tom to
ask. Nor did I feel like going out to the facility, not until I'd a better
idea of how things stood.
Standing there in the bright spring sunshine, with people bustling
around me, the full extent of what had happened finally sank in.
While I'd been with Jacobsen I'd been able to keep it at arm's length,
but now I had to face up to it.
For the first time in my career I'd been thrown off an investigation.

I showered and changed, then bought a sandwich and ate lunch at
the side of the river, watching the tourist-carrying paddleboats churn
past. There's something about water that's primordially soothing. It
seems to touch some deep chord in our subconscious; stir some gene
memory of the womb. I breathed in the faintly swampy air, watching
a flight of geese heading upriver, and tried to tell myself that I
wasn't bored. Objectively, I knew I shouldn't take what had
happened at the cemetery personally. I'd been caught in Hicks's
crossfire, collateral damage of professional politics that didn't concern
me. I told myself that I shouldn't regard it as a loss of face.
It didn't make me feel any better.
After lunch, I wandered aimlessly around the streets, waiting for
my phone to ring. It was a long time since I'd been in Knoxville, and
the city had changed.The trolley cars were still there, though, and the
golden mirror-ball of the Sunsphere remained an unmistakable
feature on the skyline.
But I wasn't in the mood for sightseeing. My phone remained
stubbornly silent, a dead weight in my pocket. I was tempted to call
Tom, but I knew there was no point. He'd ring me when he could.
It was late afternoon when I finally heard from him. He sounded
tired as he apologized for what had happened that morning.
'It's just Hicks trying to stir up a fuss. I'm going to talk to Dan
again tomorrow. Once the dust has settled I'm sure he'll see sense.
There's no reason why you can't carry on working with me at the
morgue, at least.'
'What are you going to do in the meantime?' I asked. 'You can't
manage by yourself. Why don't you let Paul help?'
'Paul's out of town today. But I'm sure Summer will lend a hand
again.'
'You need to take it easy. Have you seen a doctor yet?'
'Don't worry,' he said, in a tone of voice that told me I was wasting
my breath.'I'm really sorry about this, David, but I'll sort it out. Just
sit tight for now.'
There wasn't much else I could do. I resolved to try to enjoy the
rest of the evening. A little leisure time won't kill you.The bars and cafes
had started filling up, office workers stopping off on their way home.
The murmur of laughter and conversation was inviting, and on
impulse I stopped at a bar with a wooden terrace overlooking the
river. I found a table by the railing and ordered a beer. Enjoying the last of the afternoon sun, I watched the slow-moving Tennessee
slide by, invisible currents forming dimples and swirls on the gelid
surface.
Gradually, I felt myself begin to relax. By the time I'd finished my
beer I couldn't see any pressing reason to leave, so I asked for the
menu. I ordered a plate of seafood linguine and a glass of Californian
Zinfandel.Just the one, I vowed, telling myself I should make an early
start next day, regardless of whether I was helping Tom or not. But
by the time I'd finished the rich, garlic-infused food, that no longer
seemed quite such a compelling argument.
I ordered another glass of wine. The sun sank behind the trees, but
it was still warm even as dusk began to settle. The electric lights that
lit the terrace drew the first of the evening's moths. They bumped
and whirred against the glass, black silhouettes against the white
globes. I tried to recall visiting this stretch of river when I'd first
come to Knoxville all those years ago. I supposed I must have at some point, but I'd no recollection of it. I'd rented a cramped basement
apartment in a different - and cheaper - part of town, on the fringes
of the increasingly gentrified old quarter. When I'd gone out I'd
tended to go to the bars round there rather than the more expensive
ones on the riverfront.
Thinking about that shook loose other memories. Out of
nowhere the face of a girl I'd seen for a while came back to me. Beth,
a nurse at the hospital. I hadn't thought of her in years. I smiled,
wondering where she was now, what she was doing. If she ever
thought about the British forensic student she'd once known.
I'd returned to England not long after that. And a few weeks later
I'd met my wife, Kara. The thought of her and our daughter brought
with it the usual vertiginous dip, but I was used enough to it by now
not to be sucked in.
-as-

I picked up my mobile from the table and opened my list of
contacts. Jenny's name and number seemed to jump out at me even
before I'd highlighted them on the illuminated display. I scrolled
through the options until I came to Delete, and held my thumb
poised over the button. Then, without pressing it, I snapped the
phone shut and put it away.
I finished the last of my wine and pulled my thoughts from
the track they'd been following. An image of Jacobsen sitting in
the car earlier replaced them, bare arms toned and tanned in the
short-sleeved white top. It occurred to me that I didn't know
anything about her. Not how old she was, where she was from or
where she lived.
But I'd noticed there was no wedding ring on her left hand.
Oh, give it a rest. Still, I couldn't help but smile as I ordered another
glass of wine.

It's darkening outside.Your favourite time.The point of transition between two
extremes: day and night. Heaven and hell. The earth's rotation caught on the
cusp, neither one thing nor the other, yet full of the potential of both.
If only everything were so simple.
You brush the camera lens carefully, then gently wipe it with a square of
buttery soft chamois until the finely ground glass is mirror bright. Tilting the
lens to catch the light, you examine it for any last speck of dust that might
mar its perfect surface. There's nothing, but you polish it again anyway, just
to be sure.
The camera is your most prized possession. The old Leica has seen some
heavy use in the years since you bought it, and never once let you down. Its
black and white images are always crystal clear, so sharp and fine-grained you
could fall into them.
It isn't the camera's fault you haven't found what you're looking for.
You try to tell yourself that tonight will be just like all the other times, but
you know it isn't. You've always operated under cover of obscurity before, been
able to act with impunity because no one knew you existed. Now that's all

I
changed. And even though it was your own decision, your own choice to
emerge into the limelight, it alters everything.
For good or bad, you're committed now. There's no going back.
True, you've prepared for it.You wouldn't have started this without an exit
strategy. When the time comes you'll be able to slide back into the shadows,
just like before. But you've got to see it through to the end first. And while
the rewards might be great, so is the risk.
You can't afford any mistakes.
You do your best to believe that what happens tonight doesn't matter in
the greater scheme of things, that your real work will continue regardless. But
it rings false. The truth is there's more at stake now. Although you hate to
admit it, all the failures have taken their toll. You need this, you need the
affirmation that you haven't wasted all these years.
Your entire life.
You finish polishing the camera lens and pour yourself a glass ofmilk.You
ought to have something to soak up the acid in your stomach, but it's too
knotted to eat. The milk's been opened for a day or two now, and the scum
on top says it's probably turned. But that's one of the benefits of not being
able to smell or taste anything. You drink it straight off, staring out of the
window at the trees silhouetted against the sky. When you set the empty glass
back on the kitchen table, the smeared interior gives it a ghostly translucency
in the gathering dark.
You like that idea: a ghost glass.
But the pleasure soon fades. This is the part you hate most, the waiting.
Still, it won't be much longer now. You look across the room at where the
uniform hangs on the back of the door, barely visible in the deepening
shadows. It wouldn't stand close inspection, but most people don't look too
closely. They see only a uniform in those first few seconds.