Whispers of the Dead - Страница 11

It was Hicks.

‘Morning, Donald,’ Tom greeted him pleasantly. ‘To what do we owe this pleasure?’

The pathologist didn’t bother to reply. The dome of his hairless head gleamed like marble under the bright lights as he glared at Kyle.

‘The hell are you doing in here, Webster? I’ve been looking for you.’

Kyle flushed. ‘I was just—’

‘He’s just finishing up,’ Tom put in smoothly. ‘I asked him to help out. Dan Gardner wants a report on this as soon as possible. Unless you have any objection?’

Hicks could hardly admit to it if he had. He turned his ire on Kyle again. ‘I’ve got an autopsy this morning. Is the suite ready?’

‘Uh, no, but I asked Jason to—’

‘I told you to do it, not Jason. I’m sure Dr Lieberman and his assistant can manage by themselves while you do what you’re paid for.’

It took a second or two to realize he meant me. Tom gave him a thin smile. ‘I’m sure we can.’

Hicks gave a sniff, disappointed to be deprived of a confrontation. ‘I want everything ready in half an hour, Webster. Make sure it is.’

‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry…’ Kyle said, but the pathologist had already turned away. The heavy door swung shut behind him.

‘Well, I’m sure we all feel better for that,’ Tom said into the silence. ‘Sorry, Kyle. I didn’t mean to get you into trouble.’

The younger man smiled, but his cheeks still flamed red. ‘That’s OK. But Dr Hicks is right. I really ought to—’

The door burst open before he could finish. For a second I thought Hicks might have come back, but it was a harried-looking young woman who appeared rather than the pathologist.

I guessed she was the student Tom had mentioned would be helping us. She was in her early twenties and wore a faded pink T-shirt over well-worn cargo pants, both stretched by her ample build. The bleached blond hair had been pulled into some sort of order by a red and white polka-dot Alice band, and her round glasses gave her an amiably startled appearance. It should have clashed with the steel balls and rings that studded her ears, nose and eyebrows, but somehow didn’t. Once you’d got over the initial surprise, the painful-looking array of metalwork seemed to suit her.

Her words were tumbling out in a rush before the door had even swung shut.

‘God, I can’t believe I’m late! I left early so I could stop off at the facility to check my project, but then I totally lost track of time! I’m really sorry, Dr Lieberman.’

‘Well, you’re here now,’ Tom said. ‘Summer, I don’t think you’ve met David Hunter. He’s British, but don’t hold that against him. And this is Kyle. He’s been holding the fort till you got here.’

A dazed smile spread across Kyle’s face. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Hi.’ Summer beamed, revealing an industrial-looking brace. She glanced across at the body, with interest rather than revulsion. It would have been a shocking sight for most people, but the facility helped prepare students for such grim realities. ‘I haven’t missed anything, have I?’

‘No, he’s still dead,’ Tom reassured her. ‘You know where everything is, if you want to get changed.’

‘Sure.’ She turned to go out, catching a stainless steel trolley full of instruments with her bag. ‘Sorry,’ she said, steadying it, before disappearing through the doorway.

A stunned quiet settled over the autopsy suite once more. Tom wore a half-smile. ‘Summer’s our resident whirlwind.’

‘I noticed,’ I said.

Kyle was still staring at the door with a shell-shocked expression. Tom gave me an amused glance, then cleared his throat.

‘The samples, Kyle?’

‘What?’ The technician looked startled, as though he’d forgotten we were there.

‘You were about to get them packed up for the lab.’

‘Oh, right. Sure, no problem.’

With a last hopeful glance at the doors, Kyle gathered up the samples and went out.

‘I think it’s safe to say our Summer’s got an admirer,’ Tom said wryly. He turned back to the table and suddenly winced, rubbing his breastbone as though he had trapped air.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

‘It’s nothing. Hicks is enough to give anyone heartburn,’ he said.

But his colour wasn’t good. He reached for the tray of instruments and gave a gasp of pain.

‘Tom—’

‘I’m all right, dammit!’ He raised his hand as if to ward me off, then turned it into a gesture of apology. ‘I’m fine, really.’

I didn’t believe him. ‘You’ve been on your feet since before I got here. Why don’t you take a break?’

‘Because I don’t have time,’ he said irritably. ‘I promised Dan a preliminary report.’

‘And he’ll get one. Summer and I can finish off removing the soft tissue.’

He gave a grudging nod. ‘Maybe just a few minutes…’

I watched him go out, struck by how frail he looked. He’d never been a physically imposing man, but the flesh seemed to have melted from him. He’s getting old. It was a fact of life. But that didn’t make it any easier to accept.

Tom’s CD had long since ended, leaving the autopsy suite in silence. From somewhere outside I heard a phone ring. It went unanswered, and finally stopped.

I turned back to the victim’s remains. The skeleton was almost completely denuded of flesh by now, leaving only the residual soft tissue to be removed by boiling it in detergent. Since it wasn’t practical to immerse the whole skeleton in a huge vat there was another grisly process that needed to be undertaken first.

Disarticulation.

The skull, pelvis, legs and arms would have to be severed, a job requiring both care and brute strength. Any damage to the bone would have to be carefully noted, so it wasn’t confused with perimortem trauma. I’d started to remove the skull, painstakingly cutting through the cartilage between the second and third cervical vertebrae, when Summer returned.

In her scrubs and apron she looked less out of place in the morgue, except for the ear and nose piercings. The bleached hair was concealed under a surgical cap.

‘Where’s Dr Lieberman?’ she asked.

‘He had to go out.’ I didn’t enlarge. Tom wouldn’t want any of his students to know he was ill.

Summer accepted it. ‘You want me to start with the detergent?’

I wasn’t sure what Tom had in mind, but that seemed as good an idea as any. We began filling large stainless steel vats with detergent solution and set them heating on gas burners. Although the powerful extractor hood over the burners sucked most of the steam and fumes from the room, the combination of bleach and boiling soft tissue gave off a smell disconcertingly reminiscent of both a laundry and a bad restaurant.

‘So you’re British?’ Summer asked as we worked.

‘That’s right.’

‘How come you’re over here?’

‘Just a research trip.’

‘Don’t you have research facilities in the UK?’

‘We do, but not like yours.’

‘Yeah, the facility’s pretty cool.’ The big eyes regarded me through the glasses. ‘What’s it like being a forensic anthropologist over there?’

‘Cold and wet, usually.’

She laughed. ‘Apart from that. Is it any different?’

I didn’t really want to talk about it, but she was only being friendly. ‘Well, the basics are the same, but there are a few differences. We don’t have as many law enforcement agencies as you do over here.’ To an outsider, the number of autonomous sheriff and police departments, let alone state and federal agencies, that operated in the US was bewildering. ‘But the main difference is the climate. Unless it’s a freakish summer, we tend not to get bodies drying out like you do here. The decomposition’s more likely to be a wet one, with more moulds and slime.’

She pulled a face. ‘Gross. Ever thought of moving?’

Despite myself I gave a laugh. ‘Work in the sun belt, you mean? No, I can’t say that I have.’ I’d talked about myself as much as I wanted to, though. ‘So how about you? What are your plans?’

Summer launched into an animated description of her life so far, her ambitions for the future and how she was working in a bar in Knoxville to raise enough money to buy a car. I said little, content to let her carry on her monologue. It didn’t slow her work and the torrent of words was relaxing, so that when Tom returned I was surprised to see that nearly two hours had passed.

‘You’ve made progress, I see,’ he said approvingly, coming to the table.

‘It’s been pretty straightforward.’ I didn’t ask how he was in front of Summer, but I could see he was feeling better. He waited until she’d returned to the pans bubbling on the gas burners, then beckoned me to one side.

‘Sorry I took so long, I’ve been speaking to Dan Gardner. There’s been an interesting development. There aren’t any fingerprints on file for Terry Loomis, the guy whose wallet was at the cabin, so they still need us to confirm if this is him.’ He gestured towards the remains on the table. ‘But they got a result on the print from the film canister. Belongs to a Willis Dexter, thirty-six-year-old mechanic from Sevierville.’

Sevierville was a small town not far from Gatlinburg, perhaps twenty miles from where the body had been found in the mountain cabin. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘You’d think so,’ he agreed. ‘They found several other of Dexter’s fingerprints at the cabin, as well. One of them on a week-old credit card receipt found in Loomis’s wallet.’