Whispers of the Dead - Страница 13

It was obvious from his face that he wasn’t happy about it.

Another man stood nearby. He was tall and smartly dressed, wearing a camel hair coat over a sombre black suit and tie. He watched the excavator’s progress with an expression that could have been either aloof or bored. When he noticed us he seemed to become more alert, his gaze fixed on Tom as we approached.

‘Tom,’ Gardner said. The TBI agent’s eyes were pouched and bloodshot. By contrast Jacobsen looked as fresh as though she’d had nine hours’ undisturbed sleep, her belted mac crisp and immaculate.

Tom smiled but said nothing. Slight as the hill was, I could see that he’d been winded by the short walk up from the car. Hicks gave him a jaundiced look but didn’t offer any greeting. Ignoring me altogether, he took a grubby handkerchief from his pocket and loudly blew his nose.

Gardner indicated the tall man in the camel hair coat. ‘This is Eliot York. He’s the owner of Steeple Hill. He helped organize the exhumation.’

‘Always glad to assist.’ York hurried forward to shake Tom’s hand. ‘Dr Lieberman, it’s an honour, sir.’

The reek of his cologne cut through even the diesel fumes from the excavator. I’d have put him in his late forties, but it was hard to tell. He was a big, fleshy man, with the sort of unlined features that seem to grow heavier instead of ageing. But his dark hair had a matt look that suggested it was dyed, and when he turned I saw it had been carefully brushed to conceal a bald spot on his crown.

I noticed that Tom detached his hand as soon as possible before introducing me. ‘This is my colleague, Dr Hunter. He’s visiting us from the UK.’

York offered me a perfunctory greeting. Up close the cuffs of the camel hair coat were worn and frayed, and from what I could see of it underneath, his black suit needed cleaning. Judging by the bloodied nicks and tufts of missed whiskers he’d shaved either hurriedly or with a blunt razor. And even his eye-wateringly strong cologne couldn’t disguise the cigarette breath or the yellow nicotine stains on his fingers.

He was already turning back to Tom before he’d even released my hand. ‘I’ve heard a lot about your work, Dr Lieberman. And your facility, of course.’

‘Thank you, but it isn’t exactly “my” facility.’

‘No, of course. A credit to Tennessee, though, all the same.’ He gave an unctuous smile. ‘Not that I’d compare my, ah, vocation to yours, but in my own small way, I like to think I’m also carrying out a public service. Not always pleasant, but a necessary one, all the same.’

Tom’s smile never wavered. ‘Quite. So you carried out this burial?’

York inclined his head. ‘We had that honour, sir, although I’m afraid I can’t recollect much in this particular instance. We carry out so many, you understand. Steeple Hill provides a fully comprehensive funeral service, including both cremation and interment in this beautiful setting.’ He gestured around the unkempt grounds as though they were a stately park. ‘My father founded the company in 1958, and we’ve been serving the bereaved ever since. Our motto is “Dignity and comfort,” and I like to think we uphold that.’

The sales pitch was met by an embarrassed silence. Tom looked relieved when Gardner stepped in.

‘Shouldn’t take much longer. We’re almost there,’ he said. York’s smile faded with disappointment as Tom was deftly steered away.

As though to prove Gardner’s point, the excavator deposited one last scoop of dirt on the pile and backed away with a final cough of exhaust. A tired-looking man I took to be a public health official nodded to one of the workmen. Wearing protective overalls and mask, he stepped forward and spread disinfectant into the open hole. Disease doesn’t always end with the host’s death. As well as the bacteria that nourish on decomposing flesh, hepatitis, HIV and TB are just some of the pathogens that the dead can pass on to the living.

A workman in mask and overalls lowered a short ladder into the grave and began to finish exposing the casket with a shovel. By the time he’d attached straps so it could be lifted out, the sky had lightened to a pale blue and the pine forest was casting long shadows across the grass. When the workman climbed out, he and the others stood on either side of the grave and began hauling the casket out in a macabre reversal of a funeral.

The mud-smeared shape slowly emerged, shedding clods of earth. The men set it down on the boards that had been laid beside the grave and quickly backed away.

‘Damn! That stinks!’ one of them muttered.

He was right. Even where we stood, the stench of putrefaction was fouling the morning air. Wrinkling his nose, Gardner went over and bent to examine the casket.

‘The lid’s split,’ he said, indicating a crack beneath the caking of soil. ‘Don’t think it’s been broken into, just looks like pretty thin wood.’

‘That’s finest American pine! It’s a perfectly good casket!’ York blustered. No one took any notice.

Tom leaned over the casket, sniffing. ‘Did you say this was buried six months ago?’ he asked Gardner.

‘That’s right. Why?’

Tom didn’t answer. ‘Odd. What do you think, David?’

I tried not to show my discomfort as all eyes moved to me. ‘It shouldn’t smell like that,’ I said reluctantly. ‘Not after only six months.’

‘In case you hadn’t noticed, that casket’s not exactly airtight,’ Hicks said. ‘Hole like that, what do you expect?’

I hoped Tom would respond, but he seemed intent on studying the casket. ‘It’s still had six feet of topsoil on top of it. That far underground the decomposition’s going to be much slower than it would be on the surface.’

‘I wasn’t speaking to you, but thanks for pointing that out,’ Hicks said, dripping sarcasm. ‘I’m sure being British, you know all about Tennessee conditions.’

Tom straightened from the casket. ‘Actually, David’s right. Even if the body wasn’t embalmed the decomp shouldn’t smell this bad, broken lid or not.’

The pathologist glared at him. ‘Then why don’t we take a look?’ He motioned brusquely to the workmen. ‘Open it up.’

‘Here?’ Tom said, surprised. Normally the casket would have been transported to the morgue before it was opened.

Hicks seemed to be relishing the moment. ‘The casket’s already breached. If the body’s as far gone as you say, I’d rather find out now. I’ve wasted enough time already.’

I knew Tom well enough to see his disapproval from the slight pursing of his lips, but he said nothing. Until the body had been officially handed over to him, Hicks was still in charge.

Jacobsen objected anyway. ‘Sir, don’t you think that should wait?’ she said to Hicks as he motioned for a workman to open the casket.

The pathologist gave her a predatory smile. ‘Are you questioning my authority?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Donald, just open the damn thing if you’re going to,’ Gardner said.

With a last glower at Jacobsen, Hicks gestured to one of the workmen who was standing by with a power tool. A high-pitched whine shattered the quiet as one by one the casket’s screws were removed. I looked across at Jacobsen, but her face gave no sign of her feelings. She must have felt me watching her, because the grey eyes briefly met mine. For a second I had a glimpse of her anger, and then she looked away.

When the last screw had been taken out, another workman joined the first to help lift the lid. It had warped, and there was a slight resistance before it came loose.

‘Jesus H. Christ!’ one of the men exclaimed, averting his head.

The stench that rose from the casket was overpowering, a foully sweet concentration of rot. The workmen hurriedly moved away.

I stepped up beside Tom to take a look.

A filthy white sheet covered most of the remains, leaving only the skull visible. Most of its hair had sloughed off, although a few thin wisps still clung to it like dirty cobwebs. The body had started to putrefy, the flesh seeming to have melted from the bones as bacteria caused the soft tissue to liquefy. In the casket’s closed environment, the resulting fluid had been unable to evaporate. Known as coffin liquor, it was black and viscous, matting the cotton shroud that covered the corpse.

Hicks took a glance inside. ‘Congratulations, Lieberman. This one’s all yours.’

Without a backward glance he set off towards the parked cars. Gardner was looking at the casket’s grisly contents with distaste, a handkerchief held over his mouth and nose in a futile attempt to block the smell.

‘That normal?’

‘No,’ Tom said, shooting an angry look after Hicks.

Gardner turned to York. ‘Any idea how this could have happened?’

The funeral home owner’s face had crimsoned. ‘Of course not! And I resent the implication that this is my fault! Steeple Hill can’t be held responsible for what happens to the casket once it’s buried!’

‘Somehow I didn’t think it would be.’ Gardner beckoned to the workmen. ‘Cover it up. Let’s get it to the morgue.’

But I’d been looking at the casket’s grisly contents more closely. ‘Tom, look at the skull,’ I said.

He’d still been staring after the pathologist. Now, giving me a questioning glance, he did as I asked. I saw his expression change.

‘You aren’t going to like this, Dan.’

‘Like what?’ Instead of answering, Tom looked pointedly at York and the workmen. Gardner turned to them. ‘Can you excuse us a minute, gentlemen?’