Whispers of the Dead - Страница 21

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 post-exposure 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.