Whispers of the Dead - Страница 38

Gardner and the crime scene agent were by an old steel filing cabinet. One of the drawers was pulled out.

‘… at the bottom under old magazines,’ the agent was saying. ‘I thought at first they were just photographs, until I took a better look.’

Gardner was staring down at them. ‘Jesus Christ.’

He sounded shocked. The other agent said something else, but I didn’t pay attention. By then I could see what they’d found for myself.

It was a slim foolscap-sized box, the sort used for photographic paper. It was open, and the agent had fanned out the half-dozen or so photographs from inside. They were all black and white portraits, each a close-up of a man or woman’s face from chin to forehead. They had been enlarged to almost full size, and the perfect focus had caught every feature, every pore and blemish, in sharp-edged detail; a split second preserved with unblurred clarity. Each face was contorted and dark, and at first glance their expressions were almost comical, as though each of the subjects had been caught on the point of a sneeze. But only until you saw their eyes.

Then you knew that there was nothing remotely comical about this at all.

We’d always suspected that there were more victims than the ones we knew about. This confirmed it. It hadn’t been enough for York to torture them to death.

He’d photographed them dying as well.

Gardner seemed to notice I was there for the first time. He gave me a sharp look, but the rebuke I was half expecting never came. I think he was still too stunned himself.

‘You can go now, Dr Hunter.’

A taciturn TBI agent drove me back to my hotel after I’d changed, but those contorted faces continued to haunt me as we drove through the dark streets. They were disturbing on a level that was hard to explain. Not just because of what they showed. I’d seen enough death in my time. I’d worked on cases before where murderers had taken trophies of their victims: a lock of hair or some scrap of clothing, twisted memento mori of the lives they’d claimed.

But this was different. York was no crazed killer, losing himself in the heat of some warped passion. He’d played us for fools all along, manipulating the investigation from the start. Even his exit had been timed perfectly. And the photographs weren’t the usual trophies. They’d been taken with a degree of care and skill that spoke of a deliberate, clinical coldness. Of control.

That made them all the more frightening.

I didn’t really need another shower when I got back to my room, but I had one anyway. The trip to York’s house left me feeling unclean in a way that was more than skin deep. Symbolic or not, the hot water helped. So much so that I fell asleep almost the instant I turned out the light.

I was woken just before six by an insistent trilling. Still half asleep, I pawed for the alarm clock before I realized the noise was from my phone.

‘Hello?’ I mumbled, not properly awake.

The last vestiges of sleep fell away when I heard Paul’s voice.

‘It’s bad news, David,’ he said. ‘Tom died last night.’

You cut it fine. You knew it wouldn’t be long before the TBI agents arrived at the house, but you left it as long as you dared. Too soon and much of the impact would be lost. Too late and… Well, that would have spoiled everything.

It was a pity you didn’t have more time. You hate feeling rushed, even though there was no avoiding it. You’d always known it would come to this. The funeral home had served its purpose. You’d planned it all out in advance; what you needed to take and what would be left behind. It had called for fine judgement and more than a little discipline. But that was OK.

Some sacrifices have to be made.

You’re almost ready for the next stage now. All you’ve got to do is be patient. It won’t be much longer. Just one final chore to nudge the last pieces into place, then the waiting will be over.

You admit to a few nerves, but that’s a good thing. You can’t let yourself be complacent. When the opportunity presents itself, you’ll have to be ready to take it. You can’t afford to waste chances like this. You know that better than anyone.

Life’s too short.

CHAPTER 17

IN THE END, all the precautions for Tom’s safety had proved futile. Doctors and medical staff at the ICU had been warned of the need for extra vigilance, if not its reason, and a TBI agent had been stationed in the corridor outside his room. No one could have reached Tom without their knowing, and even if someone had, Mary had been at his side throughout.

None of which had prevented him going into cardiac arrest just after four o’clock that morning.

The medics had tried to resuscitate him, but his heart had resolutely refused to restart. Stubborn to the end. The thought circled aimlessly round my mind, refusing to settle.

I felt numb, still unable to take in what had happened. After I’d spoken to Paul I’d called Mary and mouthed the usual, useless words. Then I’d sat on my bed, at a loss as to what to do. I tried telling myself that at least Tom had died peacefully with his wife beside him, that he’d been spared whatever final ordeal had been inflicted on Irving. But it was scant consolation. York might not have physically killed him, but Tom was still a victim. Ill or not, he’d had a right to live the rest of his life in peace, however long it might have been.

He’d had that taken from him.

An image of York’s face came to me, beaming with false servility as he’d enthusiastically pumped Tom’s hand that morning at Steeple Hill. Dr Lieberman, it’s an honour, sir… I’ve heard a lot about your work. And your facility, of course. A credit to Tennessee. He must have been laughing at us even then. Knowing what he had planned, hiding his greater guilt behind the petty misdemeanours evident at the cemetery.

I can’t remember hating anyone as much as I hated York just then.

Moping in my hotel room wasn’t going to bring Tom back, or help catch the man who’d killed him. I showered and dressed, then went to the morgue. It was still early when I arrived. My footfalls echoed as I walked down the empty corridor. The morgue’s cold, tiled surfaces seemed even lonelier than usual. I would have welcomed the sight of a familiar face, but Paul had told me he had more meetings to get through first, and I doubted that Summer would be in any fit state to help out when she heard the news.

Kyle was there, at least. He was pushing a trolley along the corridor as I came out of the changing room, and greeted me with his usual enthusiasm.

‘Hi, Dr Hunter. I’ve got to help with an autopsy this morning, but if you want any help after that, you just let me know.’

‘Thanks, I will’.

He still loitered. ‘Uh, will Summer be coming in later?’

‘I don’t know, Kyle.’

‘Oh. OK.’ He nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. ‘How’s Dr Lieberman?’

I’d guessed it was too soon for the news to have spread, but I’d been hoping he wouldn’t ask. I didn’t want to be the one to have to break it.

‘He died last night.’

Kyle’s face fell. ‘He’s dead? I’m sorry, I didn’t know…’

‘There’s no reason why you should.’

I could see him searching for something to say. ‘He was a nice man.’

‘Yes, he was,’ I agreed. There were worse epitaphs.

I tried to keep my mind blank as I went to the autopsy suite, wanting to focus on what I had to do. But it was impossible in an environment that I associated so much with Tom. When I passed the suite where he had been working, I paused, then went in.

It looked no different from the day before. Terry Loomis’s skeleton still lay on the aluminium table, now almost fully reassembled. It was like any other autopsy suite, with no lingering trace of Tom’s presence. I started to go back out, but then I saw the CD player still on the shelf next to the neat pile of jazz albums. That was when it really hit me.

Tom was dead.

I stood there for a while as the unalterable fact of it soaked in. Then, letting the weighted door swing shut, I went out and walked down the corridor to the autopsy suite where the bones of a petty thief were waiting.

The reassembly and examination of Noah Harper’s skeleton should have been finished by now. The delay was no one’s fault, but the task had been given to me and I felt responsible for how long it was taking. Now I was determined to complete it, if it meant staying all night.

Besides, I welcomed the distraction.

The cranium and larger bones of the arms and legs had been laid out on the table in an approximation of their anatomical position, but the rest had only been roughly sorted. I intended to reassemble the spinal column next, which was perhaps the most complex part of the process. The spine is essentially an articulated sheath that protects the cord of nerves at its centre. It’s a perfect example of nature’s ingenuity, a marvel of biological engineering.

But I was in no mood to appreciate it right then. Starting with the cervical vertebrae, I began carefully fitting the irregular knuckles of bone back together.

I didn’t get far.

The cervical vertebrae that form the neck are smaller than the thoracic and lumbar vertebrae of the back. There are seven in all, numbered from the skull, each neatly dovetailing into those above and below. I fitted the first five together easily enough, but when I searched for the sixth I couldn’t find it.

Come on, Hunter, concentrate. Exasperated, I went through the remaining vertebrae again. But the only cervical vertebra I could find was the wrong size and shape. It was clearly the seventh, not the sixth.