Whispers of the Dead

by Simon Beckett

  I I to focus on coaxing to life the images implanted into the glossy photographic sheets. Which is as it should be. The game you're playing, making the TBI and their so-called experts chase their own tails, might be a welcome relief and flattering to your ego. God knows, you deserve to indulge yourself after all the sacrifices you've made. But you shouldn't lose sight of the fact that it's only a diversion. The main thing, the real work, takes place in this small room. There's nothing more important than this. Getting to this stage has taken years, learning through trial and error. Your first camera was from a pawn shop, an old Kodak Instamatic that you'd been too inexperienced to know was poorly suited for your needs. It could capture the instant, but not in anything like enough detail. Too slow, too blurred, too unreliable. Not nearly enough precision, enough control, for what you wanted. You've tried others since then. For a while you got excited about digital cameras, but for all their convenience the images lack -- and here you smile to yourself -- they lack the soul of film. Pixels don't have the depth, the resonance you're looking for. No matter how high the resolution, how true the colours, they're still only an impressionist approximation of their subject. Whereas film captures something of its essence, a transferral that goes beyond the chemical process. A real photograph is created by light, pure and simple: a paintbrush of photons that leaves its mark on the canvas of the film. There's a physical link between photographer and subject that calls for fine judgement, for skill. Too long in the chemical mix and the image is a dark ruin. Not long enough and it's a pallid might-have-been, culled before its time. Yes, film is undoubtedly more trouble, more demanding. But nobody said a quest was supposed to be easy. And that's what this is, a quest. Your own Holy Grail, except that you know for sure what you're searching for exists. You've seen it. And what you've seen once, you can see again. You feel the usual nervousness as you lift the dripping contact sheet from the tray of fixer - carefully, having splashed fluid in your eyes once before and rinse it in cold water. This is the moment of truth. The man had been primed and ready by the time you got back, the fear and waiting bringing him to a hair-trigger alertness, as it always did. Though you try not to build up your hopes too much, you feel the inevitable anticipation as you scan the glossy sheet to see what you've got. But your excitement withers as you examine each of the miniature images, dismissing them one by one. Blurred. No. No. Useless! In a sudden frenzy you rip the contact sheet in half and fling it aside. Lashing out at the developing trays, you knock them to the floor in a splash of chemicals.You raise your hand to swipe at the shelves full of bottles before you catch yourself. Fists knotted, you stand in the centre of the darkroom, chest heaving with the effort of restraint. The stink of spilt developing fluids fills the small chamber. The sudden anger fades as you stare at the mess. Listlessly, you start to pick up some of the torn scraps, then abandon the effort. It can wait. The chemical fumes are overpowering, and some liquid splashed on to your bare arm. It's stinging already, and you know from past experience that it'll burn if you don't wash it off. You're calmer as you leave the darkroom, the disappointment already shrinking. You're used to it by now, and there's no time to dwell on it. You have too much to do, too much to prepare. Thinking about that puts a spring back in your step. Failure's always frustrating, but you need to keep things in perspective. There's always next time.

  11

  Tom called me before I left the hotel next morning. 'The TBI have found human remains at Steeple Hill.' He paused. 'These haven't been buried.' Rather than take two cars he came to the hotel to pick me up. There was no debate this time over whether I would accompany him, only a tacit agreement that he wasn't going to try to manage by himself. I'd wondered what sort of mood he'd be in after the night before, "whether there'd be any regret over announcing his retirement. If there was he hid it well. 'So . . . How are you feeling?' I asked, as we set off. He hunched a shoulder in a shrug. 'Retirement won't be the end of the world. Life goes on, doesn't it?' I agreed that it did. The sun was out this time as we approached the paint-flaking gates to Steeple Hill. The thick pine woods bordering the lawns looked impenetrable, as though it were still night amongst their close packed trunks. Uniformed police officers stood outside the cemetery gate, barring entry to the press who had already assembled outside. Word that something had been found had obviously leaked. Coming on top of the exhumation, it had served as blood in the water to the news-hungry media. As Tom slowed down to show his ID, a photographer crouched to take a shot of us through the car window. 'Tell him he can have my autograph for ten dollars,' Tom grumbled, pulling inside. We drove past the grave we'd exhumed last time and up to the main building. Steeple Hill's chapel looked to have been built in the 1960s, when American optimism had extended even into the funeral industry. It was a cheap attempt at modernism, a flat-roofed, single-storey block that aspired to Frank Lloyd Wright but fell woefully short. The coloured glass bricks that made up one wall beside the entrance were grimy and cracked, and the proportions were wrong in a way I couldn't quite put my finger on. A steeple was perched on top of the flat roof, looking as incongruous as a witch's hat on a table. Mounted on its peak was a metal cross that resembled two rusty girders badly welded together. Gardner was standing outside the chapel, talking to a group of forensic agents, their white overalls grimed and filthy. He came over when he saw us. 'It's round the back,' he said without preamble. A sudden sun-shower came from nowhere as we followed him round the side of the chapel, filling the air with silvered drops. It stopped as quickly as it started, leaving tiny rainbow prisms of light glistening on the grass and shrubs. Gardner led us down a thin gravel path that grew increasingly sparse and weed-choked the further we went. By the time we reached the tall yew hedge that screened the rear from view it was little more than a track worn in the grass. But if the front of the chapel was run down, it was behind the hedge that Steeple Hill's true shabbiness was revealed. An ugly, utilitarian extension backed on to an enclosed yard that was strewn with rusting tools and empty containers. Squashed cigarette stubs littered the floor near the open back door like dirty white lozenges. An air of neglect and dilapidation hung over it, and presiding over it all were the flies, weaving round in excited circles over the refuse. 'That's the mortuary in there,' Gardner said, nodding towards the extension. 'The crime scene team haven't found anything yet, but the Environmental Protection Agency aren't too happy about York's housekeeping.' The sound of raised voices came to us as we neared the doorway. Inside I could see Jacobsen, a good head smaller than the three men she was with, but with her chin lifted defiantly. I guessed two of the men were the EPA officials Gardner had mentioned. The third was York. His voice was a near shout, trembling with emotion as he stabbed a finger in the air. '. . . outrage! This is a respectable business! I will not be subjected to all sorts of insinuations--' 'No one's insinuating anything, sir,' Jacobsen cut in, politely but firmly. 'This is part of an ongoing homicide investigation, so it's in your own interests to cooperate.' The funeral director's eyes were bulging. 'Are you deaf? I've already told you I don't know anything! Have you any idea of the damage this is doing my reputation?' It was as though he didn't see the squalor around him. He broke off mid-tirade as he noticed us passing. 'Dr Lieberman!' he shouted, hurrying out towards us. 'Sir, I'd appreciate it if you'd help clear up this misunderstanding. As one professional to another, can you explain to these people that I have nothing to do with any of this?' Tom took an involuntary step backwards as the funeral director bore down on him. Gardner moved in between them. 'Dr Lieberman's here on TBI business, Mr York. Go back inside and Agent Jacobsen will--' 'No, I will not! I am not going to stand by and see the good name of Steeple Hill dragged in the mud!' In the morning sunlight I could see that York's suit was grubby and creased, and a greasy scurf mark striped his shirt collar. He hadn't shaved, and a frosting of grey whiskers crusted his jowls. Jacobsen had come to flank him, so that between her and Gardner the funeral director had nowhere to go. Next to his seediness, she looked freshly minted. I caught a wa
ft of soap and a clean, unfussy scent from her. But there was no softness in her tone, and she held herself with a poised readiness.'You need to come back inside, sir. The gentlemen from the Environmental Protection Agency still have questions to ask.' York allowed her to steer him back towards the building, but continued to stare back at us over his shoulder. 'This is a conspiracy! A conspiracy! You think I don't know what's going on here? Do you ?' His voice echoed after us as Gardner ushered Tom away. 'Sorry about that.' Tom smiled, but he looked shaken. 'He seems pretty upset.' 'Not as upset as he's going to be.' Gardner led us towards the trees behind the chapel's mortuary.The funeral home backed on to a substantial pine wood. Crime scene tape had been strung between the trunks, and through the branches I glimpsed white-suited figures at work. 'One of the dogs found the remains in there,' Gardner said. 'They're pretty well scattered, but from a single individual so far's we can tell.' 'Definitely human?'Tom asked. 'Looks like. We weren't sure at first because they're so badly gnawed. Then we found a skull so it seems safe to assume they're a matching set. But after Tri-State we aren't taking any chances.' I didn't blame him. The Tri-State Crematory in Georgia had made worldwide headlines back in 2002, when inspectors had found a human skull in its grounds. It proved to be the tip of a grisly iceberg. For no reason that was ever satisfactorily explained, the owner had simply kept many of the bodies he should have been cremating. Over three hundred human remains had been crammed into tiny vaults or stacked on top of each other in the surrounding forest. Some were even found dumped at the owner's house. Still, bad as Tri-State had been, there was one important difference from the current situation. None of the victims there had been murdered. Gardner took us over to the edge of the woods, where a trestle table stood laden with masks and protective gear. A few yards away, the pines formed an almost solid wall. The TBI agent looked at Tom doubtfully, as though only now wondering about what he was asking of him. 'You sure you're OK to do this?' 'I've been in worse places.' Tom had already started opening a pack of disposable overalls. Gardner didn't seem convinced, but when he realized I was watching he erased the concern from his face. 'Then I'll let you get to it.' I waited until he'd gone back to the mortuary. 'He's right, Tom. It's going to be uncomfortable in there.' 'I'll be fine.' There was a stubbornness about him that told me I was wasting my time arguing. I zipped myself into the overalls and pulled on gloves and disposable overshoes. When Tom was ready we headed into the woods. A hush enveloped us, as though the world outside had been abruptly cut off. Pine needles shivered all around, an eerie sound in the graveyard setting, like the whispering of the dead. A thick mat of them lay like coir matting underfoot, pebbled with fallen cones. The clean scent of pine that seeped through my mask was a welcome relief after the squalor of the funeral home. But it was short-lived. The air was thick and still underneath the pines, untouched by any breeze. Almost immediately I felt myself begin to sweat as we stooped under the low branches and made our way towards the nearest white-clad agents. 'So what have you found?' Tom asked, trying to disguise his breathlessness as they made way for us. It was hard to pick out individuals under the billowing protective gear and masks, but I recognized the big man who answered from the mountain cabin. Lenny? No,Jerry. His face was flushed and beaded with sweat above the mask, his overalls grimy with pine needles and bark. 'Oh, Lord, this is gonna be a day,' he panted, straightening.'Got a skull and what's left of a ribcage, plus a few other bones. They're scattered pretty good, even the bigger ones. There's a fence further on back there, but it's too fallen down to stop anything getting in. On four legs or two. And these goddamn trees are a real bitch.' 'Any clothes?' 'Nope, but we got something that looks like an old sheet. Body could've been wrapped in that.' Leaving him there, we made our way towards the nearest find. The forest floor was dotted with small flags, like an unkempt putting green, each marking a separate discovery. The one closest to us had been planted by what remained of a pelvis. It lay under a tree, so that we had to bend almost double to reach it, slipping on the frictionless carpet of pine needles. I glanced at Tom, hoping this wasn't going to be too much for him, but with the mask concealing much of his face it was hard to tell. The pelvis was so badly chewed it was difficult to say whether it was male or female, but the femur lying next to it gave a better indication. Even though both ends of the big thigh bone were scored and pitted by animal teeth, it was obvious from its length that it was a man's. 'Quite a size,'Tom said, squatting down to examine it. 'How tall would you say its owner was?' 'Well over six feet. How tall was Willis Dexter?' 'Six two.' Tom smiled behind his mask, obviously thinking the same as me. It was starting to look as if we might have found the man

  I who was supposed to have been buried at Steeple Hill. 'OK, let's see what else there is.' Branches scratched at us, showering us with needles as we pushed through the trees. Tom was showing no obvious signs of discomfort, but it was heavy going. Sweat was running down my face, and I was beginning to cramp from being forced to walk in a permanent crouch. The pine scent was nauseating now, making my skin itch inside the constraining overalls. The remains of what had once been a sheet lay some distance from the pelvis. Filthy and shredded, it had been marked with a different colour flag to distinguish it from the body parts. Near it, partially camouflaged by fallen pine needles, was a ribcage. A few ants scurried busily over it, foraging for any last vestiges of flesh, but there was little left. The bones had long since been picked clean, and the sternum and several smaller ribs were missing. 'Looks like this was where the body was dumped,' Tom commented, as I took photographs. 'The scattering looks pretty typical. Animals rather than dismemberment, I'd say' Nature abhors waste, and a body lying outdoors soon becomes a food source for the local wildlife. Dogs, foxes, birds and rodents -- even bears in some parts of the US - will attend the feast, detaching and carrying away whatever they can. But because the bulkier torso is too big for all but the largest scavengers to move, it tends to be eaten in situ. That means the ribcage usually marks the location where the body originally lay. Tom peered at the end of one of the ribs. He beckoned me closer. 'See here? Saw marks.' Like most of the other bones, the rib had been badly gnawed. But parallel lines were still visible among the teeth marks, fine striations running across the bone's end. 'Hacksaw blade, by the look of it. The same as you'd get from an autopsy,' I said. Standard procedure during an autopsy was to cut the ribcage on either side of the sternum, so that it could be removed to give access to the organs underneath. Bone cutters were sometimes used, but an electric saw was often faster. That would have produced marks just like these. 'Starting to look more and more like we've found Willis Dexter, isn't it?'Tom said. He started to push himself to his feet.'Male, right height, with autopsy cuts on his ribs. And Dexter's clothes were burned in the car crash.Without any family to provide more, chances are the body would be left in the sheet it came in from the morgue. Time scale's about right, too.There's no moss or lichen on the bones, so they've been here less than a year. That seems--' He gave a sudden gasp and doubled up, clutching at his chest. I pulled off his mask and had to hide my alarm when I saw the waxy pallor of his face. 'Where are your tablets?' His mouth was stretched in a grimace.'Side pocket. . .' I tore open his overalls, berating myself. You should never have let him do this! If he collapsed in here . . . There was a button-down pocket on the thigh of his chinos. I pulled it open but couldn't find any tablets. 'They're not there.' I tried to sound calm. His eyes were screwed shut with pain. His lips had developed a blue tinge.'Shirt. . .' I patted his shirt pocket and felt a squat hard shape. Thank God! I pulled it out and unscrewed the top, shaking out one of the tiny pills. Tom's hand trembled as he slipped it under his tongue. Nothing happened for a few moments, then the tightness in his face began to relax. 'OK?' I asked. He nodded, too drained to speak. 'Just take it easy for a minute or two.' There was a rustle from nearby as Jerry, the big forensic agent, came over. 'Y'all OK?' I felt Tom's hand tighten on my arm before I could answer.'Fine. Just need to catch my breath.'

  The agent d
idn't look fooled, but left us alone. As soon as he'd gone Tom's shoulders slumped again. 'Can you walk?' I asked. He drew in an unsteady breath. 'I think so.' 'Come on, let's get you out of here.' 'I'll manage.You carry on.' 'I'm not letting you--' He gripped my arm again. There was a quiet entreaty in his eyes. 'Please, David.' I didn't like the idea of letting him make his way from the woods by himself, but it would only agitate him more if I insisted on going as well. I looked between the pine trunks to the edge of the trees, gauging how far it was. 'I'll take it nice and slow,' he said, guessing what I was thinking. 'And I promise to rest as soon as I get out.' 'You need to see a doctor.' 'I just have.' He gave a weak smile.'Don't worry. You just finish off here.' Anxiously, I watched as he picked his way through the woods, moving with the deliberation of an old man. I waited until he'd reached the tree line, vanishing through the close-pressed branches into the daylight before I went over to where Jerry was examining an object on the ground that might or might not have been a piece of bone. He glanced up as I approached.

  'He all right?'

  'Just the heat. You said earlier that you'd found a skull?' I went on quickly. He led me to where another small flag had been set at the bottom of a slope. The pale dome of a human cranium sat next to it, half buried among the pine needles. The mandible was missing, and the skull lay upside down like a dirty ivory bowl. The heaviness of its structure suggested it was a man's, and I could make out fracture lines radiating across the frontal bone of the forehead. It was the sort of injury caused by impact with something flat and hard. Like a car windscreen. I was sure now that the remains belonged to Willis Dexter, in which case we probably wouldn't learn much from them. It was almost certain that the mechanic had died in a car crash rather than been murdered. His only connection with the killings was that his casket and grave had been appropriated by the killer. If we could have established if either of his hands, or even any digits, were missing it might at least explain how his fingerprints came to be left on the film canister so long after his death. But no carpels or phalanges had been found, and given the size of the woods it was unlikely that they ever would be. The remains had been too thoroughly picked over by scavengers. Even if the smaller bones hadn't been eaten, they could be anywhere by now. 'Wasted journey, huh, doc?' Jerry said cheerfully as I photographed the latest find - a rib chewed down to half its original size. 'Not much to say, other than they're human. And we could've told you that. Anyhow, if you're done we'd like to start getting this all boxed and bagged.' It was an unsubtle hint. I was about to leave him to it when T noticed another flag. 'What's over there?' 'Just some teeth. Must've come loose when the jaw was pulled off.' There was nothing unusual about that. Scavengers generally eat the face first, and the teeth could easily have been dislodged from the missing mandible. I almost didn't bother going over. I was hot and tired, and wanted to see how Tom was. But I'd learned from hard experience not to take anything for granted. 'I'd better take a look,' I said. The flag had been placed amongst the exposed roots of a scrubby pine. It wasn't far from where the ribcage lay, but it wasn't until I was up close that I could make out the dirty nuggets of ivory. There were four molars, coated in dirt and hard to see amongst the pine needles. It was a testament to the thoroughness of the search that they'd been found at all. Yet as I looked at them it seemed that something wasn't quite right. . . The heat and discomfort were instantly forgotten as I realized what it was. 'Just teeth, like I told you. So, you done now?' Jerry asked as I began to photograph them. The hint was plainer this time. 'Have you got photos of these yourself?' He gave me a look that said I was an idiot for asking. 'Doc, we've got photographs coming out of the wazoo.' I pushed myself to my feet.'I'd take some more of these anyway. You're going to need them.' Leaving him staring after me I made my way out of the woods. Sweat was trickling down my back as I left the claustrophobic cover of the pines and gratefully pulled off my mask. Unfastening my overalls, I ducked under the crime scene tape and looked around for Tom. He was standing some way off, talking to Gardner and Jacobsen in the shade of the yew hedge. He looked OK, but my relief lasted only until I saw Hicks was with them. A moment later I heard the raised voices. '. . . no legal standing in this investigation! You know that as well as I do.' 'That's ridiculous. You're just splitting hairs, Donald,'Tom said. 'Splitting hairs V The sun glinted off the pathologist's bald head as he thrust out his chin. 'Will the judge be "splitting hairs" when he throws out a homicide case because an expert witness let an unsupervised assistant tramp all over a crime scene? One who probably won't even be in the country when this goes to court?' It wasn't hard to guess who they were talking about. They all fell silent as I approached. 'How are you feeling?' I asked Tom. First things first.