The Perfect Corpse

by Giles Milton

  They turned to leave the room and the spots clicked off automatically behind them, leaving only the emergency strip lights. Ferris Clark’s body was bathed in a bluish-green glow.

  Jack removed his surgical gear and washed his hands. Then he waited for Tammy to do the same before the two of them made their way down the corridor to the entrance hall. They paused for a moment to say goodnight to Kingston.

  ‘How’s patient Miss Tammy?’ he said. ‘The equipment’s tellin’ me everything’s okay. That your take on it?’

  She gave a nod of her head and sighed. ‘Seems that tomorrow’s the day. Mid-afternoon. And maybe not till evening.’

  A low rumble of thunder could be heard coming from outside. It sounded like a lorry on the highway. It sent a vibration through the floor and walls.

  ‘You hurry yourselves home now,’ said Kingston. ‘They’ve announced a monster rolling in from Carson way. Just saw it on CNN. We’ll get rain at last.’

  ‘Rain,’ said Tammy. ‘That’s what we need.’

  She turned to face Kingston. ‘You won’t mention anything to Tom? About Jack being here.’

  Kingston put his finger to his lips. ‘Secret’s safe with me, Miss Tammy. Won’t breathe a word. Wouldn’t tell Mister Lawyer nothin’, even if it was my last day on earth.’

  Jack and Tammy stepped outside. They were stopped in their tracks for a second. The air was thicker than usual and a hot wind was driving hard from the west. It was like opening an oven door. The distant sky was split in two by a fork of lightening.

  Tammy turned to Jack. ‘Look, you know I disagree with you. You know I think you’re wrong. Let’s agree to disagree. And, well, I’d have invited you back for something to eat if only I didn’t have to get the kids to bed and there’s no food in the house and the place is a complete dump and – ’

  ‘I’d love to come another time,’ said Jack, briefly holding her arm. ‘If the invitation still stands, that is. Maybe we’ll even be able to celebrate.’

  ‘That’d be nice. Dinners are a whole lot better when you’re celebrating.’

  FIFTEEN

  The storm rolled in towards Hanford shortly after 2am. It arrived as a dirty stain in the night sky, spreading outwards like ink on blotting paper. It swallowed the moon then snatched away the stars. In the hills to the west of Reno, it spat sky-length bolts of lightening that fizzed into the trees like Old Sparky.

  Jack listened to the rain steaming down outside, a power shower gone mad. He hadn’t heard rain driving down so hard since he was in Nepal. It sluiced down the gutters then washed itself out into the parking lot.

  He slept in fits and starts, dreaming of Karin and that it had all been a misunderstanding and that she was still living at his place. But then the doorbell rang in his dream and he opened the door and his entire world slid into catastrophe. And the next moment there was a rumble of thunder that encroached into his dream, a drum roll that grew constantly louder. And then there was one tremendous crash that seemed to wrench the sky in two. Abruptly woken, he switched on the bedside light. Almost five. Daylight in an hour, if ever daylight would break through the storm clouds.

  He abandoned sleep and tried to recall his dream. But the images had already faded and so he reached for his book and skimmed the blurb on the back cover. Operation Eichmann: The True Story of how Mossad Agents Captured Adolf Eichmann. It was the very last thing Karin had given him.

  He glanced through the chapters, reading passages at random. It told the story of Hitler’s right-hand man, how he’d been living undercover in Argentina ever since escaping from Germany. He was one of several dozen SS commanders who had built new lives in South America. But unlike the others, Adolf Eichmann had severed all links with his German past. He’d given himself a new identity, new papers, new persona. He knew that Israel’s secret agents were seeking out all the senior Nazis who’d fled from the disintegrating Third Reich.

  Mossad’s biggest challenge was the question of identity. It was imperative not to seize the wrong man. Eichmann was rumored to be living under the assumed persona of Ricardo Klement, but this was only a rumor. The man leading the Mossad operation, Natan Pazy, had investigated Ricardo Klement and also researched the private life of Eichmann. He was convinced that they were one and the same man.

  The dates were crucial. According to official records, Ricardo Klement had married later in life, in the autumn of 1952. But Eichmann was known to have married on 21 March, 1935. It was a key difference, one that Pazy exploited to the full.

  The Mossad operation began at the beginning of March, 1960. The team was aware that in less than two weeks it would be Adolf Eichmann’s silver wedding anniversary. A twenty-four hour watch was therefore placed on the house in which he was believed to be living as Ricardo Klement.

  At a few minutes after six-thirty on the evening of 21 March, 1960, the man who described himself as Ricardo Klement could be seen walking down the street towards his apartment. Pazy and two fellow agents were installed in a building opposite his home. They exchanged glances. Klement-Eichmann was carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers.

  ‘When his wife opened the front door he handed them over as a wedding anniversary gift,’ wrote Pazy. ‘It confirmed that Ricardo Klement was not Ricardo Klement at all. He was Adolf Eichmann.’

  Jack set down the book on the bed. Lateral thinking. And a brilliant piece of detective work. Mossad swooped, seized Eichmann, whisked him to a safe house. He protested, of course. Said he’d never heard of this Eichmann fellow. Insisted he was Ricardo Klement.

  Mossad had to be absolutely certain they’d got the right man before flying him to Israel. There was going to be international publicity and a big show trial. And they already knew there was one further means of identifying Eichmann.

  Mossad had been informed that during the latter years of the Third Reich, there was a select inner elite of SS officers who had been singled out for their unflinching loyalty to the Führer. Among this elite was Adolf Eichmann. He, in common with the other officers, had been granted the privilege of wearing a badge of honour unlike any other. It was a small tattoo in blue ink, not much larger than a thumb-print, that depicted a human skull. It was etched into the skin under the left armpit.

  Brilliant, thought Jack. The incontrovertible piece of evidence, and tattooed onto his own skin.

  His eyes flicked back to the beginning of the sentence. ‘It was a small tattoo in blue-ink, not much larger than a thumb-print, that depicted a human skull. It was etched into the skin under the left armpit.’

  As he read it for a second time, his right eyebrow trembled slightly.

  A small tattoo under the left armpit.

  A badge of honor.

  An inner elite of SS officers.

  He lay back on his bed. Then, almost immediately, he sat upright.

  A badge of honor.

  Ferris Clark! He’d known it wasn’t a birthmark. He’d known it wasn’t dermal melanocytosis. He’d known it wasn’t Nevus flammens. It was too regular. Too neat.

  A small tattoo in blue ink.

  It wasn’t a birthmark. It wasn’t a mole. It was a goddam fucking tattoo. He recalled the shape of it, its neatness, its rounded top. And the colour. It was the tattoo of a human skull. Ferris Clark had the tattoo of a human skull etched into his armpit.

  He slowly closed the book and placed it on the table next to the bed. Then he reached for the phone and tapped in Tammy’s home number. It rang four times before she answered.

  ‘Tammy - ?’

  Silence. And then a sleepy sounding voice. ‘Hello - ? Who’s this - ?’

  ‘Tammy. It’s Jack. Are you awake?’

  A long pause.

  ‘Yeah. But - Jack – Christ - it’s not yet six.’

  ‘Tammy, listen. The body - Ferris Clark -’

  ‘What - ? Who - ?’ She was still half asleep.

  ‘Just listen. The body – ’

  ‘Yeah - Ferris Clark – ’

  ‘That’s exactly
the point. I’m not sure it is. The birthmark’s a tattoo. A symbol of the SS. Hitler’s inner circle.’

  ‘What - ? What d’you mean, inner circle?’

  ‘They were mad. Crazy. Fanatics.’

  Another pause. He could hear his words jolting Tammy awake.

  And then she was suddenly alert.

  ‘What? What - ? Jesus! But how - ? Shit. What’ve you found?’

  ‘Can you come? Right now. We need to get to ZAKRON.’

  *

  7.05am: Tammy’s car pulled up outside the Comfort Inn. Jack made his way downstairs and climbed in.

  ‘How the hell did you find out?’ She looked pale, like she hadn’t slept. It was the first time he’d seen her without make-up.

  ‘I’ll go through everything,’ he said. ‘But all you need to know right now is that the corpse isn’t Ferris Clark. I’m sure of it. In fact it quite possibly belongs to a member of the SS.’

  ‘But – shit. Shit. Jack. I just knew – ’

  ‘Yes, well - least there’s still time to do something about it.’

  She swung the car out onto the highway. Jack sighed heavily and then held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  ‘I was wrong, Tammy, and you were right. They’ve shouldn’t have rushed it. And I should have listened to you.’

  In less than five minutes they were pulling into ZAKRON. Tammy cut the engine. They got out of the car and walked around the puddles left behind by the storm. Jack glanced at the sky. It had taken a bruising and the air was like a steam bath. The storm wasn’t over yet.

  Tammy opened the main door to the building with her swipe card.

  ‘Need to tell Kingston we’re here,’ she said. ‘He might think we’re intruders.’

  It was quiet inside the building and unnaturally hot. It was hard to breath. It felt like the air conditioning had been switched off. The lights hummed.

  Jack followed Tammy as she walked across the entrance area towards Kingston’s office. His door was closed. She pushed it. There was something blocking it. She pushed a little harder. It inched opened, but just a fraction. And it was then, at that precise moment, she let out a piercing scream.

  Jack stepped forwards just in time to catch her. She collapsed into his arms, shaking violently.

  Jack looked through the gap in the door.

  Kingston was lying on the floor in a deep pool of congealed blood. There was an arc of blood that covered the walls. He was almost naked, apart from his underwear, and had a deep slash in his neck. His eyes were wide open and he was staring blankly at the ceiling. His tongue was lolling out of his mouth.

  Jack had seen death many times and in many guises, but this was certainly one of the more violent. Kingston had been killed with a single swipe of a surgical scalpel that had cut deep into his carotid artery. A professional killing. A deep thrust into his neck, a twist of the blade and an uncontrollable torrent of blood. Dead in less than two minutes.

  ‘But who - ?’ said Tammy lamely, still sobbing and gasping for air.

  Jack pulled her away from him for a second, shook her hard.

  ‘Tammy -’

  She looked up, pale, her blue eyes smudged and bloodshot.

  ‘Tammy. We need to check the lab. Come. Now. Follow me.’

  He pulled her by the arm and they ran down the corridor that led to the laboratory. Jack grasped at the door. The lights flicked on. And they both looked towards the gurney. It was empty.

  Alert, system malfunction. Alert, system malfunction. ALP was talking to the room. Alert, system malfunction.

  ‘He’s gone.’

  Tammy turned and glared at Jack with accusing eyes. ‘I told you it was wrong. Shit. Shit.’ She tore at her hair. ‘I was right all along. Should have trusted my instincts.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Jack, only half listening to what she was saying. ‘What monster have we unleashed?’

  SIXTEEN

  Tammy folded her head into her hands.

  ‘Shit - shit- shit - It can’t be for real. Jack? Tell me it’s not real.’

  Her voice was hoarse and hollow. ‘Why Kingston? Of all people, why poor, poor Kingston?’

  She leaned heavily against the side wall of the lab, trying to get it straight in her head. Smiley friendly Kingston. Kingston with the big, white teeth. Why, it’s Miss Tammy! Hello Miss Tammy! Kingston had always been Dooley Wilson playing Sam in Casablanca. Kingston with the cheery laugh that erupted from his belly. And now he was lying in eight pints of blood, viscous and sticky like strawberry jam.

  Alert, system malfunction. Alert, system malfunction. ALP was still announcing disaster to the room.

  Tammy stared blankly across the chaos of the laboratory.

  ‘Jack – I knew it’d end like this. I knew it.’

  She bit her lip. ‘Oh God – Kingston - what d’we do? We can’t just leave him.’

  She reached for a plastic beaker. ‘I need water.’ She hadn’t drunk anything since getting up.

  Jack took a step backwards, as if to physically remove himself from his surroundings. He picked his way around the gurney towards ALP, kicking away the tubes and wires. They littered the floor like discarded intestines. He twisted a couple of dials. Alert, system malfunction. Then he found the key that controlled the voice activation and pressed it with his thumb. The lab at last fell silent. Now, the only sound came from the nasal whine of the florescent strips.

  He took a closer look at the lab, surveying the wreckage of the equipment. The floor was soaking wet. Pipes and wires were strewn across the floor, lying where they’d fallen when the ice man had ripped them from his body. He must have dislodged the draining valve from the gurney for that also lay discarded.

  Swabs, a set of unopened needles, even a thermometer lay broken on the vinyl floor-tiles. Jack pushed his shoes through the stuff and uncovered the magnifying glass he’d used during the autopsy. It also lay on the floor, its convex lens shattered from within. It looked like a bubble of water was trapped inside.

  The dialysis machine was dripping fluid and the intravenous bags hung empty and deflated, like party balloons gone pop. One of the lights on the defibrillator was winking like crazy.

  ‘Kingston’s been dead four hours or more,’ he said abruptly. ‘Need to get moving.’

  ‘But what can we do?’

  ‘Call Tom. That’s the first thing. Do it. Now.’

  Tammy nodded and reached for her phone. She punched in Tom’s number. ‘What the hell do I say?’

  It rang six times before he answered.

  ‘Tom?’

  Silence.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Who is this?’ The voice was dry and filled with sleep. ‘Tammy?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s Tammy.’

  There was a fumbling sound in the background as Tom reached for his watch.

  ‘Tammy. Jesus. What the fuck’s up?’

  Tammy paused for a second, wondering how to put it into words. ‘Tom, it’s Kingston. It’s -’

  She swallowed hard but her throat choked up.

  ‘Tammy - Tammy - ?’ There was the first detectable sound of alarm in Tom’s voice. He’d realised something was wrong.

  ‘Tammy?’

  Jack took the cell phone from her hand.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘What the fuck’s going on? Who’s this?’

  ‘Jack. Jack Raven. You need to -’

  ‘Jack Raven! What the - I thought you’d gone. I thought -’

  ‘Listen. Forget that. Just get in your car and drive over here. Now. To ZAKRON. Fast as possible.’

  He paused.

  ‘Kingston’s dead.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Kingston’s dead.’ He said it again, slowly. Slow enough to ensure it would sink in.

  ‘Kingston’s dead. Killed. Murdered. And Ferris Clark is gone.’ He put emphasis on the words Ferris Clark.

  There was a long silence, a splutter, the sound of Tom pulling himself up in bed and fumbling with his alarm clock.
r />   ‘Jesus. This isn’t some sort of mind-fuck?’

  ‘Just get over here. And prepare yourself. It’s not pretty.’

  Another long pause. Jack could hear Tom’s brain cranking through what he’d just been told, trying to make it make sense. Suddenly his voice broke back through the silence.

  ‘Don’t call the police. Do NOT call the police. Wait until I’m there. I’ll be there right now. Give me twenty.’

  Jack switched off the phone and handed it back to Tammy. She looked at him, her face framed with questions.

  ‘But where’s it gone? Jack - ? The corpse? Jack - ? What if it’s still here?’

  Jack shook his head, only half aware of what she was saying.

  ‘He’s professional,’ he said. ‘Not many can kill with a slash of a scalpel. Requires medical know-how and -’ he searched for the right words - ‘mental preparation.’

  The killing of Kingston was professional. The ice man knew exactly what he was doing. Jack had worked on dozens of murder cases: what always surprised him was how the average person didn’t have a clue how to kill someone. Nor how easily it could go wrong. Three blows of a spanner instead of one. A knife-wound that misses all the major organs. He’d seen that on several occasions. And DNA writ large over the crime scene.

  ‘Murder’s a two-fold process,’ he said. ‘If you want to succeed.’

  Tammy looked at him. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Preparation. And skill.’

  He drummed his fingers on the gurney then wiped them on a paper towel.

  ‘Most murders are sudden, spontaneous, unplanned. Police see them all the time. Domestic row turns violent, an argument turns murderous. They’re the easy ones to solve.’

  He paused, still thinking it through. This one was different. The ice man knew exactly what he was doing, even after almost seven decades in a deep-freeze.

  ‘He’s been trained to kill.’

  There was a long pause. Tammy pulled at her hair. Her hands were shaking.