Simon Beckett - Whispers of the Dead

‘Is he African American?’ I asked. ‘Fifty to sixty, with a bad limp?’

It was hard not to enjoy Gardner’s surprise. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I think he’s in the autopsy suite down the corridor.’

I watched realization put even more folds into his already crumpled face. ‘I’m getting slow,’ he said, disgusted with himself.

Jacobsen was looking uncertainly from one to the other of us. ‘You mean the body that was in Willis Dexter’s grave? That’s Noah Harper?’

‘The timing fits,’ Gardner said. ‘Except if Harper’s dead, how did his fingerprints get to be on the weapon that killed Irving’s dog?’

‘Maybe the same way that Willis Dexter’s came to be at the cabin,’ Tom suggested.

There was a silence as we considered that. It had always been possible that Willis Dexter might not have faked his own death after all, that the killer had simply appropriated both his body and his fingerprints. But that couldn’t have happened in this case.

‘Were either of the hands missing from the corpse in Willis Dexter’s casket?’ Jacobsen asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘And all the fingers were there, too.’

‘It’s possible someone could’ve saved the film canister and steel bar with Dexter’s and Harper’s fingerprints already on them,’ Tom suggested.

‘The film canister, maybe. Dexter’s print was smeared with a mineral oil that’s used for most baby oils. There’s no way of knowing how long it had been there,’ Gardner said. ‘But Harper’s prints were left in the blood on the bar. It was only a few hours old.’

‘Then the body from the casket can’t be Noah Harper’s. It’s just not possible,’ Jacobsen insisted.

Nobody said anything. Logic said she was right, not if the fingerprints had been left that morning. But judging from the expressions in the office no one felt very confident.

Tom took off his glasses and began to clean them. He looked more tired and somehow vulnerable without them. ‘You might as well tell them what else you’ve found, David.’

Gardner and Jacobsen listened in silence as I described finding the pupal cases and dragonfly naiad in the casket, and the intact hyoid and pink teeth of the exhumed body.

‘So it looks as though Terry Loomis and whoever was in the casket were killed the same way,’ Gardner said when I’d finished. He turned to Tom. ‘And you think these pink teeth could have been caused by strangulation?’

‘Seems more likely than drowning,’ Tom agreed mildly, and I tried not to smile. He hadn’t mentioned Gardner’s jibe at me in the cabin, but he obviously hadn’t forgotten it. ‘There wouldn’t be much doubt at all if not for the obvious blood loss and wounds on Loomis’s body.’

Gardner rubbed the back of his neck. ‘The spatter patterns in the cabin looked authentic. But there’s no way of knowing for sure if the blood came from Loomis until we get the DNA results.’

‘That’ll take weeks,’ Tom commented.

‘Tell me about it. It’s times like this I wish we still did blood grouping. That’d at least tell us if the blood was the same type as his. But that’s progress for you.’ His expression made it clear what he thought of that. ‘I’ll get on to the lab. They’re supposed to be fast-tracking this already, but I’ll see if they can’t speed things up a little.’

He didn’t sound hopeful. While DNA provided a much more accurate method of matching and identification than the old technique of blood grouping, the testing process was also frustratingly slow. It was the same on both sides of the Atlantic; I’d heard more than one UK police officer complain that lab work took far longer than was portrayed on film or TV. The fact was that in the real world, fast-tracked or not, such things could take months.

Tom examined the lenses of his glasses, then resumed polishing them. ‘You still haven’t answered my question, Dan. Should we be worried?’

Gardner threw up his hands. ‘What do you want me to say, Tom? I can’t read this guy’s mind; I don’t know what he’s going to do next. I wish I could. But even if he is responsible for Irving’s disappearance it doesn’t mean anyone else working on the case is in danger. I’m sorry as hell about Irving, but let’s face it, the man courted publicity. Going on TV like that could have stirred up any number of psychos, not just this one.’

‘Then we should just carry on like nothing’s happened?’

‘Within reason, yes. If I thought there was any real risk, believe me, I’d slap a twenty-four-hour guard on all of you. As it is, provided you take reasonable precautions, I’m sure there’s no reason to worry.’

‘“Reasonable precautions”?’ Tom repeated impatiently. ‘What’s that mean? Don’t take candy from strangers?’

‘It means don’t go walking dogs in woods by yourself,’ Gardner retorted. ‘Don’t go down dark streets alone at night. C’mon, Tom, I don’t have to spell it out.’

No, you don’t. I thought about the scare the security guard had given me the night before. Perhaps I’d park somewhere less isolated in future.

‘All right. Reasonable precautions it is,’ Tom agreed, though he didn’t sound happy. He put his glasses back on. ‘So what do you think the chances are of finding Irving?’

‘We’re putting our full resources into it,’ Gardner said, his guardedness returning.

Tom didn’t press. We all knew exactly what Irving’s chances were. ‘Will you be bringing in another profiler?’

‘That’s under consideration,’ Gardner said carefully. ‘We haven’t discounted Irving’s profile of the killer altogether, but we’re also looking at alternative viewpoints. And Diane’s come up with an interesting theory.’

Colour bloomed on Jacobsen’s otherwise impassive features. The blush reflex is a hard one to control. For someone who seemed to cultivate such outward composure, I imagined it must be infuriating.

‘With all due respect to Professor Irving, I don’t think the killings are sexual in nature, or that the killer is necessarily homosexual,’ she said. ‘I think Professor Irving might have become distracted by the fact that both victims were male and naked.’

She’d voiced the same views when the profiler had gone to see Terry Loomis’s body in the cabin, and been put in her place for daring to disagree. For Irving’s sake, I found myself hoping she was right.

‘So how would you explain it?’ Tom asked.

‘I wouldn’t, not yet. But the killer’s actions suggest that he’s not following a sexual agenda.’ She was talking to Tom as an equal now, any reticence forgotten. ‘We’ve got two crime scenes, and two sets of fingerprints from individuals who are very probably victims themselves. And then there’re the hypodermic needles embedded in the body in Willis Dexter’s grave, waiting for us to exhume it. The killer’s showing off, running us round in circles to show who’s in charge. It isn’t enough for him to kill, he wants recognition. I’d agree with Professor Irving that the killings show evidence of pathological narcissism, but I’d say it goes further than that. This is more psychiatric territory than mine, but I think the killer bears all the hallmarks of a malignant narcissist.’

Tom looked blank. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, but I haven’t a clue what that means.’

Jacobsen was too involved by now to be embarrassed. ‘All narcissists are self-obsessed, but malignant narcissists are at the top of the scale. They have a pathological self-belief—a sense of grandiosity, even—which demands attention and admiration. They’re convinced they’re special in some way and want other people to acknowledge it as well. Crucially, they’re also sadists who lack any conscience. They don’t necessarily get fulfilment from inflicting pain, but they enjoy the sense of power it gives them. And they’re indifferent to any suffering they might cause.’