Simon Beckett - Whispers of the Dead

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 waft 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 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.