Whispers of the Dead

CHAPTER 19

I WAS LINGERING over my second coffee in the hotel restaurant next morning when Gardner called.

‘We need to talk.’

I glanced guiltily around the busy tables, conscious that he’d told me to stay in my room. I’d considered having my breakfast sent up, but in the bright daylight that didn’t seem necessary. If York could spirit me out of the hotel in broad daylight then I was in real trouble anyway.

‘I’m in the restaurant,’ I said.

I felt Gardner’s censure down the phone line. ‘Stay there. I’m on my way over,’ he told me, and hung up.

I sipped my cooling coffee, wondering if this was the last breakfast I’d be eating in Tennessee. I’d felt out of sorts all morning. I’d slept badly, waking with a heaviness I couldn’t place at first. Then Tom’s death came back to me, followed a moment later by the recollection of the skin left on my car.

It wasn’t the best start to a day I’d ever had.

Gardner couldn’t have been far away when he’d called, because he arrived within twenty minutes. Jacobsen was with him, looking as untouched and untouchable as usual. The late night seemed to have left no mark on her, but if her vitality held shades of Dorian Gray, then Gardner was the portrait in the attic. The senior agent looked worn out, the skin of his face a network of fine lines and grooves. I reminded myself that it wasn’t just the pressure of the search for York that was weighing him down; Tom had been a friend of his as well.

But he held himself as straight as ever as he strode across to my table, Jacobsen a pace behind him.

‘Can I get you a coffee?’ I asked, as they sat down.

They both declined. Gardner glanced around the other tables to make sure no one could overhear.

‘Security cameras show someone by your car at eight forty-five last night,’ he said without preamble. ‘It was too far away to pick out much detail, but the dark clothes and cap look the same as on the footage from the phone booth. Also, we checked with hospital security. It wasn’t one of their employees you saw in the car park.’

‘York.’ There was a bitter taste in my mouth that had nothing to do with the coffee.

‘We couldn’t prove it in court, but we think so. We’re still trying to identify the fingerprints we lifted from your hire car, but there’re so many it isn’t easy. And York probably wore gloves anyway.’ Gardner shrugged. ‘No luck with the sloughed skin, either. Its prints don’t match either Willis Dexter’s or Noah Harper’s. From the small size it could be off a woman or an adolescent, but other than that we can’t say.’

An adolescent. Christ. A skein of congealed milk lay on top of my coffee. I pushed it away from me. ‘What about the photographs you found at York’s house? Do you have any idea who the people in them are?’

Gardner looked down at his hands. ‘We’re checking them against the missing person database and unsolved homicides, but there’s a lot to wade through. And it’s going to be hard finding a match for them anyway.’

Remembering the contorted faces, I imagined it would. ‘Have you any idea where York might be?’

‘There’ve been a few unconfirmed sightings since we gave the press his details, but nothing definite. He’s obviously got a hideout somewhere. He doesn’t seem to have killed his victims either at his house or at Steeple Hill, so he must’ve taken them someplace else. Probably somewhere he can get rid of the bodies easily, or we’d have found others besides Loomis and Harper.’

With the Smoky Mountains on his doorstep, disposing of his victims’ bodies wouldn’t be difficult. ‘According to Josh Talbot, for a swamp darner nymph to get caught up with Harper’s body, it had to have been left near a pond or a slow-moving stream.’

‘That narrows it down to almost the whole of East Tennessee.’ Gardner gestured irritably. ‘We’ve been checking out recorded sightings of swamp darners, but we need more to go on than that. Diane, why don’t you tell Dr Hunter what you’ve come up with?’

Jacobsen tried to hide it, but there was a marked tension about her. I could see a pulse in the side of her throat, beating away in time to her excitement. I tore my eyes from it as she began to speak.

‘I took another look at the photographs we found at York’s house,’ she began. ‘They seem to have been taken when the victims were very close to death, perhaps at the actual point of death itself. I’d assumed they were just trophies York had collected. But if that’s all they were, seeing how he’d strangled them you’d expect the victim’s throat to be in the frame as well. It isn’t, not in any of them. And if York just wanted to relive his kills, why not just record the whole thing on video? Why take such an extreme close-up of the victim’s face, and in black and white at that?’

‘Perhaps he’s a photography buff,’ I said.

‘Exactly!’ Jacobsen leaned forward. ‘He thought he was being clever leaving Willis Dexter’s fingerprint on the film canister, but he gave away more than he intended. Those photographs aren’t just quick snapshots he’s fired off. According to the lab they were taken in low light without a flash, using a very high speed film. To get a print of that quality under those conditions takes serious photographic know-how and equipment.’

‘Wasn’t there a thirty-five-millimetre camera at his house?’ I asked, remembering the box of old photographic gear.

‘The photographs weren’t taken on that,’ Gardner said. ‘None of the equipment there had been used for years, so it was probably his father’s. Judging from the pictures at the house York senior was an amateur photographer as well.’

I thought about the fading photographs on the sideboard. Something about them bothered me, but I couldn’t think what.

‘I still don’t see why any of this is important,’ I admitted.

‘Because the photographs aren’t just souvenirs to York. I think they might be central to what he’s doing,’ Jacobsen said. ‘Everything we know about him suggests an obsession with death. His background, the way he treats his victims’ bodies, his fixation with a forensic anthropologist like Dr Lieberman. Factor in these photographs of his victims in extremis, and it all points to one thing: York’s a necrophiliac.’

Despite myself, I was shocked. ‘I thought you said there was no sexual motivation?’

‘There isn’t. Most necrophiliacs are males with low self-esteem. They’re drawn by the idea of an unresisting partner because they’re terrified of rejection. That doesn’t apply to York. If anything, he feels society doesn’t appreciate him enough. And I doubt very much that he’s attracted to his victims, dead or alive. No, I think his condition takes the form of thanatophilia. An unnatural fascination with death itself.’

This was getting into uncomfortable territory. I felt the first spike of a headache in my temples.

‘If that’s the case, why didn’t he take the photographs when his victims were dead rather than as he killed them?’

‘Because that wouldn’t be enough. Over and above the necrophilia, York’s a pathological narcissist, remember. He’s obsessed with himself. Most people are scared of dying, but to someone like him the notion of his own extinction must seem intolerable. He’s been surrounded by death all his life. Now he’s driven by a need to understand it.’ Jacobsen sat back, her face solemn. ‘I think that’s why he kills, and why he takes photographs of his victims. His ego can’t bear the thought that one day he’s going to die himself. So he’s looking for answers. In his own way he’s trying to solve the mystery of life and death, if you like. And he’s convinced himself that if he can take that definitive picture, catch the exact moment of death on film, it’ll all become clear.’

‘That’s insane,’ I protested.

‘I don’t think sanity is a prerequisite for serial killers,’ Gardner commented.

He was right, but that wasn’t what I meant. There was still no firm consensus on exactly when life ended. Stopped hearts could be resuscitated, and even brain death wasn’t always conclusive. The idea that York thought he could capture the actual instant his victims died on film, let alone learn anything from it, disturbed me in ways I couldn’t describe.

‘Even if he managed it, what good does he think it’ll do?’ I asked. ‘A photograph isn’t going to tell him anything.’

Jacobsen gave a shrug. ‘Doesn’t matter. So long as York believes it then he’ll carry on trying. He’s on a quest, and it won’t matter how many people he kills pursuing it. They’re all just lab rats as far as he’s concerned.’

The flush sprang up from her throat as she realized her mistake.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…’

‘Forget it.’ I might not like it, but I was no worse off for knowing what the situation was. ‘From what you say, York’s obviously been doing this for some time. Years, perhaps. God knows how many people he’s killed already, without anyone knowing about it. He could have carried on like that indefinitely, so why the change? What’s made him suddenly decide to draw attention to what he’s doing?’

Jacobsen spread her hands. ‘Hard to say. But I’d guess it’s precisely because he’s been doing it for so long. You said yourself that what he’s trying to do is impossible, and perhaps on some level he’s started to realize that himself. So he’s compensating, trying to make up for his failure by boosting his ego some other way. That’s why he went after Dr Lieberman, a recognized expert in a field York probably regards as his own. In a way it’s classic displacement—he’s trying to avoid confronting his failure by reassuring himself that he is a genius after all.’

The headache had developed into a full-blown throb. I massaged my temple, wishing I’d brought some aspirin from my room.

‘Why are you telling me this? Not that I don’t appreciate it, but you haven’t exactly been quick to share information before. So why the sudden change?’

Jacobsen glanced at Gardner. He’d seemed content to let her do most of the talking so far, but now he drew himself up almost imperceptibly.

‘Under the circumstances it was felt that you’d a right to know.’ He regarded me coolly, as though still assessing me even now. ‘You’ve presented us with a problem, Dr Hunter. York was sending us a message by leaving the skin on your car. We can’t ignore that. He’s already abducted and in all likelihood murdered Alex Irving, and if not for the heart attack he’d probably have got Tom as well. I’m not about to let anyone else connected with the investigation be added to the tally.’

I looked down at my cold coffee, trying to keep my voice level. ‘You can throw me off the investigation if you’d like.’ Again. ‘But I’m not going back to the UK, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

It wasn’t bravado. At the very least I wanted to stay for Tom’s funeral. No matter what, I wasn’t leaving without saying goodbye to my friend.

Gardner’s chin jutted. ‘That’s not how it works. If we say you go, then you go. Even if it means having you escorted on to the plane.’

‘Then that’s what you’ll have to do,’ I retorted, my face growing hot.

The look he gave me said he’d like nothing better than to drag me to the airport himself. But then he let out a long breath.

‘Frankly, it might be better for everyone if you were to go home,’ he said sourly. ‘But that wasn’t what I had in mind. There could be certain… advantages if you stayed. At least then we’d know where to focus our attention.’

It took a moment for me to realize what he meant. I was too surprised to say anything.

‘You’d be kept under constant surveillance,’ Gardner went on, his manner businesslike now. ‘You wouldn’t be placed at any risk. We wouldn’t ask you to do anything you were unhappy about.’

‘And if I’m unhappy about the whole thing?’

‘Then we’ll thank you for your help and see you on to your plane.’

I felt an absurd urge to laugh. ‘So that’s my choice? I can stay, but only if I agree to be a stalking horse to draw out York?’

‘That’s your choice,’ he said with finality. ‘If you stay you’ll need round-the-clock security. We can’t justify that kind of expense when we could get you out of harm’s way just by sending you home. Not without a good reason. But it’s your decision. No one’s twisting your arm.’

The brief relief I’d felt had dried up. Gardner was wrong; it was no decision at all. If I left then York would simply transfer his attentions to another victim.

I couldn’t let that happen.

‘What do I have to do?’

It was as though a bubble of tension had been pricked. A look of satisfaction flashed across Gardner’s face, but Jacobsen was harder to read. For a second I thought I saw something like guilt cloud her eyes, but it had gone so quickly I could have been mistaken.

‘For now, nothing. Just carry on as normal,’ Gardner said. ‘If York’s watching I don’t want him to realize anything’s wrong. He’ll expect us to take some precautions, so we won’t disappoint him. We’ll have a team parked outside the morgue and your hotel that he’ll spot. But there’ll be covert surveillance that he won’t. You won’t either.’

I nodded, as though all this was perfectly ordinary. ‘What about my car?’

‘We’re done with it. Someone’s bringing it to the hotel. They’ll leave the keys at reception. We’re still working on the details, but from tomorrow we’ll have you drive out to places by yourself. You’re going to be a tourist, taking walks by the riverside or on trails where you’ll make an attractive target. We want to present York with an opportunity he can’t ignore.’

‘Won’t he guess it’s a trap if I start wandering off on my own?’

He gave me a flat look. ‘You mean like you did last night?’

It took me a second to understand. I hadn’t noticed anyone watching me when I’d left the hotel against his instructions, but I supposed I should have expected it. So much for your grand gesture.

‘York might be suspicious at first, but we can be patient,’ Gardner continued, having made his point. ‘All he has to do is come out and sniff the air, and when he does we’ll be there to take him.’

He made it sound easy. I’d been unconsciously rubbing my thumb across the scar on my palm. Realizing Jacobsen was watching me, I stopped and put my hands flat on the table.

‘We’re going to need you to work with us on this, Dr Hunter,’ Gardner said. ‘But if you’d rather you can be on a flight back home this afternoon. You can still change your mind.’

No, I can’t. Conscious of Jacobsen’s eyes on me I pushed back my chair and stood up.

‘If that’s all, I’d like to get to the morgue.’

I felt in a strange, unsettled mood all the rest of that day. There was too much to take in. Tom’s death, finding myself next on York’s list, and the prospect of being tethered out like a sacrificial goat the next day, all jostled for place in my mind. Each time I acclimatized myself to one I’d remember another, and be emotionally sandbagged all over again.

It was just as well that I didn’t have anything demanding to do at the morgue. The more exacting tasks were finished, and all that remained was to sort and reassemble what little of Willis Dexter’s skeleton had been recovered from the woods. That was purely routine, and wouldn’t take long. Scavengers had made off with most of the bones, and the few that had been found were so badly gnawed that the hardest part was identifying what some of them were.

So there was nothing to distract my thoughts from following their vicious cycle. Nor was there anyone there I could talk to. Summer hadn’t shown up that morning, although after Tom’s death I hadn’t really expected her to. There was little left for her to do anyway. But while I would have welcomed some company, I felt a coward’s relief when one of the other morgue assistants told me that it was Kyle’s day off. He’d still to learn about Noah Harper’s positive Hepatitis C result, and just then I was glad I didn’t have to face him.

Paul, too, was absent for most of the morning, tied up in the usual run of meetings. It was almost lunchtime before I saw him. He still looked tired, though not so much as the day before.

‘How’s Sam?’ I asked, when he called into the autopsy suite.

‘She’s fine. No more false alarms, anyway. She’s planning on seeing Mary this morning. Oh, and if you’re not busy tonight you’re invited for dinner.’

Under any other circumstances I would have been glad to accept. My social calendar wasn’t exactly full, and the prospect of another night alone in my hotel was depressing. But if York was watching me the last thing I wanted was to involve Paul and Sam.

‘Thanks, but tonight’s not a good time.’

‘Uh-huh.’ He picked up a badly chewed thoracic vertebra and turned it in his fingers. ‘I talked to Dan Gardner. He told me about the skin left on your car last night. And that you’d volunteered to help catch York.’

I wouldn’t have described it as volunteered, but I was glad Paul knew, all the same. I’d been wondering how much to tell him.

‘It was either that or catch the next plane home.’

I was trying to make light of it. It didn’t work. He set the vertebra back down on the examination table.

‘You sure you know what you’re getting into? You don’t have to do this.’

Yes, I do. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. But you see why dinner isn’t a good idea.’

‘This is no time to be on your own. And I know Sam would like to see you.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘Trust me, if I thought there was any chance of putting her at risk I wouldn’t be asking you. I’m not saying York isn’t dangerous, but I can’t see him being crazy enough to try anything now. Leaving the skin on your car was probably an empty threat. He had his big chance with Tom, and he blew it.’

‘I hope you’re right. But I still think we should leave it till some other time.’

He sighed. ‘Well, it’s your call.’

After he’d gone a wave of depression settled over me. I was almost tempted to phone and say I’d changed my mind. But only almost. Paul and Sam had enough going on in their lives as it was. The last thing I wanted was to take any trouble to their door.

I should have realized that Sam wasn’t going to be put off that easily.

I was in the hospital’s cafeteria, picking listlessly at a bland tuna salad and moodily contemplating the rest of the day, when she rang. She got straight to the point.

‘So what’s wrong with my cooking?’

I smiled. ‘I’m sure your cooking’s delicious.’

‘Oh, it’s the company, then?’

‘It isn’t the company either. I appreciate the invitation, really. But I can’t make tonight.’ I hated being evasive, but I wasn’t sure how much Sam knew. I needn’t have worried.

‘It’s all right, David, Paul’s told me what happened. But we’d still like to see you. It’s thoughtful of you to be concerned, but you can’t put yourself in quarantine until this creep’s been caught.’

I gazed out of the window. People were walking past outside, absorbed in their own lives and problems. I wondered if York was out there somewhere. Watching.

‘It’s only for a few days,’ I said.

‘And if it was the other way round? Would you turn us away?’

I didn’t know what to say to that.

‘We’re your friends, David,’ Sam went on. ‘This is an awful time, but you don’t have to be alone, you know.’

I had to clear my throat before I could answer. ‘Thanks. But I don’t think it’s a good idea. Not right now.’

‘Then let’s make a deal. Why don’t you let this TBI guy decide? If he agrees with you, then you get to stay in your room and watch cable. If not, you come over tonight for dinner. OK?’

I hesitated. ‘OK. I’ll call him and see what he says.’

I could almost hear her smile down the phone line. ‘I can save you the trouble. Paul checked with him already. He says he doesn’t have any objection.’

She paused, giving me time to realize I’d been set up.

‘Oh, and tell Paul to pick up some grape juice on your way over, will you? We’re all out,’ she added sweetly.

I was still grinning as I lowered the phone.

The traffic was bad heading out of Knoxville, but it eased the further from the city we went. I followed Paul, trying to keep his car in sight in the constantly streaming lanes. I switched on my radio, letting the anodyne music wash over me. But I still felt restless and on edge, glancing round every few minutes to see if I was being followed.

I’d called Gardner before we’d left. Not because I didn’t trust Sam, but I still wanted to speak to him myself.

‘Provided you take your own car and don’t go walking off anywhere by yourself, I don’t have a problem with it,’ he’d said.

‘So you don’t think I’ll be putting them at any risk?’

He sighed. I could hear the exasperation in his voice. ‘Look, Dr Hunter, we want York to think you’re behaving normally. That doesn’t mean locking yourself in your hotel room every night.’

‘But you’ll have someone following me anyway?’

‘Let us worry about that. Like I said, for now you just need to carry on as normal.’

Normal. There was precious little that was normal about the situation. Despite Gardner’s reassurance, I’d left the mortuary through a back door rather than the main entrance. Then I’d driven round the hospital campus, meeting Paul at a different exit from the one I usually took. Even so, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. As I followed him away from the hospital, I repeatedly checked in the mirror. Nothing pulled out behind me. If the TBI or anyone else was there I couldn’t see them.

Still, it was only when I’d merged with the homeward flow of evening traffic, becoming part of the metal river, that I began to accept that I wasn’t being followed.

On the outskirts of Knoxville Paul stopped at a drive-by store for Sam’s grape juice. He suggested I wait in my car, but I wasn’t about to do that. So I went in with him, buying a bottle of Napa Valley Syrah I hoped would go with whatever Sam was cooking. The air was tainted with petrol and exhaust fumes as we walked back to the cars, but it was a beautiful evening. The sun was starting to set, throwing golden arms across the skyline, while the thickly wooded slopes of the Smoky Mountains purpled into dusk.

I gave a start as Paul swore and slapped at the back of his neck.

‘Damn bugs,’ he muttered.

He and Sam lived in a new lakeside development between Knoxville and Rockford to the south. Part of it was still being built, piles of earth and timber giving way to manicured lawns and newly planted flower beds the further in we went. Their house was on a meandering side road that skirted the lake and curved round each property, giving a pleasing impression of space and privacy. The development still had a raw, unfinished look, but it had been well planned with plenty of trees, grass and water. It would be a good place to raise a family.

Paul turned into the driveway and pulled up behind Sam’s battered Toyota. I parked on the road and climbed out to join him.

‘We’re still decorating the nursery, so don’t mind the mess,’ he said as we headed up the path.

I wouldn’t. For the first time I felt glad I’d come, my spirits lighter than they’d been in days. Their house was set slightly back from the rest so that it had a larger garden. In a rare display of conservation and common sense, the builders had worked round a beautiful mature maple, turfing around it so the tree became a centrepiece. I remember thinking as we walked past that it would be ideal for a child’s swing.

It’s odd how these things stay with you.

‘Paul? Wait up a second!’

The shout came from the neighbouring house. A woman was bustling across the lawn towards us. Tanned and trim, with too-bright blond hair coiffed into an elaborate bun, at first glance I’d have put her in her late fifties. But as she drew closer I revised that upwards, first to sixties and then seventies, as though she was ageing with every step.

‘Oh, great,’ Paul muttered under his breath. He mustered a dutiful smile. ‘Hi, Candy.’

The name was too cute and too young, yet somehow suited her. She went to stand close to him, her poise that of an ageing model who doesn’t realize her decade is over.

‘I’m so glad I saw you.’ Her too-white dentures gave her words a slight sibilance. She rested a liver-spotted hand on his arm, the veined skin as brown as old moccasins. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you back so soon. How’s Sam?’

‘She’s fine, thanks. Just a false alarm.’ Paul started to introduce me. ‘Candy, this is—’

‘A false alarm?’ Her face fell with dismay. ‘Oh, Lord, not again. When I saw the ambulance, I felt sure it was for real this time!’

There was an instant when the evening seemed suspended. I could smell the freshness of the new grass and blossom, feel the first chill of night behind the spring warmth. The smooth weight of the wine bottle in my hand still held the promise of normality.

Then the moment shattered.

‘What ambulance?’ Paul looked more confused than concerned.

‘Why, the one that came earlier. About four thirty, I guess.’ The woman’s painted smile was collapsing. Her hand fluttered to her throat. ‘Surely someone told you? I thought…’

But Paul was already running towards the house. ‘Sam? Sam!’

I quickly turned to the neighbour. ‘Which hospital did she go to?’

She looked from where Paul had disappeared into the house to me, her mouth working. ‘I… I didn’t ask. The paramedic brought her out in a wheelchair, with one of those oxygen things on her face. I didn’t want to get in the way.’

I left her on the path and went after Paul. The house had the smell of fresh paint and plaster, of new carpets and furniture. I found him standing in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by gleaming new appliances.

‘She’s not here.’ He looked stunned. ‘Jesus Christ, why didn’t somebody call me?’

‘Have you checked your phone for messages?’

I waited as he did. His hand shook as he pressed the keys. He listened, then shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Try the hospital. Do you know which one she’ll have been taken to?’

‘She’s been going to UT Medical Center, but…’

‘Call them.’

He stared at his phone, blinking like a man trying to wake up. ‘I don’t have the number. Christ, I should know it!’

‘Try the operator.’

He was starting to come round now, his mind recovering from the initial shock. I stood by as he dialled the hospital, pacing during the agonizing transferrals. As he spelled out Sam’s name for the third or fourth time, I could feel the presentiment that had dogged me all day steadily growing closer, until its presence filled the room.

Paul rang off. ‘They don’t know anything.’ His voice was controlled, but the panic was close to the surface. ‘I tried the Emergency Department as well. There’s no ecord of her being admitted.’

Abruptly, he began jabbing at the keypad again. ‘Paul…’ I said.

‘There must be some mix-up,’ he mumbled, as though he hadn’t heard. ‘She must’ve been taken to another hospital…’

‘Paul.’

He stopped. His eyes met mine, and I could see the fear in them, see the knowledge he was desperately trying to deny. But neither of us had that luxury any more.

I wasn’t York’s target. I never had been.

I was just the decoy.