Whispers of the Dead

CHAPTER 2

THE HIGHWAY OUT of Knoxville streamed with slow-moving traffic. Even this early in the year it was warm enough to need the car’s air conditioning. Tom had programmed the satnav to guide us when we reached the mountains, but for the moment we hardly needed it. He hummed quietly to himself as he drove, a sign I’d come to recognize as anticipation. For all the grim realism of the facility, the individuals who’d bequeathed their bodies there had all died natural deaths. This was different.

This was the real thing.

‘So it looks like murder?’ Homicide, I corrected myself. It was a safe bet, otherwise the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation wouldn’t be involved. The TBI was a single-state version of the FBI, for whom Tom was a badge-carrying consultant. If the call had come from them rather than a local police department, then chances were that this was serious.

Tom kept his eyes on the road. ‘Seems like it. I wasn’t told much, but from the sound of things the body’s in bad shape.’

I was starting to feel unaccountably nervous. ‘Will there be any problem with me coming along?’

Tom looked surprised. ‘Why should there be? I often take someone to help out.’

‘I meant because I’m British.’ I’d had to go through the usual red tape of visas and work permits in order to come out here, but I hadn’t anticipated anything like this. I wasn’t sure how welcome I’d be on an official investigation.

He shrugged. ‘Can’t see why that should be a problem. It’s hardly national security, and I’ll vouch for you if anyone asks. Or you could keep quiet and hope they don’t notice your accent.’

Smiling, he reached to turn on the CD player. Tom used music the way other people smoked cigarettes or drank whisky, claiming it helped him to both clear his mind and focus his thoughts. His drug of choice was fifties and sixties jazz, and by now I’d heard the half-dozen albums he kept in the car often enough to recognize most of them.

He gave a little sigh, unconsciously settling back in the car seat as a track by Jimmy Smith pulsed from the speakers.

I watched the landscape of Tennessee slide past outside the car. The Smoky Mountains rose up ahead of us, shrouded in the blue-tinged mist for which they’d been named. Their forest-covered slopes stretched to the horizon, a rolling green ocean that was a stark contrast to the commercial bustle of the retail outlets around us. Garishly functional fast food outlets, bars and stores lined the highway, the sky above them gridded with power lines and telegraph wires.

London and the UK seemed a long way away. Coming here had been a way to regain my edge and resolve some of the issues preying on my mind. I knew that there were some hard decisions to make when I got back. The temporary university contract I’d held in London had ended while I’d been convalescing, and although I’d been offered a permanent tenure, I’d received another offer from the forensic anthropology department of a top Scottish university.

There had also been a tentative approach from the Forensic Search Advisory Group, a multi-disciplinary agency which helped the police locate bodies. It was all very flattering, and I should have been excited. But I couldn’t muster enthusiasm for any of it. I’d thought coming back here would change that.

So far it hadn’t.

I sighed, rubbing my thumb across the scar on my palm without realizing it. Tom glanced across. ‘You OK?’

I closed my hand on the scar. ‘Fine.’

He accepted that without comment. ‘Sandwiches are in my bag on the back seat. Might as well share them before we get there.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Hope you like bean sprouts.’

The country outside the car became more thickly wooded as we drew nearer the mountains. We drove through Pigeon Forge, a brash resort whose bars and restaurants chased along the roadside. One diner we passed was themed in a faux frontier style, right down to the plastic logs. A few miles further on we came to Gatlinburg, a tourist town whose carnival atmosphere seemed almost restrained in comparison. It had sprung up on the very edge of the mountains, and although its motels and shops clamoured for attention, they couldn’t compete with the natural grandeur that rose up ahead.

Then we left it behind and entered another world. Steep, densely forested slopes closed in around us, plunging us into shadow as the road wound through them. Part of the huge Appalachian Mountains chain, the Smokies covered eight hundred square miles and spanned the border between Tennessee and North Carolina. They’d been declared a National Park, although looking out of the car window I thought that nature was blithely unaware of such distinctions. This was a wilderness that man had even now barely scratched. Coming from a crowded island like the UK, it was impossible not to be humbled by their sheer scale.

There was less traffic now. In a few weeks it would be much busier, but this was still spring and there were hardly any other cars to be seen. After a few more miles Tom turned off on to a gravelled side road.

‘Shouldn’t be much further now.’ He checked the satnav display mounted on the dashboard, then peered up ahead. ‘Ah, here we are.’

There was a sign saying Schroeder Cabins, Nos 5–13 by a narrow track. Tom turned off on to it, the automatic transmission complaining slightly as it compensated for the gradient. Spaced well out from each other, I could make out the low-pitched roofs of cabins set back amongst the trees.

Police cars and unmarked vehicles I took to belong to the TBI lined both sides of the track ahead of us. As we approached, a uniformed police officer strode to block our way, hand resting lightly on the gun holstered on his belt.

Tom stopped and wound down the window, but the officer didn’t give him time to speak.

‘Sir, you cain’t come up here. Y’all have to back up and leave.’

The accent was pure deep south, his politeness like a weapon in itself, implacable and unyielding. Tom gave him an easy smile.

‘That’s all right. Can you tell Dan Gardner that Tom Lieberman’s here?’

The uniformed officer moved away a few paces and spoke into his radio. Whatever he heard reassured him.

‘’Kay. Park up there with the rest of the vehicles.’

Tom did as he was told. The nervousness I’d been feeling had solidified into a definite unease as we parked. I told myself that a few butterflies were understandable; I was still rusty from my convalescence, and I hadn’t banked on working on an actual murder investigation. But I knew that didn’t really account for it, even so.

‘You sure it’s all right my being here?’ I asked. ‘I don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.’

Tom didn’t seem concerned. ‘Don’t worry. Anyone asks, you’re with me.’

We climbed out of the car. After the city, the air smelled fresh and clean, rich with the outdoor scents of wildflowers and loam.

Late afternoon sunlight dappled through the branches, picking out the coiled green buds like fat emeralds. This high up, and in the shade of the trees, it was quite cool, which made the appearance of the man walking towards us even stranger. He was wearing a suit and tie, but the jacket was slung over one arm, and his pale blue shirt was stained dark with perspiration. His face was flushed and red as he shook Tom’s hand.

‘Thanks for coming. Wasn’t sure if you were still on vacation.’

‘Not any more.’ Tom and Mary had only returned from Florida the week before I’d arrived. He’d told me he’d never been so bored in his life. ‘Dan, I’d like you to meet Dr David Hunter. He’s visiting the facility. I said it’d be OK for him to come along.’

It wasn’t quite phrased as a question. The man turned to me. I’d have put him just the far side of fifty, his weathered, careworn face lined with deep creases. The greying hair was cut short, with a side parting that might have been drawn with a ruler.

He extended his hand. His grip was tight enough to be a challenge, the skin of his palm dry and calloused.

‘Dan Gardner, Assistant Special Agent in Charge. Pleased t’meet you.’

I guessed the title was the equivalent of Senior Investigating Officer in the UK. He spoke with the distinctive twang of Tennessee, but the easygoing manner was deceptive. His eyes were sharp and appraising. Reserving judgement.

‘So, what have you got?’ Tom asked, reaching in the back of the station wagon for his case.

‘Here, let me,’ I said, lifting it out for him. Scar or no, I was in better shape than Tom to carry it. For once he didn’t argue.

The TBI agent started back up the trail into the trees. ‘Body’s in a rental cabin. Manager found it this morning.’

‘Definitely homicide?’

‘Oh, yeah.’

He didn’t enlarge. Tom gave him a curious glance but didn’t press. ‘Any ID?’

‘Got a man’s wallet with credit cards and a driver’s licence, but we can’t say for sure if they’re the victim’s. Body’s too far gone for the photograph to be any use.’

‘Any idea how long it might have been here?’ I asked without thinking.

Gardner frowned, and I reminded myself I was only here to help Tom. ‘I was kind of hoping you’d be able to tell us that,’ the TBI agent answered, though to Tom rather than me. ‘The pathologist’s still here, but he can’t tell us much.’

‘Who’s the pathologist? Scott?’ Tom asked.

‘No, Hicks.’

‘Ah.’

There was a wealth of meaning in the way Tom said it, none of it complimentary. But right then I was more concerned with the way he was starting to labour a little on the uphill trail.

‘Just a second,’ I said. I set down his case and pretended to fasten my boot. Gardner looked irritated, but Tom drew in relieved breaths, making a show of wiping his glasses. He looked pointedly at the way the agent’s shirt was darkened with perspiration.

‘Hope you don’t mind my asking, Dan, but are you all right? You seem… well, a little feverish.’

Gardner looked down at his damp shirt as though he’d only just noticed. ‘Let’s just say it’s kinda hot in there. You’ll see.’

We set off again. The trail levelled out as the woods parted to reveal a small, grassy clearing, paved with a gravel path clogged with weeds. Other paths forked off from it, all of them running to cabins barely visible amongst the trees. The one we were heading for was at the furthermost edge of the clearing, well away from the others. It was small, the outside clad in weather-faded timber. Bright yellow tape declaring POLICE LINE, DO NOT CROSS in bold black capitals had been strung across the path leading to its door, and there was the usual bustle of activity around it.

This was the first crime scene I’d attended in the US. In most regards it was the same as I was used to, but the subtle differences gave it an unreal quality. A group of TBI forensic agents in white overalls were standing by the cabin, their faces flushed and sweating as they drank thirstily from bottles of water. Gardner led us to where a young woman in a smart business suit was talking with an overweight man whose bald head shone like a polished egg. He was completely hairless, without even eyebrows or eyelashes. It gave him a look that was both newborn and slightly reptilian.

He turned as we approached, thin mouth splitting in a smile when he saw Tom. But it was a humourless one.

‘Wondered when you’d show up, Lieberman.’

‘Just as soon as I got the call, Donald,’ Tom said.

‘Surprised you needed one. Y’all could smell this one all the way to Knoxville.’

He chuckled, unperturbed that no one else seemed to find the joke funny. I guessed that this was Hicks, the pathologist Gardner had mentioned. The young woman he’d been talking to was slim, with the compact athleticism of a gymnast. She held herself with an almost military bearing, a look emphasized by the navy blue jacket and skirt and short-cropped dark hair. She wore no make-up, but didn’t need it. Only her mouth let down the clinical appearance; full and curving, the lips hinted at a sensuality the rest of her seemed at pains to deny.

Her grey eyes settled on me briefly, expressionless but coldly assessing. Against the lightly tanned skin of her face, the whites seemed to shine with health.

Gardner made quick introductions. ‘Tom, this is Diane Jacobsen. She’s just joined the Field Investigations Unit. This is her first homicide, and I’ve been giving you and the facility a big boost, so don’t let me down.’

She extended her hand, apparently unmoved by Gardner’s attempt at humour. Tom’s warm smile was met with the barest one of her own. I wasn’t sure if the reserve was natural or if she was just trying too hard to be professional.

Hicks’s mouth twitched with annoyance as he watched Tom. He realized I was looking at him, and jerked his chin irritably in my direction.

‘Who’s this?’

He spoke as though I wasn’t there. ‘I’m David Hunter,’ I said, even though the question hadn’t been addressed to me. Somehow I knew there was no point in offering my hand.

‘David’s temporarily working with us out at the facility. He’s kindly agreed to help me,’ Tom said. ‘Working with’ was overstating it, but I wasn’t going to quibble over the white lie.

‘He’s British?’ Hicks exclaimed, picking up on my accent. I could feel my face burning as the young woman’s cool stare settled on me again. ‘You’re letting tourists here now, Gardner?’

I’d known my presence might raise a few hackles, just as a stranger’s would in a UK inquiry, but his attitude irked me all the same. Reminding myself I was Tom’s guest, I bit back my response. Gardner himself looked far from happy as Tom cut in.

‘Dr Hunter’s here on my invitation. He’s one of the top forensic anthropologists in the UK.’

Hicks gave an incredulous snort. ‘You mean we don’t have enough of our own?’

‘I mean I value his expertise,’ Tom said easily. ‘Now, if we’re done here, I’d like to make a start.’

Hicks shrugged with exaggerated politeness. ‘Go ahead. Believe me, you’re welcome to this one.’

He stalked off back towards the parked cars. Leaving the two TBI agents outside the cabin, Tom and I headed for a trestle table where boxes of disposable overalls, gloves, boots and masks had been set. I waited until we were out of earshot.

‘Look, Tom, perhaps this isn’t such a good idea. I’ll wait in the car.’

He smiled. ‘Don’t mind Hicks. He works out of the morgue at UT Medical Center, so we cross paths occasionally. He hates having to defer to us in situations like this. Partly professional jealousy, but mainly because the man’s an asshole.’

I knew he was trying to put me at ease, but I still felt uncomfortable. I was used to being at crime scenes, but I was acutely aware that I didn’t belong at this one.

‘I don’t know…’ I began.

‘It isn’t a problem, David. You’ll be doing me a favour. Really.’

I let it go, but my doubts remained. I knew I should be grateful to Tom, that few British forensic experts ever get the opportunity to work a crime scene in the States. But for some reason I felt more nervous than ever. I couldn’t even blame Hicks’s hostility; I’d put up with a lot worse in my time. No, this was about me. At some point in the last few months I seemed to have lost my confidence along with everything else.

Come on, get a grip. You can’t let Tom down.

Gardner came over to the trestle table as we were ripping open the plastic bags of overalls.

‘You might want to strip down to your shorts under those. Pretty hot in there.’

Tom gave a snort. ‘I haven’t undressed in public since I was at school. I don’t aim to start now.’

Gardner swatted at an insect buzzing round his face. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

I didn’t share Tom’s modesty, but I followed his example all the same. I felt enough out of place as it was, without stripping down to my boxers in front of everyone. Besides, it was only spring, and the sun was already starting to go down. How hot could it be in the cabin?

Gardner rummaged amongst the boxes until he found a jar of menthol rub. He smeared a thick dab under his nose, then offered it to Tom.

‘You’ll need this.’

Tom declined. ‘No thanks. My sense of smell isn’t what it used to be.’

Gardner silently held out the jar to me. Normally I didn’t use it either. Like Tom I was no stranger to the odour of decomposition, and after spending the past week at the facility I’d become well and truly acclimatized to it. But I still accepted the jar, wiping the scented Vaseline on my top lip. My eyes instantly watered from the pungent vapour. I took a deep breath, trying to still my jangling nerves. What the hell’s wrong with you? You’re acting like this is your first time.

The sun was warm on my back as I waited for Tom to get ready. Low and dazzling, it brushed the tops of the trees as it made its slow descent into evening. It would come up again in the morning no matter what happened here, I reminded myself.

Tom finished zipping up his overalls and gave a cheery smile. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’

Pulling on our latex gloves, we walked up the overgrown path to the cabin.