Whispers of the Dead

CHAPTER 7

THE SUN WAS high and bright, dazzling off the glass and paintwork of the other cars on the highway. Even though it wasn’t yet noon, the air above the tarmac rippled with heat and exhaust fumes. Up ahead the traffic slowed to a crawl, snarled round the flashing lights of emergency vehicles that were blocking one lane. A new Lexus was skewed across it at an angle, immaculate and sleek from the back, its front end a jagged mess. Some way from it was what had once been a motorbike. Now it was a crumpled mess of engine parts, chrome and rubber. The road surface around it was stained with what could have been oil, but probably wasn’t.

As we crept past, waved on by a stone-faced police officer, I saw onlookers crowding a bridge that spanned the highway, leaning on the railing to gawk at the entertainment below. Then it was behind us, and the traffic resumed its usual flow as though nothing had happened.

Tom seemed more his old self on the drive back from the cemetery. There was a sparkle in his eyes that I knew meant he was intrigued by this latest twist. First fingerprints from a murder scene that belonged to a dead man; now the wrong body had been found in his grave. A puzzle like that was milk and honey to him.

‘Starting to look like reports of Willis Dexter’s demise might have been a little premature, wouldn’t you say?’ he mused, fingers drumming on the steering wheel to the Dizzy Gillespie track playing on the CD. ‘Faking your own death’s a hell of an alibi if you can pull it off.’

I pulled my thoughts back from where they’d wandered. ‘So who do you think is in the casket? Another victim?’

‘I’m not going to jump to conclusions till we know the cause of death, but I’d say so. It’s just about possible that someone at the funeral home got the bodies mixed up by mistake, but under the circumstances that doesn’t seem likely. No, much as I hate to admit it, I think Irving was right about this being a serial killer.’ He glanced across at me. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

He smiled. ‘You’d make a lousy actor, David.’

Normally I’d have enjoyed brainstorming with Tom, but lately I seemed to be too busy second-guessing myself. ‘I’m probably just being suspicious. But doesn’t it seem a little convenient that the fingerprint on the film canister led straight to another victim’s body?’

He shrugged. ‘Criminals make mistakes like everybody else.’

‘So you believe that Willis Dexter might still be alive? That he’s the killer?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think I’d forgotten how much you enjoy playing devil’s advocate.’

He gave a laugh. ‘Just exploring the possibilities. For the record, I agree, it does all seem a mite convenient. But Dan Gardner’s no fool. He can be an awkward cuss, but I’m glad he’s handling the case.’

I hadn’t warmed to Gardner, but Tom didn’t bestow praise lightly. ‘What did you make of York?’ I asked.

‘Other than wanting to wash my hand after he’d shaken it, I’m not sure.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘He’s hardly a glowing advertisement for his profession, but he didn’t seem too worried about the exhumation. At least, not until he saw the condition of the casket. I don’t doubt he’ll have some awkward questions to answer, but I can’t see him being so blasé if he’d known what we were going to find.’

‘Even so, it’s hard to imagine how the wrong body could have been buried without someone at the funeral home knowing about it.’

Tom nodded. ‘Almost impossible. But I’m still reserving judgement on York for the time being.’ He paused to indicate before changing lanes, overtaking a slow-moving mobile home. ‘Nice work back there, by the way. I hadn’t noticed the nasal cavity.’

‘You would have if you hadn’t been so mad at Hicks.’

‘Being mad at Hicks is an occupational hazard. I should be used to it by now.’ His smile faded as he saw my face. ‘OK, out with it. What’s bothering you?’

I hadn’t planned on bringing it up, but there was no point ducking the issue any longer. ‘I don’t think my coming here was such a good idea. I appreciate what you’re doing, but… Well, let’s face it, it isn’t working out. I think I should go back.’

Until that moment I hadn’t even been aware I’d made the decision. Now it seemed as though all my doubts had crystallized, forcing me to accept what I’d been avoiding so far. Yet part of me felt shocked at the admission, knowing there was something irrevocable about it. If I left now I wouldn’t be simply cutting my trip short.

I’d be giving up.

Tom was silent for a while. ‘This isn’t only about what happened at the cabin, is it?’

‘That’s part of it, but no.’ I shrugged, struggling to put it into words. ‘I just feel this was a mistake. I don’t know, perhaps it was too soon.’

‘Your wound’s healed, hasn’t it?’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘I know.’ He sighed. ‘Can I be frank?’

I nodded; I didn’t trust myself to speak.

‘You tried running away once before and it didn’t work. What makes you think it’ll be any better this time?’

I felt my cheeks burn. Running away? Was that how he saw it? ‘If you mean when Kara and Alice died, then yes, I suppose I did run away,’ I said, my voice harsh. ‘But this is different. It’s like something’s missing, and I don’t know what.’

‘So it’s a crisis of confidence.’

‘If you like, yes.’

‘Then I’ll ask you again: exactly how is running away going to help?’

This time it was my turn to fall silent.

Tom didn’t take his gaze from the road. ‘I’m not going to insult you by giving you a pep talk, David. If it’s what you really feel you should do, then leave by all means. I think you’d regret it, but it’s your choice. But will you do something for me first?’

‘Of course.’

Tom adjusted his glasses. ‘I haven’t told anyone this except Mary and Paul. But I’ll be retiring at the end of the summer.’

I looked at him in surprise. I’d thought he was staying on till the end of the year. ‘Is this because of your health?’

‘Let’s just say I’ve promised Mary. The point is you were one of my best students, and this is the last chance we’re going to have to work together. I’d consider it a great favour if you gave it another week.’

I sat there for a moment, admiring how neatly he’d trapped me. ‘I walked into that, didn’t I?’

He smiled. ‘Yes, you did. But you can hardly break your word to an old man, can you?’

I had to laugh. Oddly enough, I felt lighter than I had done in ages. ‘OK, then. A week.’

Tom gave a satisfied nod. He tapped his fingers in time to the trumpet coming from the car speakers.

‘So what do you think of Dan’s new helper?’

I looked through the window. ‘Jacobsen? She seems keen enough.’

‘Mm.’ The fingers continued to beat out a gentle tattoo on the steering wheel. ‘Attractive, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Tom said nothing. I felt my face start to burn. ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ he said, grinning.

Tom had called ahead to warn the morgue that the exhumed remains were on their way. They’d have to be examined in a separate autopsy suite in order to avoid cross-contamination with the body from the cabin. Just the possibility of that could cause an evidentiary nightmare when the killer was caught.

Assuming he was.

Kyle was talking to two other assistants in the corridor when we arrived. He broke off to take us to the suite he’d prepared, glancing behind us as though expecting—or hoping—to see someone else. He looked crestfallen when he realized there was no one there.

‘Is Summer coming in today?’

The attempt at nonchalance wasn’t successful. ‘Oh, I dare say she’ll be stopping by later,’ Tom told him.

‘Right. I just wondered.’

Tom kept a straight face until Kyle had left the autopsy suite. ‘Must be spring,’ he said with a smile. ‘Gets the sap rising in everyone.’

The casket from Steeple Hill was brought in just as we’d finished changing into scrubs and rubber aprons. It had been transported in a box-like aluminium container; one coffin nestling inside another like Russian dolls. Before anything else the body had to be X-rayed, so Kyle wheeled the whole thing into the radiography room on a trolley.

‘Need a hand with this?’ he asked.

‘No, thanks, we’ll manage.’

‘Tom…’ I said. The remains would have to be lifted from the casket to be X-rayed. Decomposition had reduced the body mass, but I didn’t want him exerting himself.

He gave an exasperated sigh, knowing what I was thinking. ‘We can wait till Summer gets here. I’ve already gotten Kyle in trouble once.’

‘Oh, it’s all right. Martin and Jason can cover for me.’ Kyle had perked up at the mention of Summer. He gave a shy grin. ‘Besides, Dr Hicks isn’t here right now.’

Tom reluctantly conceded. ‘Well, OK, then. You can help David lift the body out once we’ve taken photographs.’ Just then his phone rang. He looked at its display. ‘It’s Dan. I better take it.’

While Tom went into the corridor to speak to Gardner, Kyle and I unsnapped the big clips that held the aluminium lid in place.

‘So you’re British, huh?’ he asked. ‘From London?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Wow. So what’s Europe like?’

I took a moment to wonder how to answer that as I wrestled with a difficult clip. ‘Well, it’s pretty varied, really.’

‘Yeah? I’d like to go someday. See the Eiffel Tower, places like that. I’ve travelled around the States, but I’ve always wanted to go somewhere foreign.’

‘You should try it.’

‘Not on my pay.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘So… is Summer going to be a forensic anthro like Dr Lieberman?’

‘I imagine that’s the plan.’

He kept his attention on unfastening the clips, trying to seem unconcerned. ‘Does that mean she’ll be staying in Tennessee?’

‘Why don’t you ask her?’

The look he gave me was terrified. He quickly dropped his gaze. ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t. I just, you know. Wondered.’

I managed not to smile. ‘I expect she’ll be here for a while yet, anyway.’

‘Right.’

He nodded, furiously, burying his head in his work. His shyness was painful to see. I’d no idea if Summer would welcome his attention, but I hoped he found the courage to find out.

We were about to lift off the aluminium lid from the container when Tom returned. His expression was sour.

‘Don’t bother. Dan doesn’t want us to touch the body for the time being. Apparently Alex Irving wants to look at it in situ.’

‘What for?’ I could understand why the profiler had wanted to view the first victim’s body in the cabin, but this one was laid out in a coffin. I couldn’t see what he hoped to learn from it that he couldn’t get from photographs.

‘Who knows?’ Frustrated, Tom blew out a breath. ‘Hicks and Irving in one morning. Lord, this is shaping up to be one hell of a day. And you didn’t hear me say that, Kyle.’

The morgue assistant smiled. ‘No, sir. Anything else I can do?’

‘Not right now. I’ll give you a call when Irving gets here. I’m assured he won’t be long.’

But we should have known that Irving wasn’t the type to worry over keeping anyone waiting. Half an hour, then an hour, went by, and still he hadn’t graced us with his presence. Tom and I occupied ourselves in rinsing and drying the remains from the cabin that had been left in detergent overnight. It was nearly two hours before the profiler sauntered into the autopsy suite without knocking. He was wearing an expensive suede jacket over a plain black shirt, his beard little more than a dark shading on the well-fleshed cheeks and softening jaw line.

A girl was with him, pretty and no older than nineteen or twenty. She hung close behind him, as though for protection.

He bestowed an insincere smile upon us. ‘Dr Lieberman, Dr…’ He made do with a vague nod in my direction. ‘I expect Dan Gardner told you I was coming.’

Tom didn’t return the smile. ‘Yes, he did. He also said you’d be here soon.’

Irving raised his hands in mock surrender, giving what I imagine he thought was a disarming grin. ‘Mea culpa. I was about to prerecord a TV interview when Gardner phoned, and it ran late. You know how these things are.’

Tom’s face said he knew very well. He looked pointedly at the girl. ‘And this is…?’

Irving put a proprietorial hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘This is, ah, Stacie. One of my students. She’s writing a dissertation on my work.’

‘That must be fascinating,’ Tom said. ‘But I’m afraid she’ll have to wait outside.’

The profiler waved a hand, airily dismissing the notion. ‘That’s OK. I’ve warned her what to expect.’

‘Even so, I’ll have to insist.’

The smile became set as Irving locked gazes with Tom. ‘I told her she could come with me.’

‘Then you shouldn’t have. This is a morgue, not a lecture theatre. I’m sorry,’ Tom added more gently to the girl.

Irving stared at him for a moment, then gave the girl a regretful smile. ‘Looks like I’ve been overruled, Stacie. You’ll have to wait back at the car.’

She hurried out, head bowed with embarrassment. I felt sorry for her, but Irving should have known better than to bring her without first asking Tom. The profiler’s smile vanished as soon as the door had closed behind her.

‘She’s one of my best students. If I’d thought she might embarrass me I wouldn’t have brought her along.’

‘I’m sure you wouldn’t, but that wasn’t your decision to make.’ Tom’s tone ended the discussion. ‘David, would you mind bringing Kyle to the radiology suite, please? I’ll show Dr Irving where the changing room is.’

‘That won’t be necessary. I’ve no intention of touching anything.’ The profiler’s manner had ice on it now.

‘Maybe not, but we’re pernickety about things like that. Besides, I’d hate you to get your jacket stained.’

Irving glanced down at his expensive suede jacket. ‘Oh. Well, perhaps you’re right.’

Tom gave me a quick smile as I went out. By the time I’d found Kyle he and Irving were already in the radiography room, standing in silence on opposite sides of the aluminium box containing the casket.

Irving had put on a lab coat over his clothes. He wore a pained expression, massaging either side of his nose with a gloved thumb and forefinger as Kyle and I began to lift the container’s lid.

‘I hope this won’t take long. I have rhinitis and the air conditioning makes my sinuses—God!’

He hastily stepped back, cupping his hand over his nose as the lid came off and released the stench from inside. But to his credit he recovered quickly, lowering his hand and moving forward again as we opened the actual casket.

‘Is, ah, is this normal?’

‘The condition of the body, you mean?’ Tom shrugged. ‘Depends what you mean by normal. The decomp is in keeping with an interred corpse. Just not one that’s only been buried six months.’

‘I presume you have an explanation?’

‘Not yet.’

Irving contrived to look surprised. ‘So we’ve got two bodies, both mysteriously more decomposed than they should be. A pattern of sorts there, I think. And I understand this isn’t the grave’s rightful owner?’

‘That’s how it looks. This is a black male. Willis Dexter was white.’

‘Someone at the funeral home taking colour blindness to new heights, perhaps,’ Irving murmured. He motioned at the filthy cotton sheet that covered everything except the corpse’s head. ‘Can you…?’

‘Just a moment. David, would you mind getting a few shots?’

Using Tom’s camera, I took photographs of the body, then Tom nodded for Kyle to remove the sheet. The morgue assistant carefully took hold of the makeshift shroud. The fluids released by decomposition had made it adhere to the body, so that it came free only reluctantly. When he saw what was underneath he stopped, looking uncertainly at Tom.

The corpse was naked.

‘Oh, definitely a pattern here,’ Irving said, sounding amused.

Tom nodded to Kyle. ‘Carry on.’

The assistant pulled aside the rest of the sheet. Irving stroked his beard as he considered the body. It seemed a deliberate affectation to me, but perhaps I was biased.

‘Well, leaving aside the, ah, unclothed aspect for the moment, a few things are immediately obvious,’ he asserted. ‘The body’s been carefully arranged. Hands folded on the chest in the conventional manner, legs straightened as though this was an ordinary burial. Which it patently wasn’t. But the body has been treated with evident respect, which is a clear departure from the first victim. Still, all goes to make life more interesting, doesn’t it?’

Not theirs. I could see that Irving’s attitude irked Tom as well. ‘The body we found in the cabin wasn’t the first victim,’ he said. I’m sorry.

‘Assuming that this individual was murdered, which we can’t say for sure until we know the cause of death, then he’s been dead a lot longer than the man we found yesterday,’ Tom said. ‘Whoever this was, he died first.’

‘I stand corrected,’ Irving said, his smile glassy. ‘But that only supports my theory. There’s a definite progression. And if this Dexter character faked his own death six months ago, as looks likely, then that’s hugely symbolic. I thought at first that the killer might be in denial about his sexuality, sublimating his suppressed sexual urges into violence. But this puts a different slant on things. The first victim was covered in a shroud and buried—hidden away in shame, almost. Now, six months later, the body in the cabin is left on display for the world to see. It’s shouting, “Look at me! Look what I’ve done!” Having “buried” his old self the killer’s now coming out of the closet, if you like. And given such a huge shift in the way he treated these two victims, I wouldn’t be surprised if there are some interim ones we don’t know about.’

He sounded quite excited at the prospect.

‘So you still think these are gay killings,’ Tom said.

‘Almost certainly. This all but confirms it.’

‘You seem very confident.’ I hadn’t meant to get involved, but Irving’s manner set my teeth on edge.

‘We’ve got two naked corpses, both male. That does seem to point that way, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Bodies are sometimes transported nude from the morgue. If there was no family to provide clothes then that’s how they’d be buried.’

‘So this second naked male body is just coincidence? Interesting theory.’ He favoured me with a patronizing smile. ‘Perhaps you’d also like to explain why the fingerprint Dexter left on the film canister was smeared with baby oil?’

The surprise I felt was mirrored on Tom’s face. Irving feigned dismay.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, hadn’t Gardner mentioned that? No reason why he should, I suppose. But unless the killer has a penchant for moisturizing, there’s only one reason I can think of why he was using baby oil at the cabin.’

He let that hang, making sure the barb was sunk before going on.

‘In any event, a sexual motivation would also explain the different racial profiles of the victims—the crucial common denominator isn’t their skin colour, it’s the fact that they’re men. No, we’re definitely dealing with a sexual predator here, and given the conspicuous absence of this Willis Dexter from his own grave, I’d say he’s a pretty likely candidate.’

‘From what Dan said, I don’t think Dexter had a criminal record or any history of violence,’ Tom said.

Irving allowed himself a smug smile. ‘The really clever predators never do. They keep themselves concealed, often as respectable members of society, until they either slip up or deliberately reveal themselves. Pathological narcissism isn’t an uncommon trait amongst serial killers. They tire of hiding their light under a bushel and decide to flex their muscles in public, as it were. Fortunately, most of them eventually trip themselves up with their own vanity. Like this.’

Irving gestured theatrically at the corpse in the casket. By now he’d adopted an almost lecturing tone, as though Tom and I were a pair of not especially bright undergraduates.

‘Given the logistics involved, Dexter couldn’t have done this without at the very least the help of someone at the funeral home,’ he went on confidently. ‘Either Dexter worked there himself—which given his background as a mechanic or whatever is unlikely—or he has an accomplice. A lover, maybe. It’s possible they might even be working as a team; one dominant and one submissive. Now that really would be interesting.’

‘Fascinating,’ Tom murmured.

Irving gave him a sharp look, as though only now suspecting that his pearls were being wasted on swine. But we were deprived of whatever other insights he might have shared with us by Summer’s entrance.

She came into the radiography room but stopped when she saw us standing around the casket. ‘Oh! Sorry, shall I wait outside?’

‘No need to on my account,’ Irving said, favouring her with a broad smile. ‘Although I’ll defer to Dr Lieberman, of course. He has rather strong views on sheltering students from the facts of life.’

Tom ignored the jibe. ‘Summer’s one of my graduate students. She’s helping us out.’

‘Of course.’ Irving’s smile broadened as he eyed the studs and rings decorating Summer’s face. ‘You know, I’ve always been fascinated by body art. I once considered a tattoo myself, but such things are frowned upon in my line of work. But I love the paganistic aspect of piercings, that whole concept of the modern primitive. So refreshing to find that sort of individualism in this day and age.’

Summer’s face bloomed red, but with pleasure rather than embarrassment. ‘Thank you.’

‘No need to thank me.’ Irving’s charm was on full wattage. ‘I have one or two textbooks on primitive body art you might find interesting. Perhaps—’

‘If that’s all, Professor Irving, we need to make a start here,’ Tom interrupted.

Annoyance flickered behind Irving’s smile for a moment. ‘Of course. Nice meeting you, Miss…’

‘Summer.’

Irving showed his teeth again. ‘My favourite season.’

Peeling off his gloves, he glanced round for somewhere to put them. Failing to find anywhere suitable, he held them out for Kyle to take. The young morgue assistant looked startled, but meekly accepted them.

With a last smile at Summer, Irving went out. There was a hush after the door closed behind him. Summer’s face was dimpled in a smile, cheeks blushed crimson beneath the bleached blond hair. Kyle looked crestfallen, the profiler’s gloves still dangling from his hand.

Tom cleared his throat. ‘So where were we…?’

While I took more photographs of the uncovered remains, he went out to call Gardner. A forensic team would need to examine the casket, but usually that wouldn’t happen till after we’d removed the body. The fact that it was naked probably wouldn’t alter anything, but I didn’t blame Tom for checking with the TBI agent first.

Kyle lingered in the radiography suite, even though there was no real reason for him to be there any more. But seeing the way he looked at Summer I hadn’t the heart to tell him he wasn’t needed. His expression put me in mind of a kicked puppy.

Tom wasn’t long. He came back, his manner brisk. ‘Dan says to go ahead. Let’s get the body out.’

I started towards the container, but Tom stopped me. ‘Kyle, would you mind helping Summer?’

‘Me?’ The assistant’s face turned crimson. He shot a quick glance towards her. ‘Oh, uh, sure. No problem.’

Tom gave me a wink as Kyle went to join Summer by the aluminium container.

‘Shouldn’t you have a bow and arrow?’ I murmured, as they prepared to lift the body.

‘Sometimes you have to help these things along.’ His smile faded. ‘Dan’s keen to get things moving. Normally I’d leave these remains till I’d finished working on the ones from the cabin, but as things stand—’

There was a sudden exclamation. We looked over to see Kyle straightening beside the casket, staring at one of his gloved hands.

‘What’s wrong?’ Tom asked, going over.

‘Something pricked me. When I touched the body.’

‘Has it broken the skin?’

‘I’m not sure…’

‘Here, let me see,’ I said.

The gloves were heavy-duty rubber gauntlets that reached almost to the elbow. Kyle’s was slimed with fluids from the decomposing body, but the jagged hole on its palm was clearly visible.

‘It’s fine, really,’ Kyle said.

I took no notice as I pulled off his thick glove. Kyle’s hand was wrinkled and pale from being in the rubber. In the centre of his palm was a dark smear of blood.

‘Let’s get it under the tap. Is there a first aid kit?’ I asked.

‘There should be one in the autopsy suite. Summer, can you go and get it?’ Tom said.

Kyle allowed me to lead him to the sink. I put his hand under the fast-flowing cold water, washing off the blood. The wound was tiny, little more than a pinprick. But that made it no less dangerous.

‘Is it OK?’ he asked, as Summer returned with the first aid kit.

‘If you’ve had all your shots I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ I said, putting as much confidence into it as I could. ‘You have had all your shots?’

He nodded, watching anxiously as I cleaned the wound with antiseptic. Tom had gone over to the casket.

‘Whereabouts did you touch the body?’

‘It was, uh, the shoulder. The right one.’

Tom leaned closer to look, but didn’t touch the corpse himself. ‘There’s something there. Summer, can you hand me the forceps?’

He reached down and took hold of whatever was embedded in the putrefying flesh. With a little gentle tugging it came free.

‘What is it?’ Kyle asked.

Tom’s expression was studiedly neutral. ‘Looks like a hypodermic needle.’

‘A needle?’ Summer exclaimed. ‘Omigod, he stabbed himself on a needle from that?’

Tom shot her an angry look. But the same thing was going through all our minds. As a morgue worker Kyle would have been immunized against some of the diseases that could be carried by cadavers, but there were others for which there was no protection. Normally, provided care was taken, there was little risk.

Unless you had an open wound.

‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, but we better get you to the Emergency Room all the same,’ Tom said, outwardly calm. ‘Why don’t you get changed and I’ll see you outside?’

Kyle’s face had gone white. ‘No, I—I’m OK, really.’

‘I’m sure you are, but let’s get you checked out just to make sure.’ His tone didn’t leave room for argument. Looking dazed, Kyle did as he’d been told. Tom waited until the door had closed behind him. ‘Summer, are you absolutely certain you didn’t touch anything?’

She nodded quickly, still pale herself. ‘I didn’t have the chance. I was going to help Kyle lift the body when he… God, do you think he’ll be OK?’

Tom didn’t answer. ‘You might as well get changed too, Summer. I’ll let you know if I need you for anything else.’

She didn’t argue. He put the needle into a small glass sample jar as she went out.

‘Do you want me to go with Kyle?’ I asked.

‘No, it’s my responsibility. You carry on with the other remains for the time being. I don’t want anyone going near the casket again until I’ve X-rayed the body myself.’

He looked as grim as I’d ever seen him. It was possible that the hypodermic needle had snapped off and become embedded by accident, but it didn’t seem likely. I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing: the idea that the needle had been deliberately planted, or what that implied.

That someone expected the body to be dug up.

Your first time was a woman. More than twice your age and drunk. You’d seen her in a bar, so alcohol-addled she could barely sit still. She’d slipped and swayed on her bar stool, blowsy and overblown, face haggard and red, cigarette burning down to her tobacco-stained finger ends. When she’d thrown her head back and guffawed at the flickering TV screen above the bar, her phlegmy laugh had sounded like a siren call.

You’d wanted her right away.

You’d watched from across the room, your back to her but your eyes never leaving her reflection in the mirror. Swathed in cigarette smoke, she’d approached most of the men in the bar, draping a wattled arm around them in drunken invitation. Each time you’d tensed, jealousy burning like acid in your guts. But each time the arm had been shrugged off, the advances rebuffed. She’d return unsteadily to her stool, loudly demanding another drink to drown her disappointment. And your nervousness would increase, because you knew this was going to be the night.

It was meant to be.

You’d bided your time, waiting until she’d exhausted the barkeeper’s patience. You’d slipped out unnoticed while she’d still been screaming at him, obscenities alternating with maudlin entreaties. Outside you’d turned up your collar and hurried to a nearby doorway. It had been fall and a rain-mist had fogged the streets, cloaking the streetlights with yellow penumbras.

You couldn’t have asked for a better night.

It had taken longer for her to appear than you’d expected. You’d waited, shivering from cold and adrenaline, nerves beginning to eat away at your anticipation. But you’d held firm. You’d put this off too often already. If you didn’t do it now you were frightened you never would.

Then you’d seen her emerge from the bar, her gait unsteady as she tried to pull on a coat that was too thin for the season. She’d walked right past the doorway without noticing you. You’d hurried after her, your heart rapping a staccato counterpoint to your footsteps as you trailed her down the deserted streets.

When you saw the glow of a bar sign up ahead you knew the time had come. You’d caught up to her, fallen in step at her side. You’d planned to say something, but your tongue was thick and useless. Even then she’d made it easy for you, peering around in bleary surprise before the too-red mouth cracked open with a cigarette chuckle.

Hey, lover. Wanna buy a girl a drink?

You had a van parked a few blocks away, but you couldn’t wait. When you drew level with the black maw of an alleyway, you’d shoved her into it, trembling as you pulled out the knife.

After that, it had been all fumble and confusion, the quick penetration followed by a rush of fluid. It was over too soon, finished before it had really begun. You’d stood over her, panting, the excitement already starting to turn to something grey and flat. Was that it? Was that all there was to it?

You’d run from the alleyway, chased by disgust and disappointment. It was only later, when your head had started to clear, that you’d begun to analyse where you’d gone wrong. You’d been too eager, in too much of a hurry. These things needed to be done slowly; to be savoured. How else could you hope to learn anything? In all the rush you hadn’t even had a chance to bring the camera from beneath your coat. And as for the knife, you thought, remembering the suddenness of it all…

No, the knife was definitely wrong.

You’ve come a long way since then. You’ve refined your technique, honed your craft into an art form. You know now exactly what it is you want, and what you have to do to get it. Still, you look back on that clumsy attempt in the alleyway with something like affection. It had been your first time, and first times were always a disaster.

Practice makes perfect.