‘In plain black letters were the words Anthropological Research Facility, but it was better known by another, less formal name. Most people just called it the Body Farm …’
In America to escape London and the violence that nearly killed him, forensics expert David Hunter needs to know whether he is still up to the job of confronting death in all its strange and terrible forms.
Then a body is found in a remote cabin out in the woods. And then another …
Pushed deep into the heart of a terrifying manhunt, Hunter begins to wonder if they’re on the trail of a maniac who simply cannot be stopped?
Shocking, cunning and heart-stoppingly exciting, this is the new crime thriller from this No.1 international bestselling storyteller.
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Extract from The Restless Dead
About the Author
Also by Simon Beckett
Copyright
For my parents,
Sheila and Frank Beckett
SKIN.
The largest human organ, it is also the most overlooked. Accounting for an eighth of the entire body mass, on an average adult it covers an area of approximately two square metres. Structurally skin is a work of art, a nest of capillaries, glands and nerves that both regulates and protects. It is our sensory interface with the outside world, the barrier at which our individuality – our self – ends.
And even in death, something of that individuality remains.
When the body dies, the enzymes that life has held in check run amok. They devour cell walls, causing the liquid contents to escape. The fluid rises to the surface, gathering below the dermal layers and causing them to loosen. Skin and body, until now two integral parts of the whole, begin to separate. Blisters form. Whole swathes begin to slip, sloughing off the body like an unwanted coat on a summer’s day.
But, even dead and discarded, skin retains traces of its former self. Even now it can still have a story to tell, and secrets to keep.
Provided you know how to look.
Earl Bateman lay on his back, face turned to the sun. Overhead, birds wheeled in the blue Tennessee sky, cloudless but for the slowly dispersing vapour trail of a jet. Earl had always enjoyed the sun. Enjoyed the sting of it on his skin after a long day’s fishing, enjoyed the way its brightness lent a new look to whatever it touched. There was no shortage of sun in Tennessee, but Earl came originally from Chicago, and the cold winters there had left a permanent chill in his bones.
When he’d moved to Memphis back in the seventies, he’d found the swampy humidity far more to his liking than the windy streets of his home city. Of course, as a dentist in a small practice, with a young wife and two small children to keep, he didn’t spend as much time out in it as he might have liked. But it was there, all the same. He even liked the sweltering heat of Tennessean summers, when the breeze would feel like a hot flannel, and the evenings were spent in the airless swelter of the cramped apartment he and Kate shared with the boys.
Things had changed, since then. The dental practice had flourished, and the apartment had long since given way to bigger and better things. Two years before, he and Kate had moved into a new five-bedroomed house in a good neighbourhood, with a wide, rich green lawn where the growing brood of grandchildren could safely play, and the early morning sunshine would shatter into miniature rainbows in the fine spray from the water-sprinkler.
It had been on the lawn, sweating and cursing as he’d struggled to saw off a dead branch from the big old laburnum, that he’d had the heart attack. He’d left the saw still trapped in the tree limb and managed to take a few faltering steps towards the house before the pain had felled him.
In the ambulance, with an oxygen mask strapped over his face, he had held tightly on to Kate’s hand and tried to smile to reassure her. At the hospital there had been the usual urgent ballet of medical staff, the frantic unsheathing of needles and beeping of machines. It had been a relief when they’d eventually fallen silent. A short time later, after the necessary forms had been signed, the inevitable bureaucracy that accompanies each of us from birth, Earl had been released.
Now he was stretched out in the spring sun. He was naked, lying on a low wooden frame that was raised off the carpet of meadow grass and leaves. He’d been here for over a week, long enough for the flesh to have melted away, exposing bone and cartilage under the mummified skin. Wisps of hair still clung to the back of his skull, from which empty eye sockets gazed at the cerulean blue sky.
I finished taking measurements and stepped out of the wire mesh cage that protected the dentist’s body from birds and rodents. I wiped the sweat from my forehead. It was late afternoon and hot, despite the early season. Spring was taking its time this year, the buds swollen and heavy. In a week or two’s time the display would be spectacular, but for now the birch and maples of the Tennessee woodland still hugged their new growth to them, as though reluctant to let go.
The hillside I was on was unremarkable enough. Scenic almost, though less dramatic than the imposing ridges of the Smoky Mountains that rose up in the distance. But it was an altogether different aspect of nature that struck everyone who visited here. Human bodies, in various stages of decay, lay all around. In the undergrowth, out in the full sun and lying in the shade; the more recent still bloated with decompositional gases, the older ones desiccated to leather. Some were hidden from view, buried underground or in car boots. Others, like the one I’d been weighing, were covered by mesh or chain-link screens, laid out like exhibits in some grisly art installation. Except that the purpose of this place was far more serious. And far less public.
I put my equipment and notepad back into my bag, flexing my hand to work the stiffness from it. A thin white line ran across my palm where the flesh had been laid open to the bone, cleanly bisecting the lifeline. Appropriately enough, given how the knife that had almost ended my life the previous year had also changed it.
I lifted the bag on to my shoulder and straightened. There was only the faintest of twinges from my stomach as I took the weight. The scar underneath my ribs was fully healed, and in another few weeks I’d be able to stop taking the antibiotics I’d been on constantly for the past nine months. I’d remain prone to infection for the rest of my life, but I counted myself lucky only to have lost a section of intestine along with my spleen.
It was what else I’d lost that I was finding harder to come to terms with.
Leaving the dentist to his slow decay, I skirted a body that lay partially hidden by shrubs, this one darkened and swollen, and followed the narrow dirt trail that meandered down through the trees. A young black woman in grey surgical smock and trousers was crouching by a half-hidden cadaver that was resting in the shade of a fallen tree trunk. She was using tweezers to pick squirming larvae from it, dropping each one into a separate screw-top jar.
‘Hi, Alana,’ I said.
She looked up and gave me a smile, tweezers poised. ‘Hey, David.’
‘Is Tom around?’
‘Last I saw him he was down by the pads. And watch where you step,’ she called after me. ‘There’s a district attorney in the grass down there.’
I raised my hand in acknowledgement as I carried on down the trail. It ran parallel to a high, chain-link fence that surrounded the two acres of woodland. The chain-link was topped with razor wire and screened by a second fence, this one made from timber. A large gate was the only way in or out, on which was hung a painted sign. In plain black letters were the words Anthropological Research Facility, but it was better known by another, less formal name.
Most people just called it the Body Farm.
The week before, I’d stood in the tiled hallway of my London flat, packed bags at my feet. A sweet chorus of birdsong sounded from the pale spring dawn outside. I ran through my mental list of things I needed to check, knowing I’d done everything already. Windows locked, post put on hold, boiler switched off. I felt edgy and ill at ease. I was no stranger to travelling, but this was different.
This trip there wouldn’t be anyone waiting for me when I came back.
The taxi was late, but I had plenty of time to catch my flight. Still I found myself restlessly checking my watch. A few feet from where I stood, the black and white Victorian floor tiles caught my eye. I looked away, but not before the Harlequin pattern prompted the usual connection in my memory. The blood had long since been washed off the area next to the front door, just as it had from the wall above it. The entire hallway had been painted while I’d still been in hospital. There was no physical reminder of what had taken place here the previous year.
But all at once I felt claustrophobic. I carried my bags outside, careful not to put too much strain on my stomach. The taxi pulled up as I closed the front door. It shut behind me with a solid thunk that had a sound of finality about it. I turned away without a backward glance and walked to where the taxi was chugging out its fug of diesel fumes.
I took the cab only as far as the nearest tube station and caught the Piccadilly line to Heathrow. It was too early for the morning rush, but there were still people in the carriage, avoiding looking at each other with the instinctive indifference of the Londoner.
I’d be glad to leave, I thought, fervently. This was the second time in my life I’d felt the need to get away from London. Unlike the first, when I’d fled with my life in tatters after the death of my wife and daughter, I knew I’d be coming back. But I needed to escape for a while, to put some distance between myself and recent events. Besides which, I’d not worked in months. I hoped this trip would be a way of easing me back into things again.
And of finding out if I was still up to the job.
There was no better place to find out. Until recently, the facility in Tennessee had been unique, the only outdoor field laboratory in the world where forensic anthropologists used real human cadavers to study decomposition, recording the essential clues that might point to when and how death had occurred. A similar facility had now been set up in North Carolina, and also in Texas, once local concerns about vultures had been overcome. I’d even heard talk about one in India.
But it didn’t matter how many there might be: in most people’s minds the research facility in Tennessee was still the Body Farm. It was in Knoxville, part of the University of Tennessee’s Forensic Anthropology Center, and I’d been lucky enough to train there early in my career. But it had been years since my last visit. Too long, as Tom Lieberman, its director and my old teacher, had told me.
As I sat in the departure lounge at Heathrow, watching the slow and silent dance of aircraft through the plate glass window, I wondered what it would be like going back. During the months of painful recovery after I came out of hospital – and the even more painful aftermath – the promise of the month-long trip had been something to work towards, a badly needed fresh start.
Now I was actually on my way, for the first time I wondered if I hadn’t invested too much hope in it.
There was a two-hour stopover in Chicago before I caught my connecting flight, and the tail end of a storm was still grumbling as the plane landed in Knoxville. But it quickly cleared, and by the time I’d collected my baggage the sun was starting to break through. I breathed deeply as I left the airport terminal to collect my hire car, enjoying the unfamiliar humidity in the air. The roads steamed, giving off the peppery tang of wet tarmac. Against the slowly receding blue-black of the thunderheads, the rainfall gave the greens of the lush countryside around the highway an almost dazzling vibrancy.
I’d felt my spirits lift as I neared the city. This is going to work.
Now, barely a week later, I was no longer so sure. I followed the trail as it skirted a clearing in which stood a tall wooden tripod that resembled a bare tepee frame. A body lay on a platform beneath it, waiting to be hoisted and weighed. Leaving the trail – and remembering Alana’s warning – I crossed the clearing to where several rectangular pads of concrete were set into the soil, starkly geometric in the woodland setting. Human remains were entombed in them, part of an experiment to see how effective ground-penetrating radar was in body location.
A tall, gangly figure in chinos and a floppy bush hat knelt a few yards away, scowling as he examined a gauge on a length of pipe protruding from the ground.
‘How’s it going?’ I asked.
He didn’t look up, peering through his wire-framed glasses as he gently nudged the gauge with a finger. ‘You’d think it’d be easy to catch a smell this strong, wouldn’t you?’ he said by way of answer.
The flattened vowels betrayed his East Coast roots rather than the curling southern drawl of Tennessee. For as long as I’d known him, Tom Lieberman had been searching for his own Holy Grail, analysing the gases produced by decomposition molecule by molecule to identify the odour of decay. Anyone who’d ever had a mouse die under their floorboards could testify it existed, and it continued to exist long after human senses failed to detect it. Dogs could be trained to sniff out a cadaver years after it had been buried. Tom theorized that it should be possible to develop a sensor that would do much the same thing, making body location and recovery immeasurably easier. But, as with anything else, theory and practice were two very different things.
With a grunt that could have been either frustration or satisfaction he stood up. ‘OK, I’m done,’ he said, wincing as his knee joints cracked.
‘I’m heading over to the cafeteria for some lunch. Are you coming?’
He gave a wistful smile as he packed away his equipment. ‘Not today. Mary’s packed sandwiches. Chicken and beansprouts, or something else disgustingly healthy. And before I forget, you’re invited over for dinner this weekend. She seems to have got it into her head that you need a proper meal.’ He pulled a face. ‘You she wants to feed up; me, I just get rabbit food. Where’s the justice in that?’
I smiled. Tom’s wife was a great cook, and he knew it. ‘Tell her I’d love to come. Do you want a hand with your gear?’ I offered, as he hoisted his canvas bag on to his shoulder.
‘No, it’s OK.’
I knew he didn’t want me to exert myself. But even though we walked slowly back to the gate I could see that the effort left him breathless. When I’d first met Tom he’d already been well into his fifties, happy to give encouragement to a fledgling British forensic anthropologist. That was longer ago than I cared to remember, and the intervening years had left their mark. We expect people to remain as we remember them, but of course they never do. Still, I’d been shocked at how changed Tom was when I saw him again.
He hadn’t formally announced when he was stepping down as director of the Forensic Anthropology Center, but everyone knew it was likely to be before the end of the year. The local newspaper had run a feature on him two weeks earlier that had read more like a testimonial than an interview. He still looked like the basketball player he’d once been, but encroaching age had lent a gauntness to his already lean frame. There was a hollowness to his cheeks that, with the receding hairline, gave him an air that was both ascetic and worryingly frail.
But the twinkle in his eyes remained unchanged, as did his humour and a faith in human nature that was undimmed despite a career spent trawling through its darker side. And you’re not exactly unscathed yourself, I reflected, remembering the ugly striation of flesh under my shirt.
Tom’s station wagon was in the car park adjacent to the facility. We paused at the gate, pulling off the protective gloves and overshoes we’d been wearing before going out. With the barrier pulled shut behind us, there was nothing to suggest what lay on the other side. The trees behind the fence looked mundane and innocuous as they rustled in the warm breeze, bare branches shading green with new life.
Once we were in the car park I took my mobile from my pocket and switched it back on. Although there were no rules against it, I felt uncomfortable disturbing the peace and quiet inside the facility with phone calls. Not that I was expecting any. The people who might have contacted me knew I was out of the country, and the person I most wanted to talk to wouldn’t be calling.
I put the phone away as Tom opened the boot and slid his bag into the back. He pretended not to be breathing heavily, while I pretended not to notice.
‘Give you a lift to the cafeteria?’ he offered.
‘No thanks, I’ll walk. I need the exercise.’
‘Admirable discipline. You put me to shame.’ He broke off as his phone rang. He took it out and glanced at the display. ‘Sorry, got to take this.’
Leaving him to answer it, I headed across the car park. Although the facility was on the University of Tennessee Medical Center campus, it was completely independent of it. Tucked away on the wooded out-skirts, it inhabited a different world. The modern buildings and park-like green spaces of the busy hospital were bustling with patients, students and medical staff. A nurse was laughing with a young man in jeans on a bench; a mother was scolding a crying child, while a businessman held an animated discussion on a mobile phone. When I’d first come here I’d found the contrast between the hushed decay behind the gates and the bustling normality outside them hard to take. Now I barely noticed it.
We can grow used to almost anything, given time.
I trotted up a flight of steps and set off along the path that led to the cafeteria, noting with satisfaction that I was breathing barely harder than usual. I’d not gone far when I heard footsteps hurrying behind me.
‘David, wait up!’
I turned. A man about my own age and height was hurrying along the path. Paul Avery was one of the center’s rising stars, already widely tipped as Tom’s natural successor. A specialist in human skeletal biology, his knowledge was encyclopaedic, and the big hands and blunt fingers were as adept as any surgeon’s.
‘You going for lunch?’ he asked, falling into step beside me. His curly hair was almost blue-black, and a shadow of stubble already darkened his chin. ‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Not at all. How’s Sam?’
‘She’s good. Meeting Mary this morning to cruise around some of the baby stores. I’m expecting the credit card to take a serious hit.’
I smiled. I hadn’t known Paul until this trip, but both he and his pregnant wife Sam had gone out of their way to make me welcome. She was nearly at full term with their first child, and while Paul did his best to appear blasé about it, Sam made no attempt to hide her excitement.
‘Glad I saw you,’ he went on. ‘One of my PhD students has gotten engaged, so a few of us are going downtown tonight to celebrate. It’ll be pretty relaxed, just dinner and a few drinks. Why don’t you come along?’
I hesitated. I appreciated the offer, but the thought of going out with a group of strangers didn’t appeal.
‘Sam’ll be going, and Alana, so you’ll know some people there,’ Paul added, seeing my reluctance. ‘C’mon, it’ll be fun.’
I couldn’t think of a reason to say no. ‘Well … OK, then. Thanks.’
‘Great. I’ll pick you up at your hotel at eight.’
A car horn honked from the road nearby. We looked back to see Tom’s station wagon pulling up to the kerb. Winding down the window he beckoned us over.
‘I just got a call from the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. They’ve found a body in a mountain cabin out near Gatlinburg. Sounds interesting. If you’re not busy, Paul, I thought you might want to come out with me and take a look?’
Paul shook his head. ‘Sorry, I’m tied up all afternoon. Can’t one of your graduate students help out?’
‘They could, I suppose.’ Tom turned to me, a sparkle of excitement in his eyes. Even before he spoke I knew what he was going to say. ‘How about you, David? Care to do a little field work?’
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 beansprouts.’
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 wild flowers 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 easy-going 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.
THE CABIN DOOR was closed. Gardner paused outside. He’d left his jacket with the boxes of overalls, and had put on a pair of plastic overshoes and gloves. Now he slipped on a white surgical mask. I saw him take a deep breath before he opened the door and we went inside.
I’ve seen human bodies in most states of death. I know how bad the different stages of putrefaction smell, can even differentiate between them. I’ve encountered bodies that have been burned to the bone, that have been reduced to soap-like slime after weeks underwater. None are pleasant, but it’s an inevitable part of my work, and one I thought I was inured to.
But I’d never experienced anything like this. The stench was almost tangible. The nauseatingly sweet, bad-cheese stench of decomposing flesh seemed to have been distilled and concentrated, cutting through the menthol under my nose as though it wasn’t there. The cabin was alive with flies, swirling excitedly around us, but they were almost incidental compared to the heat.
The inside of the cabin was like a sauna.
Tom grimaced. ‘Good God …’
‘Told you to wear shorts,’ Gardner said.
The room was small and sparsely furnished. Several of the forensic team had broken off what they were doing to glance over as we’d gone in. Shuttered blinds had been pulled up to allow daylight in through the windows on either side of the door. The floor was black-painted boards covered with threadbare rugs. A pair of dusty antlers hung over a fireplace on one wall, while a stained sink, cooker and fridge stood against another. The rest of the furniture – TV, sofa and armchairs – had been roughly pushed to the sides, leaving the centre of the room clear, except for a small dining table.
The body was lying on it.
It was naked, spread-eagled on its back, arms and legs draped over the table edges. Swollen by gases, the torso resembled an overstuffed kitbag that had burst open. Maggots dripped from it to the floor, so many of them that they looked like boiling milk. An electric radiator stood next to the table, all three of its bars shimmering yellow. As I watched, a maggot dropped on to one of them and disappeared in a fat sizzle.
Completing the tableau was a hard-backed chair that had been positioned by the victim’s head. It looked innocuous enough, until you thought to wonder why it was there.
Someone had wanted a good view of what they were doing.
None of us had gone any further than the doorway. Even Tom seemed taken aback.
‘We left it like we found it,’ Gardner said. ‘Thought you’d want to record the temperature yourself.’
He went up a notch in my estimation. Temperature was an important factor in determining time since death, but not many investigating officers I’d come across would have thought of that. Still, on this occasion I almost wished he’d been less thorough. The combination of heat and stench was overpowering.
Tom nodded absently, his gaze already fixed on the body. ‘Care to do the honours, David?’
I set his case down on a clear area of floorboards and opened it up. Tom still had much of the same battered equipment he’d had since I’d known him, everything well worn and neatly ordered in its place. But while he might be a traditionalist at heart, he also recognized the benefits of new technology. He’d kept his old mercury thermometer, an elegant piece of engineering with its hand-blown glass and tooled steel, but alongside it was a new digital model. Taking it out, I switched it on and watched the numbers on its display quickly start to climb.
‘How much longer will your people be?’ Tom asked Gardner, glancing at the white-clad figures working in the room.
‘A while yet. Too hot for them to stay long in here. I’ve had an agent pass out already.’
Tom was bending over the body, careful to avoid the dried blood on the floor. He adjusted his glasses to see better. ‘Have we got a temperature yet, David?’
I checked the digital readout. I’d already started to sweat. ‘Forty-three point five degrees.’
‘So now can we turn off the goddamn fire?’ one of the forensic team asked. He was a big man, with a barrel-like stomach that strained the front of his overalls. What was visible of his face under the surgical mask was red and sweating.
I glanced at Tom for confirmation. He gave a nod.
‘Might as well open the windows too. Let’s get some air in here.’
‘Thank the sweet Lord for that,’ the big man breathed as he went to unplug the fire. As its bars dimmed, he opened the windows as far as they would go. There were sighs and mutterings of relief as fresh air swept into the cabin.
I went to where Tom was staring down at the body with a look of abstract concentration.
Gardner hadn’t been exaggerating; there was no question that this was a homicide. The victim’s limbs had been pulled down on either side of the table and fastened to the wooden legs with parcel tape. The skin was drum-tight and the colour of old leather, although that was no indication of ethnicity. Pale skin darkens after death, while dark skin will often lighten, blurring colour and ancestry. What was more significant were the gaping slits that were evident. It’s natural for the skin to split apart as the body decomposes and becomes bloated by gases. But there was nothing natural about this. Dried blood caked the table around the body and blackened the rug below it. That had to have come from an open wound, or possibly more than one, which suggested that at least some of the damage to the epidermis had been inflicted while the victim was still alive. It might also explain the numbers of blowfly larvae, as the flies would have laid their eggs in any opening they could find.
Even so, I couldn’t recall ever seeing so many maggots in a single body before. Up close, the ammoniac stink was overpowering. They had colonized the eyes, nose, mouth and genitals, obliterating whatever sex the victim had been.
I found my eyes drawn to the way they seethed in the gaping slit in the stomach, causing the skin around it to move as though it were alive. My hand involuntarily went to the scar on my own.
‘David? You OK?’ Tom asked quietly.
I tore my gaze away. ‘Fine,’ I said, and began taking the specimen jars from the bag.
I could feel his eyes on me. But he let it pass, turning instead to Gardner. ‘What do we know?’
‘Not much.’ Gardner’s voice was muffled by his mask. ‘Whoever did this was pretty methodical. No footprints in the blood, so the killer knew enough to mind where he put his feet. Cabin was rented out last Thursday to someone calling himself Terry Loomis. No description. Reservation and credit card payment were made by phone. Man’s voice, local accent, and the guy asked for the key to be left under the mat by the cabin door. Said he’d be arriving late.’
‘Convenient,’ Tom said.
‘Very. Don’t seem too worried about paperwork here so long as they get paid. The cabin rental ended this morning, so when the key wasn’t returned the manager came up to take a look and make sure nothing was missing. Place like this, you can see why he’d be worried,’ he added, glancing round the threadbare cabin.
But Tom wasn’t paying any attention. ‘The cabin was only rented from last Thursday? You sure?’
‘That’s what the manager said. Date checks out with the register and the credit card receipts.’
Tom frowned. ‘That can’t be right. That’s only five days ago.’
I’d been thinking the same thing. The decomposition was much too advanced for such a short period of time. The flesh was already displaying a cheesy consistency as it began to ferment and moulder, the leathery skin slipping off it like a wrinkled suit. The electric fire would have speeded things up to some extent, but that didn’t explain the amount of larval activity. Even in the full heat and humidity of a Tennessean summer it would normally have taken nearer seven days to reach this stage.
‘Were the doors and windows closed when he was found?’ I asked Gardner without thinking. So much for keeping quiet.
He pursed his lips in displeasure, but still answered. ‘Closed, locked and shuttered.’
I batted flies away from my face. You’d think I’d be used to them by now, but I’m not. ‘A lot of insect activity for a closed room,’ I said to Tom.
He nodded. Using tweezers, he carefully picked up a maggot from the body and held it up to the light to examine it. ‘What do you make of this?’
I leaned closer to take a look. Flies have three larval stages, called instar, in which the larvae grow progressively larger.
‘Third instar,’ I said. That meant it had to be at least six days old, and possibly more.
Tom nodded, dropping the larva into a small jar of formaldehyde. ‘And some of them have already started to pupate. That would make the time since death six or seven days.’
‘But not five,’ I said. My hand had strayed towards my stomach again. I took it away. Come on, concentrate. I made an effort to apply myself to what I was looking at. ‘I suppose he could have been killed somewhere else and brought here post mortem.’
Tom hesitated. I saw two of the white-suited figures exchange a glance, and immediately realized my mistake. I felt my face burn. Of all the stupid …
‘No need to tape the arms and legs to the table if the victim was already dead,’ the big crime scene officer said, looking at me oddly.
‘Maybe corpses in England are livelier than over here,’ Gardner said, deadpan.
There was a ripple of laughter. I felt my face sting, but there was nothing I could say to make it any better. Idiot. What’s wrong with you?
Tom fastened the lid back on to the killing jar, his face studiedly impassive. ‘Think this Loomis is the victim or the killer?’ he asked Gardner.
‘Well, it was Loomis’s driver’s licence and credit cards that were in the wallet we found. Along with over sixty dollars in cash. We ran a check: thirty-six years old, white, employed as an insurance clerk in Knoxville. Unmarried, lives alone, and hasn’t been in to work for several days.’
The cabin door opened and Jacobsen entered. Like Gardner she was wearing overshoes and gloves, but she managed to make even those look almost elegant. She wasn’t wearing a mask, and her face was pale as she went to stand by the older agent.
‘So, unless the killer booked the place in his own name and considerately left his ID behind, the likelihood is that this is either Loomis, or some other male we don’t know about,’ Tom said.
‘That’s about it,’ Gardner said. He broke off as another agent appeared in the doorway.
‘Sir, there’s someone asking to see you.’
‘I’ll be right back,’ Gardner said to Tom, and went outside.
Jacobsen remained in the cabin. Her face was still pale, but she folded her arms tightly in front of her as though restraining any weakness.
‘How d’you know it’s male?’ she asked. Her eyes flicked automatically to the seething activity around the corpse’s groin, but she quickly averted them again. ‘I can’t see anything to say either way.’
Her accent wasn’t as strong as some I’d heard, but it was pronounced enough to mark her as local. I looked at Tom, but he was engrossed with the corpse. Or at least pretending to be.
‘Well, apart from the size—’ I began.
‘Not all women are small.’
‘No, but not many are as tall as this. And even a big woman would have a more delicate bone structure, especially the cranium. That’s—’
‘I know what a cranium is.’
God, but she was spiky. ‘I was about to say that’s usually a good indication of gender,’ I finished.
Her chin came up, stubbornly, but she made no other comment. Tom straightened from where he’d been examining the gaping mouth.
‘David, take a look at this.’