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.’