A lone figure sat reading a newspaper at a picnic bench made from rough-cut pine. The only sound came from the rustle of the pages, and the hollow rattle of a woodpecker in the trees nearby.
The newspaper reader glanced up, idly, as a piercing whistle came from the trail off to the left, where it curved out of sight. A moment later a man appeared. He wore an irritated expression, and was looking into the undergrowth at either side as he walked. He had a dog lead in one hand, the empty chain swinging in rhythm with his brisk steps.
‘Jackson! Here, boy! Jackson!’
His calls were interspersed with more whistles. After a single incurious glance, the reader went back to the news headlines. The dog walker paused as he drew level, then came across.
‘Haven’t seen a dog, have you? A black Labrador?’
The reader glanced up, surprised to have been addressed. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
The dog walker gave a snort of annoyance. ‘Damn dog. Probably off chasing squirrels.’
The reader gave a polite smile before going back to the newspaper. The man with the dog chain chewed his lip as he stared up the trail.
‘I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye open for him,’ he said. ‘You see him, don’t let him get away. He’s friendly, he won’t bite.’
‘Sure.’ It was said without enthusiasm. But as the dog walker looked forlornly around the reader reluctantly lowered the newspaper again.
‘There was something making a noise in the bushes a while ago. I didn’t see what was making it, but it could have been a dog.’
The dog walker was craning his head to see. ‘Where?’
‘Over there.’ The reader gestured vaguely towards the undergrowth. The dog owner peered in that direction, chain swinging loosely in his hand.
‘By the trail? I can’t see anything.’
With a sigh of resignation, the reader closed the newspaper. ‘I suppose it’s easier to show you.’
‘I appreciate this,’ the dog walker said with a smile, as they entered the trees. ‘I haven’t had him long. Thought I’d gotten him trained, but every now and again he’ll just take off.’
He paused to whistle and call the dog’s name again. The reader gave the heavy dog chain an uneasy glance, then looked back towards the trail. No one was in sight.
Suddenly the dog walker gave a cry and ran forward. He dropped to his knees by a clump of bushes. The body of a black Labrador lay behind them. Blood matted the dark fur on its crushed skull. The dog walker’s hands hovered over it, as though scared to touch it.
‘Jackson? Oh, my God, look at his head, what happened?’
‘I broke his skull,’ the newspaper reader said, stepping up behind him.
The dog walker started to rise, but something clamped round his neck. The pressure was unrelenting, choking off his cry before he could make it. He tried to struggle to his feet, but he was off balance and his arms and legs had no strength. Belatedly, he remembered the dog chain. His brain tried to send the necessary commands to his muscles, but the world had already started to turn black. His hand spasmed once or twice, then the chain dropped from his limp fingers.
High above in the branches, the woodpecker cocked its head to assess the scene below. Satisfied there was no threat, it resumed its hunt for grubs.
Its rat-a-tat echoed through the woodland morning.
I woke feeling better than I had in months. For once my sleep had been undisturbed, and the bed looked as though I’d barely moved all night. I stretched, then ran through my morning exercises. Normally it was a real effort, but for once it didn’t seem so bad.
After I’d showered I turned on the TV, searching for an international news channel as I dressed. I skipped through one station after another, letting the stream of advertisements and banal chatter wash over me. I’d gone past the local news station before I registered what I’d seen.
Irving’s smoothly bearded face reappeared on the screen as I flicked back. He was looking thoughtfully sincere as he spoke to a female interviewer who had the painted-on prettiness of a shop-window dummy.
‘… of course. “Serial killer” is a phrase that’s badly over-used. A true serial killer, as opposed to someone who merely kills multiple victims, is a predator, pure and simple. They’re the tigers of modern society, hiding unseen in the tall grass. When you’ve dealt with as many as I have, you learn to appreciate the difference.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I groaned. I remembered that Irving had been late at the morgue the day before because he was pre-recording a TV interview, but I hadn’t given it much thought. My mood curdled as I watched.
‘But it is correct that you’ve been called in by the TBI to provide an offender profile following the discovery of a mutilated body in a Smoky Mountain rental cabin?’ the interviewer persisted. ‘And that a second body has been exhumed from a cemetery in Knoxville as part of the same case?’
Irving gave a rueful smile. ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to comment on any ongoing investigations.’
The interviewer nodded understandingly, her lacquered blond hair remaining immobile. ‘But since you are an expert on profiling serial killers, presumably the TBI are worried that’s what they may be dealing with, and that this may be just the start of a killing spree?’
‘Again, I’m afraid I really can’t comment. Although I’m sure people will draw their own conclusions,’ Irving added innocently.
The interviewer’s smile revealed perfect white teeth beneath the blood-red lipstick. She crossed her legs. ‘So can you at least tell me if you’ve formed a profile of the killer?’
‘Now, Stephanie, you know I can’t do that,’ Irving said, with an urbane chuckle. ‘But what I can say is that all the serial killers I’ve encountered—and believe me, there have been quite a few—have one defining characteristic. Their ordinariness.’
The interviewer cocked her head as though she’d misheard. ‘I’m sorry, you’re saying that serial killers are ordinary?’ Her surprise was transparently artificial, as though she’d known what he was going to say in advance.
‘That’s right. Obviously, that isn’t how they regard themselves: quite the opposite. But in truth they’re nonentities, almost by definition. Forget the glamorous psychopath of popular fiction; in the real world these individuals are sad misfits for whom killing has become the primal urge. Cunning, yes. Dangerous, certainly. But their one defining feature is that they blend into the crowd. That’s what makes them so difficult to detect.’
‘But surely that also makes them harder to catch?’
Irving’s smile widened into a wolfish grin. ‘That’s what makes my job so challenging.’
The interview ended, cutting to a studio anchorwoman. ‘That was behaviouralist Professor Alex Irving, author of the bestselling Fractured Egos, speaking yesterday to—’
I snapped off the set. ‘Nothing wrong with his ego,’ I muttered, tossing aside the TV remote. There had been no justification for the interview. It had served no purpose except to give Irving the opportunity to preen on TV. I wondered if Gardner had known about it. Somehow I couldn’t see him taking kindly to Irving using the investigation to promote his new book.
Still, not even the psychologist’s smugness could spoil the anticipation I felt as I drove to the morgue. For once I was there before Tom, but only just. I’d barely changed into scrubs when he arrived.
He looked better than he had the night before, I was relieved to see. Food and a good night’s sleep might not cure everything, but they rarely hurt.
‘Someone’s eager,’ he said when he saw me.
‘Paul and I found something last night.’
I showed him the pupal cases and the mystery insect, explaining how we’d stumbled across them.
‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ he said, studying the insect. ‘I think you’re right about the body decomposing on the surface before it was buried. As for this…’ He lightly tapped the jar containing the dead insect. ‘I haven’t a clue what it is.’