There was a small furrow between Jacobsen’s eyes. ‘But what’s the point?’
‘Don’t ask me. Perhaps whoever left them there just wanted to show off again.’
‘I don’t follow. How is leaving pig’s teeth showing off?’
‘Pig premolars look a lot like human molars. Unless you know what you’re looking for, it’s easy to mistake one for the other.’
Jacobsen’s frown lifted. ‘So the killer was letting us see he knows about details like that. Like the fingerprints left at the crime scenes. He’s not just testing us, he’s bragging how clever he is.’
She gave a start as a horn blared behind us, alerting us that the lights were green. Flustered, she pulled away. I looked out of the window so she wouldn’t see my smile.
‘It sounds like pretty specialist knowledge. Who’d have access to that sort of information?’ she went on, her composure once more in place.
‘It’s no secret. Anyone with—’
I stopped short.
‘With a forensic background?’ Jacobsen finished for me.
‘Yes,’ I admitted.
‘Such as forensic anthropology?’
‘Or forensic archaeology, or pathology. Or any one of a dozen different forensic disciplines. Anyone who can be bothered to look through textbooks can find that sort of information. It doesn’t mean you have to start pointing fingers at people who work in the field.’
‘I wasn’t pointing fingers at anyone.’
The silence that fell now was anything but comfortable. I searched for a way to break it, but the aura around Jacobsen made small talk unthinkable. I stared out of the window, feeling flat and tired. Traffic streamed past, glinting in the early afternoon sunshine.
‘You don’t think much of psychology, do you?’ she said suddenly.
I wished I hadn’t said anything, but there was no avoiding it now. ‘I think there’s too much reliance on it sometimes. It’s a useful tool but it isn’t infallible. Irving’s profile showed that.’
Her chin came up. ‘Professor Irving let himself be sidetracked by the fact that both victims were male and naked.’
‘You don’t think that’s significant?’
‘Not that they’re male, no. And I think you and Dr Lieberman hit on the reason why they were naked.’
That threw me, but only for a second. ‘A naked body decomposes faster than one with clothes on,’ I said, annoyed with myself for not having seen it sooner.
She gave a nod. She seemed as keen to skirt past the brief awkwardness as I was. ‘And both Terry Loomis’s body and the exhumed remains were more decomposed than they’d any right to be. It isn’t unreasonable to assume they were both unclothed for similar reasons.’
Another chance for the killer to sow confusion and demonstrate his cleverness. ‘The exhumed body would have to have been stripped for the needles to be planted anyway,’ I said. ‘And once they were in place it’d be too risky to handle it any more than necessary. Certainly not just to put its clothes back on. But that doesn’t alter the fact that all the victims were male.’
‘The ones we know about, you mean.’
‘You think there are more we haven’t found yet?’
I thought at first I’d gone too far. Jacobsen didn’t answer, and I reminded myself that she didn’t have to; I was no longer a part of the investigation. Get used to it. You’re just a tourist now.
But just as I was about to withdraw the question she seemed to reach a decision. ‘This is pure speculation. But I’d agree with Professor Irving that we’ve only found the victims the killer wanted us to find. The level of brutality and sheer confidence he’s displayed makes it almost certain that there are others. No one develops that sort of… sophistication, for want of a better word, first time round.’
That hadn’t occurred to me before. It was a disturbing thought.
Jacobsen pulled down the visor as a curve in the road threw the sun in her face. ‘Whatever the killer’s agenda is, I don’t think his victims’ physical characteristics play a part in it,’ she went on. ‘We’ve got a thirty-six-year-old white insurance clerk, a black male in his fifties, and—in all probability—a forty-four-year-old psychologist, with no apparent connection between any of them. That suggests we’re dealing with an opportunist who preys on random victims. Male or female, I doubt it makes any difference to him.’
‘What about Irving? He wasn’t random, he was deliberately targeted.’
‘Professor Irving was an exception. I don’t think he figured in the killer’s plans until he went on TV, but when he did the killer acted straight away. Which tells us something important.’
‘You mean apart from that he’s a dangerous lunatic?’
A quick smile softened her features. ‘Apart from that. Everything we have so far says that this is someone who deliberates and plans his actions carefully. The needles were planted in the body six months before he left Dexter’s fingerprints at the cabin. That shows a methodical, ordered mind. But what happened with Professor Irving shows there’s also another side. One that’s impulsive and unstable. Prick his ego and he can’t help himself.’
I noticed she wasn’t even trying to pretend any more that Irving might not be another victim. ‘Is that good or bad?’
‘Both. It means he’s unpredictable, which makes him even more dangerous. But if he acts on impulse then sooner or later he’ll make a mistake.’ Jacobsen squinted again as the sun reflected off the cars in front. ‘My sunglasses are in my jacket. Could you pass them, please?’
The jacket was neatly folded on the back seat. I twisted round and reached for it. A waft of delicate scent came from the soft fabric, and I felt an odd intimacy as I searched its pockets. I found a pair of aviator shades and handed them to her. Our fingers brushed as she took them; her skin was cool and dry, but with an underlying heat.
‘Thanks,’ she said, putting on the sunglasses.
‘You mentioned his agenda a moment ago,’ I said quickly. ‘I thought you’d already said that he craves recognition, that he’s a… what was it? A “malignant narcissist”? Doesn’t that explain it?’
Jacobsen inclined her head slightly. With her eyes concealed, she looked more unreadable than ever. ‘It explains the extreme lengths he’s prepared to go to, but not why he kills in the first place. He’s got to get something out of it, have some pathological itch he’s trying to scratch. If it isn’t sexual, then what?’
‘Perhaps he just enjoys inflicting pain,’ I suggested.
She shook her head. The small V was visible again above the sunglasses. ‘No. He might enjoy the sense of power it gives him, but it’s more than that. Something’s driving him to do all this. We just don’t know yet what it is.’
The sunlight was abruptly blotted out as a black pick-up truck drew up alongside. It towered over the car, a petrol-guzzling monstrosity with tinted windows, then quickly pulled ahead. It had only just cleared us when suddenly it cut into our lane. My foot stamped reflexively on to the floor as I braced for a collision. But with barely a touch on the brake, Jacobsen swerved into the other lane, as smoothly as though the move were choreographed.
It was a cool display of driving, all the more impressive because she appeared unaware of it. She flicked an irritated glance at the pick-up as it accelerated away, but otherwise dismissed it.
The incident broke the mood, though. She grew distant again after that, either preoccupied with what we’d said or regretting saying as much as she had. In any event there wasn’t any more time for conversation. We were already approaching the centre of Knoxville. My spirits sank further the closer we got. Jacobsen dropped me back at my hotel, her reserve now as unassailable as any wall. Her sunglasses hid her eyes as she drove off with the briefest of nods, leaving me on the pavement, stiff-muscled from hunching over in the pine woods.