You’d be surprised what some women are capable of. I could feel my scar starting to itch.
‘We’re looking at a huge, huge amount of arrogance here,’ Irving went on. ‘The killer must have known the body would be found when the rental period was up. My God, he even left the wallet so you could ID the victim. No, this was no one-off. Our boy’s just getting started.’
The prospect seemed to please him.
‘The wallet might not be the victim’s,’ Gardner said halfheartedly.
‘I disagree. The killer’s been far too deliberate to have left his own behind. I’d lay odds that he even made the reservation for the cabin himself. He didn’t just happen along and decide to kill whoever was renting it. This was too well planned, too well orchestrated for that. No, he made the booking in the victim’s name, then brought him out here. Somewhere nice and isolated, no doubt scouted in advance, where he could torture him at leisure.’
‘How can you be sure the victim was tortured?’ Jacobsen said. It was the first time she’d spoken since Irving had patronized her.
The profiler seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘Why else tie him to the table? He wasn’t just restrained, he was staked out. The killer wanted to take his time over this, to enjoy it. I don’t suppose there’s any way to check for semen deposits or evidence of sexual assault?’
It took me a moment to realize that this last question was aimed at me. ‘Not when the body’s this badly decomposed, no.’
‘Pity.’ He made it sound as though he’d missed a dinner party invitation. ‘Still, from the amount of blood on the floor, it’s obvious that the wounding was done while the victim was still alive. And I think the genital mutilation’s highly significant.’
I spoke automatically. ‘Not necessarily. Blowflies will lay their eggs around any body opening, including the groin. The insect activity doesn’t mean there was a wound there. We’ll need to carry out a full examination to determine that.’
‘Really.’ Irving’s smile had set. ‘But you’ll allow that the blood came from somewhere? Or is the mess under the table just spilt coffee?’
‘I was just pointing out that—’ I began, but Irving was no longer listening. I clamped my mouth shut, angrily, as he turned to Gardner and Jacobsen.
‘As I was saying, we’ve got a bound and naked victim who was tied down and in all probability mutilated. The question is whether the wounds were the result of post-coital rage, or frustrated sexual tension. In other words, were they inflicted because he got it up, or because he didn’t?’
His words were met by silence. Even the forensic team had broken off to listen.
‘You think the motivation’s sexual?’ Jacobsen asked, after a moment.
Irving feigned surprise. I felt my dislike of him edge up a little more.
‘I’m sorry, I thought that would have been obvious from the fact the victim was left naked. That’s why the wounding is important. We’re dealing with someone who is either in denial about his sexuality, or who resents it and takes out his self-disgust on his victim. Either way, he isn’t openly homosexual. He could be married, a pillar of society. Perhaps someone who likes to boast about his female conquests. This was done by someone who hates what he is, and who sublimated that self-loathing into aggression against his victim.’
Jacobsen’s face was expressionless. ‘I thought you said the killer was proud of what he’d done? That there was no sign of shame or regret?’
‘Not over the actual killing, no. He’s beating his chest here, trying to convince everyone—including himself—how big and tough he is. But the reason he did it, that’s another matter. That’s what he’s ashamed of.’
‘There could be other reasons why the victim’s naked,’ Jacobsen said. ‘Could be a form of humiliation or another way to exercise control.’
‘One way or another, control usually comes down to sex.’ Irving smiled, but it was starting to look a little forced. ‘Gay serial killers are rare, but they do exist. And from what I’ve seen I think that may well be what we’ve got here.’
Jacobsen wasn’t about to back down. ‘We don’t know enough about the killer’s motivation to—’
‘Forgive me, but do you have much experience with serial killer investigations?’ Irving’s smile had frost on it.
‘No, but—’
‘Then perhaps you’d spare me the pop psychology.’
There wasn’t even the pretence of a smile now. Jacobsen didn’t react, but the twin patches of red on her cheeks betrayed her. I felt sympathy for her. Outspoken or not, she hadn’t deserved that.
An awkward silence had descended. Gardner broke it. ‘What about the victim? You think the killer might have known him?’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Irving seemed to have lost interest. He was tugging at the collar of his shirt, the rounded face flushed and beaded with sweat. The cabin had cooled since the window had been opened, but it was still stiflingly hot. ‘I’m done here. I’ll need copies of forensic reports and photographs, along with whatever information you have on the victim.’
He turned to Jacobsen with what I imagine he thought was an engaging grin. ‘Hope you didn’t mind our little difference of opinion. Perhaps we could discuss it at more length over a drink sometime.’
Jacobsen didn’t answer, but the way she looked at him made me think he shouldn’t build up his hopes. The profiler was wasting his time if he was trying to charm her.
The atmosphere in the small cabin became more relaxed once Irving had left. I went to get the camera from Tom’s case. It was a cardinal rule to take our own photographs of the body, regardless of whatever crime scene ones there were. But before I could start a shout went up from one of the agents.
‘Think I’ve got something.’
It was the big man who’d spoken. He was kneeling on the floor by the sofa, straining to reach underneath. He pulled out a small grey cylinder, holding it with surprising delicacy in his gloved fingers.
‘What is it?’ Gardner asked, going over.
‘Looks like a film canister,’ he said, breathless from the effort. ‘For a thirty-five-millimetre camera. Must’ve rolled under there.’
I glanced at the camera I had in my hand. Digital, the same as most forensic investigators used nowadays.
‘Does anyone still use film?’ asked the female agent who’d fetched Irving the menthol.
‘Only diehards and purists,’ the big man said. ‘My cousin swears by it.’
‘He into glamour photography like you, Jerry?’ the woman asked, raising a laugh.
But Gardner’s face didn’t slip. ‘Anything inside?’
The big agent peeled off the lid. ‘Nope, only air. Wait a second, though…’
He held the shiny cylinder up to the light, squinting along its length.
‘Well?’ Gardner prompted.
I could see the agent called Jerry grin even though he was wearing a mask. He waggled the film container.
‘Can’t offer you any photographs. But will a nice fat fingerprint do instead?’
The sun was setting as Tom drove us back towards Knoxville. The road wound through the bottom of steep, tree-covered slopes that blocked out the last of the light, so that it was dark even though the sky above us was still blue. When Tom flicked on the headlights, night suddenly closed in around us.
‘You’re quiet,’ he said after a while.
‘Just thinking.’
‘I kind of guessed that.’
I’d been relieved to see he looked much better when he’d returned to the cabin. The rest of the work had gone smoothly enough. We’d photographed and sketched the position of the body, then taken tissue samples. By analysing the amino and volatile fatty acids released as the cells broke down we’d be able to narrow the time since death to within twelve hours. At the moment everything pointed to the victim’s being dead for at least six days, and very possibly seven. Yet according to Gardner the cabin had only been occupied for five. Something wasn’t right, and although I might have lost confidence in my own abilities, I was certain of one thing.