Whispers of the Dead Read Free

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