fix it.’’
Out of the corner of her eye Diane saw him care
fully remove the jellylike brain and put it in a jar
of formalin.
Little by little they were collecting bits of informa
tion about the victims—tattoos, scars, bad heart valve.
There was a good chance that all these things would
add up to a critical mass of information leading them
to the identity of the victims.
Surely, someone was missing these people—unless
they were the lost people, the invisible class that
slips through the cracks and becomes easy prey for
killers.
It was almost 9:30 P.M. by the time they finished the
third autopsy and Diane arrived at the museum with
the evidence for her crime lab. David was there, tak
ing notes and checking on his insects.
‘‘I called the weather bureau. It’s been pretty redun
dant for the past couple months—dry and hot. I’ve
duplicated the environment for my babies here.’’ He
pointed to his rearing chambers.
‘‘Here’s some more insects. Larva and bug parts.’’
She handed them over and began logging in the cloth
ing and rope she had collected from the autopsies. ‘‘Discover anything new?’’ David asked.
Diane sat down in a chair and stretched out her legs
in front of her. ‘‘Some. Right now the vics all look to
be in their twenties. Blue is a female and has a tattoo
of a butterfly on her ankle. Green’s a male. He’s had
his appendix out and has a heart condition. Not seri
ous. Red’s another female. She has a tattoo of a hum
mingbird on the right side of her lower back and
another one of a rose on the upper part of her left
breast.’’
‘‘Good tattoos?’’
Diane thought a moment. ‘‘Yeah, they are. Very
intricate.’’
‘‘Expensive, then.’’
‘‘Could be.’’
David ran his hands through what was left of his
hair—a thick curly fringe around his head. ‘‘That’ll
help.’’
‘‘Did you happen to find any fingertips?’’ Diane
asked him. ‘‘None of the bodies had theirs.’’ ‘‘Nope. We did find where a truck was parked.
From the cable marks on the tree branches, I’d say
he hoisted them up with a winch.’’
‘‘How’s Neva doing? Jin said you took her out for
a walk-through.’’
He wavered his hand from side to side. ‘‘She’s about
fifty-fifty. Hasn’t decided if she likes this work yet.
They just assigned her here, you know, didn’t ask her
if she wanted it. But she’s no different than any other
newbie I’ve trained.’’
‘‘How are you doing?’’ asked Diane.
‘‘You don’t have to watch me. I’m not going to
self-destruct.’’
‘‘I’m not worried about your sanity, just your
happiness.’’
David Goldstein had shown up literally on Diane’s
doorstep, asking for a job. The massacre of their
like her, on the edge of sanity—burnt out and with
no place to go. Diane’s loss of her daughter had so
overwhelmed her she didn’t really see the grief the
others were feeling from losing their friends. David
was adrift when he arrived in Rosewood. Diane was
glad to be able to give him a job. It surprised her that
he requested to work in her new crime lab. ‘‘Are you sure you want to do that?’’ she had asked
him. ‘‘Don’t you want to get away from everything
we’ve seen?’’
‘‘Don’t you?’’ It was a reasonable question.
‘‘Diane—you know how it was. You stand in those
concrete rooms splattered with dark stains you know
are going to be blood, and you look at the shackles
and dirty rusted tables and you know that no matter
how many people you interview, how many deposi
tions you get, those responsible will never be put on
trial. Most of the time, the best we could hope for
was to have some poor schmuck arrested who was just
guarding the place.
‘‘But this here...abig percentage of the time,
we’ll bring the killers to justice. I need to do that.
Bring killers to justice. I need to know that what I’m
doing will make a difference.’’
‘‘Our record out there was a little better than that,’’
Diane had whispered almost to herself, but she knew
what he meant. Rarely did they get to the top of the
food chain.
‘‘I’m doing okay,’’ he said finally. ‘‘What’s nice
about the museum here is when things get tough with
the crime evidence, I can go look at rocks, or shells or the big dinosaurs. I particularly like the shells. The colors and the curved shapes are very soothing. Re member how Gregory
paintings, particularly
liked to go look at beautiful the Vermeers, whenever we
were near a museum? It’s like that.’’
Gregory had been their boss at World Accord Inter
national and a mentor to Diane. Gregory even carried
postcard-sized representations of famous paintings.
The everyday scenes painted by Vermeer were his fa
vorite. He could look at them for hours.
She had adopted Gregory’s love of looking at beau
tiful art when she needed a break from the grim reali
ties of human rights violations. She understood what
David meant about the museum. It was a refuge for
her too.
‘‘What’s that new medical examiner in the next
county like?’’
‘‘Dr. Lynn Webber. Nice. Hospitable.’’
‘‘And that means?’’
‘‘Just what I said. Seems pretty competent.’’ ‘‘You don’t like her?’’
‘‘I didn’t say that.’’
‘‘You didn’t have to. I was listening to your ringing
endorsement.’’
‘‘I got the impression that she kind of likes to be
the star.’’ Diane hesitated a moment. ‘‘I think she’s
going to get the time of death wrong. She doesn’t have
much experience with hangings.’’
‘‘And for that you don’t like her?’’
‘‘I didn’t say I don’t like her. Just that she reminds
me a little of Leah.’’
Diane made a face. They had worked with Leah for
a while in South America. She was a bit of a prima
donna, albeit a competent one.
‘‘I shouldn’t have said anything. She’s been very
gracious. Even wants me to take her caving.’’ ‘‘You going to take her?’’
‘‘I thought I’d ask Mike about some easy caves.’’ ‘‘Mike? Mike Seger? I thought you’re dating
Frank Duncan.’’
Diane was taken aback. ‘‘I’m not dating Mike.
We’re just talking about going caving. He’s an
employee.’’
‘‘Don’t you guys have to take your clothes off to
cross a body of water in a cave—to keep the water
clean?’’
‘‘You can lea
ve your underwear on.’’
‘‘So, do you wear Victoria’s Secret or those cotton
jobs?’’
‘‘I think I’d better go home. See you tomorrow.’’
It was well after ten o’clock before Diane got home. She was tired and couldn’t wait for a shower. After letting the water run over her for a long while, she ran a warm bath, put a capful of lemon juice in the water and just lay and soaked with her head resting on a folded towel on the back of the tub. She was tempted to stay the night there, just soaking in the water, letting the smell of death become overwhelmed with clean pure water. She would have stayed if her telephone had remained quiet.
Diane followed the directions to a small house in a clump of trees about a half mile from the Bartram University campus. The house, a bungalow with white wood siding and fieldstone columns and steps, looked like it might have been built in the late 1920s.
She parked her car on the side of the road and walked across the yard. She looked briefly up at the second-floor gabled window and leaning rock chimney. It looked like housing rented to students. Maintained enough to keep the roof up, but not enough to rent to anyone looking for a family home.
She showed her badge to the officer guarding the door, slipped covers over her shoes and went in.
A girl was sitting on a futon sofa in the living room, sobbing. The room was in disarray, drawers pulled out of a desk, their contents emptied onto the floor, couch pillows scattered about, chairs overturned.
Douglas Garnett, chief of detectives of Rosewood, and Whit Abercrombie, county coroner, were standing at the entrance to a room off the living room. Whit was Lynn Webber’s counterpart, but he wasn’t a medi cal examiner. He was a taxidermist with a master’s in biology. They nodded to Diane.
Chief Garnett was a large, lanky man in his midfor ties with a full head of salt-and-pepper well-kept hair. He had a deep crease between his abundant blackand-gray eyebrows.
‘‘In here,’’ he said.
The body was on its knees, leaning forward against a rope around the neck and tied to the clothes rod in the closet. The closet door stood open, and the fulllength mirror showed a side image of the gruesome scene. Diane looked at the purple swollen face with its dead stare and protruding tongue. Even with the distortion of death, she recognized the face.
‘‘Oh, my God,’’ she whispered.
Chapter 9
‘‘You know this kid?’’ Garnett asked.
‘‘I know who he is.’’ Diane shivered—not from the
gruesome scene—the room was cold. She tore her
gaze away from the dead face and looked at Chief
Garnett.
‘‘It’s Chris Edwards. He’s one of the two men—the
timber cruisers—who discovered the bodies hanging
in the woods.’’
She looked around the bedroom, the single bed with
its sheets pulled away, the chest of drawers open with
its contents spilled out over the sides and onto the
floor. A bloody hand weight lay in the middle of the
bed.
‘‘We need to contact the other man who was with
him.’’
Chief Garnett moved to the living room and di
rected his attention to the woman sobbing on the
couch.
‘‘Miss... Beck, Kacie Beck?’’
She pushed her blond hair out of her face and
rubbed her red-rimmed eyes with the tips of her
fingers.
‘‘Miss Beck,’’ said Garnett, ‘‘do you know . . .’’ He
turned to Diane.
‘‘Steven Mayberry,’’ supplied Diane.
‘‘Steve?... Yes.’’
‘‘Where does he live?’’
‘‘Over on Udell. He has a trailer over there.’’ ‘‘Do you have his telephone number?’’
‘‘Telephone number? No . . . Chris knows it.’’ She
started sobbing again.
Garnett pressed a rapid-dial number on his cell
phone. ‘‘Steven Mayberry, did you say?’’
Diane nodded. She motioned to Whit as Garnett
called for the address.
‘‘We need to get Miss Beck out of the crime scene.
She can sit in my car until Garnett questions her. I’ll
call my team to start working this. . . . And I’ll need
a warrant.’’
‘‘Garnett has one coming.’’ Whit pushed his straight
black hair from his forehead as he glanced back at
the bedroom. ‘‘You think this is connected with your
other case?’’
‘‘I don’t know. If not, it’s an amazing coincidence.’’ Whit was escorting Kacie out of the house when
Garnett got off the phone.
‘‘Got an address. I called for backup to meet us
there.’’
Outside, Diane slipped off the shoe covers and
rang David.
‘‘Yeah?’’
David obviously had been asleep, as Diane wished
she was.
‘‘David, Diane. I need you again tonight.’’ ‘‘Gee, Diane, if I’d known you’re this demanding,
I’d have gotten myself a woman with less energy.
What’s up?’’
Diane explained, and he was quiet for a moment. ‘‘Can’t be a coincidence.’’
‘‘I’ll call Jin. You’ll have to wait for a warrant be
fore you can go in.’’
‘‘Sure.’’
A young woman answered Jin’s phone. ‘‘Just a
minute.’’
Her voice sounded sleepy, and Diane heard the rus
tling of covers as she waited for Jin to get on the
phone.
‘‘Yo?’’
‘‘Jin, this is Diane. We have another crime scene. I
need you and David to work it tonight.’’ She gave him
the address. ‘‘I’m sorry to do this to you.’’
‘‘No problem.’’ Jin sounded wide awake. Diane turned to the chief. ‘‘I’d like to ride out to
the Mayberry house.’’
He gave her a curt nod, and she climbed into his
Lexus and buckled herself in.
‘‘These murders . . .’’ Garnett paused a moment.
‘‘It’s going to be a test of our new crime scene unit.
I don’t need to tell you how important it is to get
it right.’’
Several ways of answering him flitted through Diane’s
mind. Sarcastic was right up front, considering that it
was he and the mayor who had virtually blackmailed
her into housing the new crime lab and heading it up.
But when she opened her mouth, it was her good friend
Gregory’s wisdom that tempered her tongue. ‘‘It’s a good unit with good people. We’ll find all
the evidence that’s there to find.’’
That seemed to satisfy him. He said nothing for the
remainder of the trip. Instead, he tapped the steering
wheel with his fingers as he drove. Diane was glad it
wasn’t a long ride.
As they rounded a corner and turned into a drive