‘‘Oh, God, yes. When we got out of the woods, I had to spray myself down good with Febreze to kill the odor. You’d think the woods would be well ventilated.’’
‘‘Another feature that is a consequence of a large nasal spine like this one is nostrils that appear arched. That shape exposes a larger-than-normal portion of the inside of the nose—the surface of the septum.’’
‘‘Yeah, I’ve seen that in people.’’
Diane touched a point on the bridge of the nose directly between the eyes. ‘‘This is the nasion. It’s a craniometric point. Here just below the opening of the nose is the nasospinale. For physical anthropologists, the length of the nose is measured between these two points. However, the relative position of the bones as they are situated in the face determines how we per ceive the length of the nose.’’
Neva furrowed her brows, looking hard at the skull as Diane continued.
‘‘See how the bridge of the nose stands away from the face, forming a straight line from the forehead to the nose? It’s different from, say, mine.’’ Diane rubbed her finger across the nasal bone of the skull and then touched her own.
‘‘His is kind of like those Roman statues.’’
‘‘Exactly. That would make the nose look longer. In this kind of nose there is a perception that the nose is longer than it actually is because your eye sees the nose as starting at the forehead, rather than where the nose actually starts.’’
‘‘Okay, I see. What about people with a bump on their nose, like the mummy? What would the bone look like?’’
‘‘The nose is supported by bone and cartilage. You see the bone here in Green Doe’s skull, but the carti lage was destroyed by the cleaning of the bones. When a body decomposes, the cartilage decomposes— though more slowly than flesh. The bump on the nose in the mummy resulted when the supporting cartilage decomposed and collapsed following death, and the nose drooped, revealing the end of the nasal bone— making it look like a bump. The mummy wrappings have pressed the nose down so that the nasal bone has a prominence that it wouldn’t have had while he was alive. Looking at all the pictures of Egyptian mummies in our reference books, it’s easy to think that Egyptian pharaohs all had nose bumps—making them all look alike.’’
‘‘That’s funny. I did think that all those pharaohs had bumps on their noses.’’
‘‘Bet you thought they were old and lean, too.’’ Neva grinned. ‘‘Yes, I did.’’
‘‘In more modern skeletal remains, you can tell from the upward angle of the lower part of the nasal bone that some noses probably had a bump. A person can appear to have a bump on their nose if they have damaged the cartilage supporting the tip of the nose, like from an accident or just getting hit hard in the nose.’’
‘‘And that would show up in the skull?
‘‘Not necessarily. You might see a break in the nasal bone, but you wouldn’t know how the break mani fested itself. Is that more than you wanted to know about how to determine the shape of the nose from the skull?’’
‘‘No. This is good. I’ve seen all those nose types in people. It never occurred to me that it had anything to do with their bones. How about the eyes and lips?’’
‘‘Those are more of a problem. You know how far apart the eyes were because you have the sockets. But you don’t get much help beyond that. Information about gender and race helps, along with knowledge of the geometry of the face—like where the corners of the lips are in relation to the other features. And age plays a big part. As you get older the eyelids sag, the lip line isn’t as distinct. As I said, much of this is intuitive. You do the best you can with the informa tion you have. But you go as far as you can with the bones.’’
The phone on Diane’s desk rang, lighting up the in house line. Diane reached and pressed the speaker button.
‘‘Fallon, here.’’
‘‘Dr. Fallon, it’s Andie. I’ve been going through your E-mail, and there’s one that’s kind of strange.’’ ‘‘Strange? How?’’
‘‘I’ll read it to you. It says: ‘Sometimes the dead are guilty.’ ’’ Neva and Diane exchanged glances.
‘‘The dead are guilty? What does that mean?’’ asked Neva.
‘‘I don’t know. I’m going downstairs. You stay here and work with the software.’’
Diane left her lab and headed for the elevators. Andie was sitting at her desk when she entered the private door to her office.
‘‘What do you think they’re talking about?’’ said Andie, giving up her seat at Diane’s computer.
Diane looked at the message. Sometimes the dead are guilty. That was all, no signature, no explanation. Diane looked at the sender. JMLndrmn23. It wasn’t anyone she recognized. But then, who did she know that would send her a message like this?
Sometimes the dead are guilty. A prank? An uneas iness began creeping up Diane’s spine to the back of her neck.
‘‘Are you going to respond?’’
Andie’s voice startled her. She’d forgotten she was still standing there by the desk.
‘‘I don’t know.’’ But she found herself clicking the REPLY button, and she wrote a simple note, What do you mean? and hit the SEND button.
‘‘What do you think it does mean?’’ asked Andie.
Diane shook her head. ‘‘Probably some selfrighteous person who doesn’t like the museum being connected to the crime lab.’’
She also was beginning to think that it wasn’t such a good idea. But Rosewood had her between a rock and a hard place on that one.
Odd, in any case. Something else she had recently described as odd. Oh, yes, the flowers. That was odd too.
David appeared at the door, interrupting her thought. ‘‘Garnett just called. We have another case.’’
Chapter 18
Diane drove her car to the address David had given her. Briarwood Lane was a cul-de-sac of old frame houses and large mature trees in a mixed neighbor hood of Hispanics, whites, and blacks, many of whom were standing in their yards, looking in the direction of the asphalt-roofed house with gray shaker siding where several emergency vehicles were parked.
David, Jin and Neva had arrived just ahead of her and were just emerging from their van. Chief Garnett, Sheriff Braden, Whit Abercrombie, and several others were standing beside a car that Diane recognized as Lynn Webber’s. Great, thought Diane, another confrontation—and this isn’t even Lynn’s jurisdiction.
As Diane approached, Garnett turned toward her and she caught sight of Allen Rankin, Rosewood’s pathologist. She stopped abruptly when she saw Lynn Webber sitting sideways in the driver’s seat with her feet on the asphalt road, sobbing.
‘‘I don’t understand this,’’ Lynn was saying. ‘‘What is this about?’’
For a moment Diane thought that Lynn was, of all things, under arrest...and it hit her all of a sudden. The neighborhood. Lynn Webber sobbing. She looked at Garnett.
‘‘It’s Lynn’s diener, Raymond, isn’t it?’’ She didn’t even know his last name.
Garnett nodded. ‘‘Raymond Waller. He came home for lunch and didn’t come back. When he was late, Dr. Webber called his home and his cell. When she couldn’t get in touch, she came to his house and found him.’’
‘‘She came to his house?’’
‘‘She said she has several bodies backed up, and he was always reliable.’’ Garnett lowered his voice. ‘‘She can get kind of feisty when she’s let down. I take it she was going to bring him back to work.’’
Diane had experienced some of her feistiness. It wasn’t how she would have described it. ‘‘Was he murdered?’’
‘‘Yes. Hit on the back of the head. Somebody threw water in his face. Maybe an attempt to revive him.’’
‘‘This is really odd.’’ There it was, that word again.
‘‘Odd . . . at least. Look, I have no idea what’s going on here, but I want everyone involved with those hanging victims to be extra careful. I’m going to send a squad car by everyone’s hom
e, but maybe you can get your museum security to help with your people.’’
‘‘We’ll come up with a plan. Chief, I’ve had a couple of other disquieting things happen.’’
Garnett frowned as she handed him the note she had printed out and told him about the flowers. While she spoke, her gaze darted at the various people watching, looking to see if she recognized anyone she might have seen in the museum or the parking lot. No one looked familiar.
‘‘You replied to the E-mail. You should have talked to me first.’’
‘‘I thought it was museum business.’’
‘‘And you don’t know who left the flowers?’’
‘‘I’ve asked everyone that I know.... I just assumed you didn’t,’’ she added, with half a smile.
Garnett chuckled. ‘‘No.’’
‘‘Why are you two laughing? You think this is funny?’’ Lynn Webber flew out of her car and stood before them, anger flashing in her red-rimmed eyes.
‘‘Dr. Webber—’’ began Garnett.
‘‘I’m sorry, Lynn,’’ said Diane. ‘‘We were just trying to deflect some of the tension. We are very disturbed by all this. I met and worked with Raymond and liked him. Of course I don’t think it’s funny. Neither does the chief.’’
Lynn Webber shook her head, as if trying to shake out some thought. ‘‘I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’’
‘‘Why don’t you let me take you home?’’ said Sher iff Braden. ‘‘You don’t need to see any more of this, and those bodies in the morgue can wait a day or so. They aren’t going anywhere. I’ll ask one of the police men here to follow in your car.’’
‘‘That’s a good idea, Dr. Webber,’’ said Garnett. ‘‘We’ll keep you apprised.’’
Lynn nodded. ‘‘Raymond has family in Philadel phia. I’ll call them. It would be better coming from me.’’
The sheriff left with Lynn; Officer Warrick followed in Lynn’s car.
‘‘Why is the sheriff here?’’ said Diane. ‘‘This is Rose County.’’
Garnett shook his head. ‘‘He must have heard the call on the radio and wanted to come to Dr. Webber’s rescue. I assume his interest in her hasn’t escaped your notice.’’
‘‘No, it hasn’t.’’
‘‘I need to ask you—about the hanging victims’ time of death...you can back up your numbers?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Webber’s real certain.’’
‘‘So am I.’’
‘‘When are you going to be finished with the bodies?’’
‘‘Today. My team will work this crime scene. I’m going back to the lab. I’m going to do some analysis that will tell us which region of the country they grew up in, and that will take longer. But we’ll have a re port and facial reconstruction for the sheriff shortly.’’
‘‘Facial reconstruction? You can do that?’’
‘‘Of course ...I assume that’s why you sent me Neva Hurley.’’
‘‘Neva?’’ He stopped a moment and looked at Neva, who was donning a pair of gloves. ‘‘Oh . . . yes . . . of course.’’
Diane smiled inwardly, but made sure it didn’t reach her face.
‘‘Any sign of Steven Mayberry?’’ she said.
‘‘No. And I’m worried. We can’t afford to have wholesale murder going on and not be able to do any thing about it. The media will jump all over this.’’
‘‘Perhaps they won’t know where the bodies were autopsied.’’
‘‘Why wouldn’t they?’’ said Garnett. ‘‘It looks like the murderer did.’’
‘‘I know this is quite a coincidence,’’ said Diane. ‘‘But I just don’t see any reason behind the murders that would establish a connection. Not yet.’’
‘‘Neither do I. Perhaps it is just that. A coinci dence.’’ He did not sound convinced.
‘‘The evidence will tell us if there is a connection. I’m going back to it.’’
Diane gave her team instructions and left for the lab, relieved not to have to look at Raymond’s dead body. It would be bad enough when she looked at the photographs. She drove back to the lab and parked in the crime lab parking area, a gated lot to the side of the enormous museum building. She took the lab ele vator to the third floor, bypassing the museum.
Suddenly, it looked like she was bringing crime into the museum, and that was something she had no de sire to do and couldn’t afford to do. She would close the lab and take Rosewood to court about the taxes before she would allow that to happen.
But crime labs are not dangerous places. She knew of no cases where perps had targeted crime labs or the people who worked in them. After all, the people just analyze data. Why, then, was this happening? Per haps it wasn’t. Perhaps the flowers were from someone connected with the museum, or even a fan of the crime lab. Perhaps the E-mail note meant nothing.
Green Doe was where she had left him, waiting for her on the table. She measured the skull, made notes of his orthodontic work, examined and measured his long bones. His left radius had been broken and healed well. She examined the ribs and each vertebra. There were no nicks or cuts on any of his bones, ex cept, as in Blue, his terminal phalanxes were missing. Of the damaged medial phalanxes, only one showed the surface striations that she had seen on Blue. But that was enough. Diane entered all of Green Doe’s data into the computer.
Her team hadn’t returned yet. They could be out all night. She went to her office. Andie was gathering her things to leave for the day.
‘‘Hey, you got a message back from that weird Email about the dead being guilty. I printed it out.’’ She grabbed it off Diane’s desk and handed it to her.
Diane read it aloud. ‘‘ ‘I didn’t send this. Who are you anyway? Don’t bother me. My father’s a police man.’ Well, this is interesting. Sounds like a kid.’’
‘‘That’s what I thought,’’ agreed Andie.
‘‘Hey, anybody home around here?’’
‘‘Frank. When did you get in?’’ Diane gave him a hug and held him a little tighter than she felt comfort able with in front of Andie.
‘‘My plane landed a few hours ago. I stopped by to see Star and Kevin.’’
His thirteen-year-old son, Kevin, lived with his mother. Star, his new daughter, stayed with them while Frank was gone.
‘‘Cindy wanted Star to stay the weekend so that she and David could go out. I thought maybe we could get some dinner. Have you eaten?’’
‘‘No, and I’m starved. The museum restaurant is open for a while yet. Mind if we eat there?’’
‘‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’’ said Andie, going out the door. ‘‘Good to see you, Frank. Miss you at karaoke.’’
‘‘Bye, Andie. Thanks,’’ called Diane.
‘‘You want to eat at the museum? Sounds like you’re planning a late night working.’’
He stepped close and drew her into a kiss. Frank felt good—and safe, like home. She wanted to hang on to him, but she let go.
‘‘I’ve got to get the last skeleton done.’’
As Diane checked her E-mail and looked through the messages Andie had left for her, she told Frank the whole story—the Cobber’s Wood hanging victims, the timber cruisers who found the bodies, and now Ray mond, the diener. She tacked on the E-mail note to her narrative.
‘‘Damn. I can’t leave you alone at all.’’
‘‘Can you trace the E-mail?’’
‘‘Probably.’’
‘‘I’d appreciate that . . .’’ The ringing of her office phone cut her off. Diane grabbed it midring. ‘‘Fallon?’’
‘‘Finally. We can talk. You’re a hard woman to reach.’’
The voice was rough textured and unfamiliar to Diane. He talked slow, with a south Georgia accent.
‘‘Who is this?’’
‘‘Did you like the flowers?’’
Chapter 19
‘‘You put the flowers in my car?’’ Diane looked at the caller ID on her office
phone. NO DATA. She had picked up the receiver too soon. ‘‘Why didn’t you sign the card?’’
Frank stood, took his cell phone from his pocket and backed out of her office while he dialed. She as sumed he was having the call traced.
‘‘It was unnecessary.’’
‘‘What does ‘To Justice’ mean?’’
‘‘Just that. I saw on TV that you are a sincere
woman. I want you to know that I understand that, but you don’t have the whole picture.’’
‘‘Is that why you’re calling—to make sure I understand?’’
Dead Guilty dffi-2 Page 15