The Night Killer

by Beverly Connor

  Diane looked over at Andie and her date again as she walked to rejoin Travis Conrad. She saw what all the fuss was about. Andie’s new friend was striking in his good looks. He had a clean-cut appearance, short hair, firm jawline, and a bright smile. He wore tan slacks and a cream-colored shirt that looked expensive, and he had a muscular build—not overly done, but he looked like someone who was very athletic. Diane wished she could linger and meet him, glad Andie had found someone with an interest in museums. She hoped it worked out. Most of the guys Andie dated had no interest in her work, which was one reason they never lasted very long with her. Andie loved her work and she expected the guys she dated to show as much interest in her work as she did in theirs.

  Diane called the elevator and got on with Travis. No one else wanted to use it at the moment. Most of the visitors used the bank of elevators in the main hallway of the museum. Just as the doors were closing, a hand came through the opening and pushed the doors open again. It was Scott Spearman, one of the technicians in the DNA lab. He had a folder and a large padded envelope in his hand.

  “I was just coming to see you,” he said to Diane.

  She introduced Scott to Travis Conrad.

  “Oh,” said Scott, “I guess this is for you too.”

  “You have some more information?” said Diane.

  Scott nodded. “You know those tree and concrete parts you asked us to analyze? Well, I have the report here.” He gently waved the folder. “Quite a lot of decompositional by-products. Someone definitely decomposed inside the tree. Is that weird or what?”

  “Were you able to get any indication of postmortem interval?” asked Diane.

  He rocked a hand back and forth, indicating that it was inconclusive. She thought it would be.

  “You know how it is after remains have been completely skeletonized. But Hector and I are working on a research design for a time- line analysis of decomposition chemistry of the soil surrounding human skeletal remains. And we really, really appreciate the space you are letting us turn into a research facility. We would kiss your feet, but that would probably be too weird.”

  Diane smiled and rolled her eyes. “It’s a good adjunct to the DNA lab,” she said. “Can you tell if the body was in the tree for as long as a hundred years?”

  Scott looked surprised. “A hundred years? It was in there way less time than that. I’m not sure we would have found much chemical residue after that amount of time. But the button and fibers are pretty helpful.”

  The elevator reached the third floor and they got out at Exhibit Preparations and walked down the hallway toward the crime lab.

  “Button and fibers?” said Diane.

  Scott pulled out two smaller clear bags. Inside one she saw a pink-brown incised button. The other bag contained pink fibers.

  “Yes. David analyzed these. Did you know he has a button database? Amazing.”

  Diane nodded. “You’ll discover that David is in the process of databasing the world,” she said.

  Scott snickered.

  “What about the button and fibers?” asked Diane. “What did they tell us?”

  “They were partially encased in the cement. The fibers were in the shank of the button. The button’s from China, made of shell, and was incised with a laser. Don’t think they had those a hundred years ago. The fact of the matter is, the button was manufactured about five years ago. The fiber’s polyester. It has a very unique cross section that David showed me. Very interesting. Got pictures.” He held up the folder. “The fiber was introduced five years ago too, and was also manufactured in China.”

  Diane turned to Travis, who had been watching and listening with interest.

  “So,” said Travis, “Dr. Linden’s wrong. Daddy ain’t gonna like that.”

  “Will he believe it?” asked Diane.

  “Yeah, he ain’t stupid. He just wants the world to be different from what it is,” he said.

  “Don’t we all,” said Diane.

  Diane took the evidence and thanked Scott. She led Travis to the crime lab. David and Izzy were there, both working on different computers. Travis stood looking at the lab and all the equipment. Unlike his father, he appeared to be fascinated.

  “You know,” he said, “I didn’t understand much of what that guy was talking about. I’m not sure I would ever understand it,” he said.

  “You don’t have to. You just need to know the kind of analysis that can be done with evidence,” said Diane. “Didn’t they cover this in the senior deputy certification courses you took?” asked Diane.

  “Probably. I have to confess, I’m not a real good student. It wasn’t that important to Daddy, so I just got by. I did excel in Advanced Report Writing and Verbal Judo.” He laughed. “Seriously, I did listen in the forensic modules, and got pretty good in fingerprint analysis, but there was just so much stuff.”

  “You probably picked up more knowledge than you think,” said Diane.

  “Maybe. How are we going to do this? I don’t really want Daddy to know I’m here.”

  “I’ll give him a call,” said Diane. “Perhaps I’d better do that first.” She motioned to the round conference table in a corner of the room and they sat down. She fished her cell phone out of her pocket and keyed the sheriff’s number. She was looking forward to speaking with him.

  Chapter 20

  In the middle of dialing the sheriff’s number Diane realized that he would probably be at the new crime scene. He wasn’t. She was lucky; she caught the sheriff in his office. He wasn’t pleased to hear from her. She hadn’t expected he would be.

  “I’m busy right now. Don’t have time to talk,” he said in his rather odd, clipped Southern accent.

  Diane almost laughed at the thought that she had called just to talk.

  “I won’t be long,” she said, her voice calm and matter-of-fact. “The DNA lab has completed the analysis of the wood from the tree and the cement I took from the road. . . .”

  “That’s past. My expert says the bones are probably about a hundred years old and of a child. Slick Massey probably didn’t see the bones in the hollow when he cemented the tree,” he said, adding that people cemented hollow trees to try to save them. “What you saw on the finger bones was weathering.”

  Diane noted that his voice had a friendlier lilt to it when he told her this. Probably enjoying it, she figured, as she waited for him to finish.

  “Your expert is wrong,” she said. “The residue analysis of the wood from inside the tree indicates that decomposition of the body was much more recent. Identification of a button and clothing fibers caught in the cement limits the age to not more than five years ago. I have the evidence here, plus the report. I don’t know your expert, but the skeleton was not a child. Weathering did not remodel the bones. Disease did. How old do you think that tree is if it was hollow when the body was put in it a hundred years ago? It’s been my experience that hollow trees don’t live that long.” And your experience too, if you think about it, she didn’t add. “Sheriff Conrad, I don’t know why you’re trying to say the sun is shining during a thunderstorm, but you have an older individual, probably a woman, who needs justice. It’s now up to you to give it to her.”

  “Don’t you speak to me in that tone of voice.” The friendly lilt was gone, replaced by harsher tones. “Who do you think you are, telling me my job and belittling a man who was doctoring before you were born?”

  Diane could almost feel the telephone vibrate with his anger. She cast a glance at Travis. The look on his face was somewhere between alarm and amusement. He apparently knew his father would not take her words well.

  David and Izzy had wandered over and unabashedly listened to her side of the conversation. Both stood with their arms folded across their chests, grinning. David didn’t like Sheriff Conrad, so Diane knew he probably enjoyed her giving him an earful. Izzy, however, simply found it entertaining.

  “Sheriff Conrad, this is not about hurting your feelings or those of your expert, or disrespec
ting either of you. In fact, it isn’t about the two of you at all. It is about justice. I’m giving you information you need to know. Now the ball’s in your court,” she said.

  “Don’t call again. I won’t tolerate your butting into police business in my county.” He slammed the phone down.

  “Okay,” said Diane, “that went well.”

  “I guess I should have told you how to approach Daddy,” Travis said.

  He started to say something else but was interrupted by his cell phone ringing. He flipped it open. “Travis here.”

  He listened for several moments.

  “Yes. I’ll be able to get the stuff I need for the Watson place.” He paused. “Sure, I can do it. We covered it in that deputy training course I had to go to.” Travis paused again. “No, it won’t be that far out of the way. I’ll pick the stuff up; don’t worry none.” He listened, eyebrows raised. “I won’t.”

  Diane handed David the memory card for Travis’ camera as he spoke to his father. “Would you load this on the computer and work your magic on it?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He took it, walked over to one of the glass-enclosed carrels, and began loading the images on the computer.

  “You know you’re going to have to take a detour around Rendell County every time you have to travel north now, don’t you?” said Izzy, his face still split with a grin.

  “It would seem so,” she said. “Since you have nothing to do but make fun of me,” said Diane, “why don’t you put together a crime scene kit for Travis, and be sure nothing has our name on it.”

  “Will do,” said Izzy. “One incognito crime scene kit coming up.”

  When Travis got off the phone he looked over at Diane. “You really made him mad. I thought I was the only one who could piss him off that much.”

  “There was no way to avoid it. He wasn’t going to like the information I had, no matter how I packaged it,” Diane said.

  “True enough,” said Travis. “He wants me to pick up any evidence you have—all of it—all copies. He doesn’t quite understand about digital photographs. I guess he wants me to make sure you delete it from your computers.”

  Good luck with that, thought Diane. She wasn’t about to let it go . . . completely. She wouldn’t go into Rendell County to investigate, but she would look at the photographs and glean as much information as she could from them—and she would be a secret partner with Travis.

  David returned shortly and handed the card back to Travis. “I’ll have the reconstruction tomorrow,” he said.

  “Reconstruction?” asked Travis.

  “One of the things I need to show you,” said Diane.

  She rose from the table, gathered the report and evidence, and handed everything to Travis. She led him to the workstation David had vacated, pulled Travis up a chair by hers, sat down, and called up the Barre crime scene.

  Repeated viewings of the Barres in death did not desensitize her to the ghastly image of people she had known. It wouldn’t have been much easier if they were strangers, but it would have given her some emotional distance.

  She played the animated version for Travis. The androgynous figure appeared in the room—appeared because the photograph didn’t tell them how he or she got there. The killer slit Ozella’s throat, waited and slit Roy’s throat. Then he walked out of the room, followed by a window that came up reminding the viewer that there were no extra details in evidence of the exit.

  She heard Travis quietly whistle under his breath. “This is what happened?” he said. “How do you know? How do you know Ozella was killed first? How do you know the killer waited?”

  Diane flipped to the photographic view of the scene. She started in the dining room and took him through everything she had discovered by looking at the photographs. She pointed out Ozella’s milky eyes and told him what it meant—dead at least three hours, give or take. She showed him the reflection in the silver tray of Roy with his clear eyes.

  “Wow,” said Travis. He pulled out a notebook and wrote it all down.

  Diane showed him the blood spatter and what it might mean in terms of right- handedness of the killer. She showed him the indistinct tracks of blood on the carpet and floor.

  “I think he had covered his feet. Possibly with Tyvek. He may have even worn Tyvek coveralls,” she said, “to keep the blood off him.”

  “I can’t believe you can get all this stuff off the pictures,” he said, scribbling away.

  “If I had better photographs, I might find more,” said Diane. “It’s just a matter of looking for clues—and knowing what is a clue.”

  “You’ve really impressed me. You know, I’m gonna feel guilty taking credit for your work.”

  “Don’t,” Diane said absently. “One thing you might consider is that the Barres may have known their killer. I didn’t see evidence that anyone broke in the front door. Do you know if anyone broke in the back?”

  Travis shook his head. “It didn’t look like it. But the Barres were such friendly people. You know—build your house by the side of the road and be a friend to everybody. That was them. They might let a stranger in.”

  “If he looked like he was in a space suit?” said Diane.

  “You have a point there,” he said. “Is it easy to get those suits? That’s Tyvek, like the envelopes, right?”

  “Yes,” said Diane. “There was also a cigar box missing.”

  “Cigar box?” he said.

  Diane went to the panorama of the living room and highlighted the hutch where Roy Barre kept his collection. “I remember he showed me a cigar box filled with rocks. I don’t really remember what kind of rocks. Frankly, I wasn’t paying attention. But his children should know.”

  Travis nodded, staring unblinking at the photograph. “Roy Jr., their son, he lives in Helen. He’s been up to the place since the killings. Said he didn’t notice anything missing, but he was all freaked out. I could take him through the place again after the funeral. Roy’s kids’ll probably remember the box. Ol’ Roy liked to talk about the stuff he collected. His other kids, Christine and Spence, are coming in today or tomorrow. Christine lives in Virginia, I think, and Spence . . . somewhere in Tennessee.”

  “I’d like to speak with them,” said Diane.

  Travis nodded. “You thinking this box was a trophy?” he asked. “I mean, do you think this is one of them serial killers you hear about?”

  “I don’t know,” said Diane. “Maybe.”

  “I was gonna ask about Roy’s stuff—you know, the diaries. I was wondering if you read anything in them that might help. But now that the Watsons have been murdered, well, ain’t no use, it seems like.”

  “Never close off an avenue of investigation until it has been exhausted. Looking at the diary is not a bad idea. I’ve got a call in to Jonas Briggs to tell him about the Barres. He’s away right now on a dig and can’t be reached easily. He has the diary with him.”

  “Don’t make much difference now, I guess. What could the Watsons have to do with it?” said Travis.

  “Did the Watsons and the Barres know each other?” asked Diane.

  “Sure. Not many strangers in our county. They went to the same church—First Baptist. So they were of the same spiritual attitude as the Barres. They didn’t get along with Daddy and the rest of the deacons in our church. Truthfully, I’d like to go to their church, but Daddy would be upset, and we’ve just started getting along since he gave me the job as deputy—I was a bit of a handful growing up. Our deacons think the First Baptists are leaning toward the side of sin just a little too much.”

  Diane tried to call up in her mind what the First Baptists could be doing to earn such a description, but couldn’t imagine it.

  As if he understood what she might be thinking, Travis continued explaining the nuances of religious point of view in his county.

  “They want a little more progress in the county—and they allow dancing.” He laughed. “I know how backward we must sound to you guys down here.”

&n
bsp; “Could anyone in your church or another church be so worried about people from First Baptist that they would start killing them?” asked Diane.

  Travis looked at her, startled. “I hadn’t thought of that, but I can’t imagine it. That’d be cold.” He shook himself, as if trying to get rid of the thought. “I’ll tell you this: It’s an idea Daddy won’t entertain at all, and I don’t know how I’d ask around.”

  “Would your dad be willing to ask the GBI or the FBI in, especially if there are any more killings?” asked Diane.

  “You’re joking, right?” he said. “No.”

  “Then you are going to have to figure out a way to ask the tough questions,” said Diane.

  Izzy appeared with a suitcase and handed it to Travis. “One crime scene kit to go. If you like, I’ll go over everything with you,” he said.

  “That’d be real nice of you,” Travis said.

  “I’ll be getting back to the museum,” said Diane. “Call if you need anything.”

  “I will. Thanks. I really do appreciate the help here. I’d like to know what you think of the Watson crime scene,” Travis said.

  “Was their house broken into?” asked Diane.

  “Don’t believe so,” said Travis. “I didn’t look at the whole thing. Daddy went through it. I’ll find out from him. I was kind of hoping it was a stranger—like that guy you met in the woods. I sent Jason over to the rangers’ station to ask about campers. I’d like it to be somebody like him. It’d be real bad if it’s somebody from Rendell County. Real bad.”

  Diane didn’t like the direction of his thinking. However much Travis tried to be different from his father, he was thinking like him now. He was in danger of pinning it on a stranger. Maybe not on purpose, but she doubted that his dad did it on purpose, either. She needed to solve this before some miscarriage of justice was meted out by the Conrads.

  “If you can keep me informed,” she told Travis, “I’ll give you all the analysis we have at our disposal.”

  “That’d be just real nice,” he said. “They’d all be so surprised if I solved this.”