The Night Killer

by Beverly Connor

  Chapter 21

  Andie was late getting back from lunch. Diane didn’t mind. A love story was far better to have close by than the murders that occupied most of her thoughts right now. In Andie’s absence Diane had routed the phones to one of the secretaries while she worked at her desk going over ideas from the exhibit planners for a new ocean exhibit.

  She heard a rustling in Andie’s office, then a knock at her door.

  “Enter,” she said, looking up from her work.

  “Dr. Fallon, I’m so sorry to be late. I just . . . time just got away. I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

  Diane smiled at her. “Did you have a good time?”

  “Oh, yes.” Andie pulled up a chair and sat down, leaning her forearms on Diane’s desk. “I think I’m falling in love. It’s too soon, isn’t it?”

  Diane closed the folders in front of her and gave Andie her attention.

  “Two days—yes, but it’s not too soon to fall in love with the possibility of being in love. I caught a glimpse of ... What is his name, by the way?”

  “William Dugal. He goes by Liam. You saw him. Isn’t he gorgeous?” Andie said, her auburn curls bobbing as she nodded her head.

  “From what I could see, definitely,” said Diane, smiling at her. “I was hoping to meet him, but I had to run over to the crime lab.”

  “I’m hoping he’ll be around awhile,” said Andie, unconsciously dipping her fingers into Diane’s desk fountain and letting the water run over them.

  “What does he do?” asked Diane. “You mentioned something about the military?”

  “He recently retired from the military and is thinking about going to school,” said Andie. “He’s been looking at different universities.”

  “Retired?” said Diane.

  “Yeah, he’s kind of older than I am—by about twelve years,” she said, making the kind of face that Diane knew meant she was afraid Diane was going to disapprove.

  “He certainly looks a lot younger,” said Diane. “Obviously keeps in shape.”

  “He definitely does that.” Andie grinned.

  “Did you say he is interested in museums?”

  Andie nodded. “I gave him one of our booklets on museology. He likes the traveling part especially. I think he’d enjoy acquiring pieces for a museum. He’s particularly interested in geology and archaeology. I thought I’d introduce him to Mike and Jonas when they get back. He really enjoyed the exhibits in their departments. He was impressed with Mike’s organized approach, and thought our mummy was cool, but wanted to see more Native American artifacts. I told him we had a collection of points donated to us that were very striking. I didn’t talk about the Barres.” Andie’s face grew solemn. “That didn’t seem to be appropriate.”

  She paused and, as if just realizing she had a hand in Diane’s fountain, she snatched it away. Diane handed her a tissue to dry her fingers.

  “Anyway,” Andie continued, “we’re going to have dinner and a movie tomorrow evening in Atlanta. And I’m talking a lot, aren’t I? I hope I don’t do that with him.”

  “I’m glad you’re having a good time,” said Diane.

  Andie bobbed her head up and down again. “Me too. It’s so nice to have someone who likes to listen to me go on about the museum. Speaking of the museum, I was wondering if I could have tomorrow off. I know I didn’t put in ahead of time, but . . .”

  “Sure, just have someone cover for you here,” said Diane.

  “Thank you. I really appreciate it. Thank you. Oh, by the way, the first of the T-shirts arrived today. They are really cool. Very detailed and sparkly.”

  “Which ones arrived?” asked Diane.

  “ ‘Geology Rocks,’ ‘Archaeology Is a Thing of the Past,’ ‘Seashells by the Seashore,’ and the Vitruvian Man,” said Andie.

  Diane smiled. She was particularly interested in seeing Vitruvian Man. That was the design she had picked out for the primate department. Diane had asked every department to submit designs for T-shirts for the docents to wear and to sell in the museum shop. Her staff was very big on T-shirts and jumped into the project with such enthusiasm she thought that overnight they had become couturiers.

  “I hope the dinosaur shirts arrive soon,” said Andie. “I think they are going to be really popular. The designs are very dramatic.” She stood up abruptly. “I’d better get back to work.” She started to leave, but hesitated. “I appreciate the time off on short notice; really, I do. Thanks.” She darted out of the office before Diane could say anything.

  Diane finished reviewing the ideas for the ocean exhibit that was to combine collections from several of the museum’s departments. She wrote up her comments on the computer and sent them to the planners.

  She sat at her desk a moment before summoning up the strength to go to the crime lab and look at the newest crime scene photos. She told Andie she was crossing over to her other job and walked to the Dark Side, as her staff liked to call the section that housed the crime lab and her osteology lab. She went to her vault to view the photographs, cocooned in her own secure space.

  David had already entered the photographic information into the crime scene reconstruction program. She knew he would do it quickly. She looked at the photograph of the Watsons in their dining room. Variation on a theme. Same poses, different people. Pine dining room set instead of mahogany.

  The photographs of the Watson crime scene were clearer than the ones she took with her camera phone at the Barres’, and there were close-ups. She noted the hair first. There was the same ruffled-up hair on the tops of their heads, as if the killer had grabbed their hair with one hand, pulled back the head, and slit their throats. Next she looked at the blood splatter. It was remarkably similar to the Barre pattern. They were tied with duct tape to their chairs, same as the Barres.

  Both the Watsons were in their nightwear. It looked like they—just as had the Barres—had let the killer in while they were dressed in their nightclothes. If there was no break-in, then they had to know their assailant. Diane didn’t care how friendly these people were; you didn’t let strangers into your house in the middle of the night. Not dressed in your nightclothes.

  Their eyes were closed and they were leaning back, as if in comfortable repose.

  Odd.

  Why was that? Was that something the killer did? Then why didn’t he close the Barres’ eyes? Someone else closed their eyes and repositioned the bodies, perhaps? Someone found them dead and closed their eyes, thinking they were showing respect by doing it?

  Something to ask Travis about. Diane hoped it wasn’t someone in the sheriff’s office who did it. Perhaps it was just a difference in the way the Barres and the Watsons had approached their deaths and it meant nothing.

  She searched the room, grid by grid, the way she had with the Barre photographs. Nothing stood out. She didn’t find any footprint stains on the rug. No indication how the killer left.

  Diane took a breath and examined the close-up photographs of the Watsons. The wounds were deep—deeper than the Barres’ appeared to be. Sharper knife, or more confidence? She looked for any indication of tool marks that might be used to identify the weapon. There was only blood and flesh to be seen in the photographs.

  Leaving the close-ups, she called up the virtual tour David had put together. She explored the living room, but found nothing that stood out. She’d never been in the Watsons’ house and she had no way of knowing whether anything was missing. She looked for any place on a table or shelf where something might have been, but now was gone. Nothing. She noted that in both the living room and dining room, there were no doors or drawers left open. Everything was closed. What did that mean? Anything?

  No more photographs. Travis had taken pictures only of the dining room and living room, as she had at the Barres’. She had limited herself to taking only those photos because she wasn’t free to walk about the house in someone else’s crime scene. Travis was under no such restriction. She shook her head. He really was in over his hea
d.

  Diane left the photographs and the vault. She’d had enough of grisly murder for the day. She locked up, checked in with David and Izzy, and drove home. All the way there, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being followed.

  Chapter 22

  Diane got out of the car and looked back at the road, watching the vehicles go by, but nothing jumped out at her. No one slowed down; no one leaned out the window with a gun. But then, it was dark and almost all she could see were headlights. She smiled at herself and went inside. “Slick Massey has made me paranoid,” she whispered to herself as she locked the door behind her.

  She showered and put on comfortable clothes, which for her was a sweat suit. She looked at herself in the mirror and decided that she looked a little too casual. She slipped on a pair of jeans and a snug-fitting navy long-sleeved cotton T-shirt.

  Pronouncing herself suitably dressed, she started a late dinner of roasted vegetables and spinach-stuffed salmon. It was ready when she heard Frank come in the door and empty his pockets into the small ceramic tray that held his keys, change, a watch—all the things he used only outside the house. The clink of metal on ceramic had come to be a comforting all’s-right-with-the-world sound to Diane. She smiled and decided she was glad she’d dressed in something a little sexier than fleece. She served up dinner in the dining room with candles.

  “Is it my birthday?” asked Frank.

  “After looking at some of the stuff I’ve looked at all day, I thought it would be nice to get away from it all,” she said.

  “I’m good with that,” said Frank. “You look great.”

  “Thanks.” She kissed him and went to get the wine.

  After dinner they curled up on the couch with their glasses of wine. Curling up with Frank was getting to be Diane’s favorite pastime. She was just about to tell him that very thing when the phone rang. They both sighed. Frank got up to answer it.

  Diane deduced that it was Frank’s partner, Ben Florian. Must be something important—he rarely called Frank at home. But it was hard to tell. It was a very one-sided conversation. Frank mostly listened, sitting on the arm of a chair.

  “That was interesting,” said Frank when he sat down next to her again.

  He gave Diane one of his eye-twinkling smiles, the kind that made his eyes sparkle and crinkle in the corners.

  “Ben’s brain processes information in a kind of algorithmic loop. Data goes around and around until an answer occurs to him.” Frank took a sip of his wine. “Or, ‘He’s like a dog with a bone,’ is another metaphor I could use.”

  “I take it he has an answer for something?” said Diane.

  Frank nodded his head. “A pretty good answer. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it. It seems so obvious.”

  Diane straightened up and sat cross- legged with her back resting against the arm of the sofa, rolled her glass of wine in her hands, and watched Frank.

  “Can you talk about it?” she asked.

  “Actually, it’s about you,” he said.

  Diane raised a brow. “Me? He’s got a circuit going through his head about me?”

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” he said, grinning at her. “I told Ben about your adventure in the mountains, the tree, the skeleton, Slick and his girlfriend, her temper, her cousin with the walker, Slick following you to the museum to give back your stuff, the finger bones in the hood of your car—all of it. It’s all been making a circuit through his brain,” said Frank.

  “And?” said Diane.

  “And the answer Ben’s brain has come up with is that Slick and his girlfriend are involved with Social Security fraud,” he said.

  Diane opened her mouth. “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “You have a skeleton of an older person showing some disability that was walled up inside a tree. You have an elderly person with a disability staying with Slick and Tammy. Tammy, who doesn’t have a particularly generous nature, is being very solicitous to the so-called cousin staying with her. Put all these pieces together and one scenario that occurs to us fraud professionals is that they may be taking in vulnerable individuals and stealing their Social Security checks. It doesn’t have to be Social Security; could be any pension. But Ben thinks there may be some kind of fraud going on, and I agree.”

  “But what about these people’s families? No one’s been reported missing,” said Diane.

  “Do you know that for a fact?” said Frank.

  “Well, I suppose not,” she said.

  “They could be taking their victims from nursing homes,” he said. “Or just homeless people with a pension of some kind. Do you know how many homeless we have in Atlanta? They could choose the kind of person who has no one else in the world. All Tammy and Slick would have to do is change the address where the check is being sent. Or better yet, go down with the person to a bank and open up a joint account to have the checks direct-deposited. There are any number of ways they could play it.”

  Frank shook his head. “They could just wait for the person to die. I don’t imagine Tammy and Slick are particularly good caregivers. Or they could murder their victims. Either way, they don’t report the death, and they continue to collect the check. It’s been done—mostly between relatives, but not always. It’s actually pretty safe for the criminal if it’s set up right. Tammy and Slick don’t have any neighbors. Nobody to watch them. It’s really a pretty good setup for that kind of thing.”

  “Just their bad luck their tree fell on me,” said Diane. “Where do you think they pick up the people? Off the street? How would they know if they get a monthly check?”

  “Probably not off the street. Probably Atlanta or nearby. Someplace where there’re lots of vulnerable people, like at a free clinic, a nursing home, places that provide services for people on pensions. We need to find out what Tammy did before she shacked up with Slick.”

  “We?” said Diane.

  “Yeah. I hate fraud. Have I ever told you that?” said Frank. “Besides, if we’re right, there’s a woman in danger. Do you think your new friend Travis might know anything about Tammy?”

  “I don’t know. But I need to alert him about the woman living with them.” Diane grabbed the phone and called information to get Travis’ home number. It rang about fifteen times before he picked up.

  “Travis,” he answered.

  Diane explained their concerns. “I was wondering if you could check on the woman we saw there,” she said.

  “Sure. I’ll be damned. That kind of makes sense, don’t it? That ol’ Slick’s slicker than I thought. I can go over there right now. I’ll let you know,” he said.

  “Does your cell phone have a camera?” asked Diane. “I was wondering if you could get a picture of Tammy, and perhaps her guest.”

  “You mean kind of spy-like?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Diane.

  “I can give it a try,” he said.

  When Diane hung up, she turned to Frank.

  “My lipstick,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I was going to throw it away, but it’s still in that sack of things Slick returned. There’s no way Tammy didn’t use it. I’ll bet it has her prints on it. I’ll lift them and see if we can get a match.”

  “If we can get a picture of Tammy, Ben and I can run it by some of the clinics and nursing homes in the Atlanta area to see if anyone recognizes her,” said Frank.

  Diane was surprised at how relieved she felt to have an explanation of Slick Massey’s and Tammy Taylor’s behavior. Ben’s analysis might be wrong, but it didn’t feel wrong. That was why they returned Diane’s things. Slick didn’t want her digging any deeper into their business. Diane felt energized. She was about to pour them another glass of wine when the phone rang again.

  “Too soon to be Travis,” said Diane. She looked at the caller ID but didn’t recognize the number. She answered.

  “Hello, is this Diane Fallon?” said a breathy female voice.

  “Who is calling?” said Diane.
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  “This is Christine McEarnest. Roy and Ozella Barre are my parents. I was wondering if me and my brothers could come talk to you?”

  Chapter 23

  Christine McEarnest wore clothes well. She was slim, with a well-balanced body. She was wearing a shirtdress of chocolate brown polished silk, a wide dark belt, dark hose, and brown platform sandals. Her ensemble looked new. The men with her were less dressy. Her husband, Brian, wore Dockers with a khaki shirt. Her brother, Spence Barre, had on jeans and a denim shirt over a white tee. All three sat on the couch in Diane’s meeting room at the museum, looking solemn. Christine had red-rimmed eyes. Spence kept looking at his watch. Diane sat opposite them in one of the stuffed chairs. They had declined the drinks she offered them. Christine twisted an embroidered cotton handkerchief in her hand.

  “I don’t know why Roy Jr.’s late. It isn’t like him,” she said.

  This got a derisive grunt from her husband. Christine gave him a sharp look.

  “Roy Jr. knows how important this is,” she said. “It was his idea.”

  Christine had introduced all of them by explaining what they each did for a living—obviously an important thing to her, a sign that they had left the mountain hollow and made something of themselves. Christine managed a dress shop in Reston, Virginia. Her husband, Brian, worked for the U.S. Geological Survey as a computer technician. Her brother Spence was a medical technician in Knoxville, Tennessee, and her brother Roy Jr. owned an art gallery in Helen, Georgia. They had all done well and Christine wanted Diane to know it, to know that they and, more important, their parents mattered.

  She hadn’t needed to convince Diane and certainly didn’t need to justify their existence to her. The truth that people mattered was written in Diane’s DNA.

  “We need to get started,” said Brian McEarnest, glancing at his own watch. “We can’t waste Dr. Fallon’s time like this. Roy Jr. will be here when he gets here.”

  “I know,” said Christine. “I was just hoping he would be here. I thought he would get here before us. Helen isn’t that far away.”