“The other couple killed were members of the Barres’ church,” said Diane.
“You don’t say. Well, that does look suspicious, doesn’t it? I don’t know then. I wouldn’t have thought it, but who knows?” He paused for a long moment. “You know, I just can’t see murder being committed over a cell tower, or even their religion. I went to the Waffle House up there a couple of times with Roy, and heard some lively debate there with some people from other churches at times, but nothing that would lead to murder. It was more like, how literally should the ‘taking up of serpents’ be taken?”
“Does Leland Conrad’s church handle snakes?” asked Diane, wrinkling her face.
“No. Some of the others in the county do, though. One brought a snake to a county commission meeting. Roy said that was a hoot,” said Jonas. “I’ve found most of the people up there to be nice folks—even the members of Conrad’s church. It’s mostly the leaders of the church that Roy had issues with. And those issues were mainly about the use of his land—the cell tower, and the development proposal.”
“What development proposal?” said Diane.
“Some developers looking to buy a section of land from him for later development. Some people in Rendell County would like to attract tourists in the winter—sort of like Helen. Have shops, skiing, that sort of thing. Roy was all for it, but so were a lot of other people.”
“Did Roy receive any threats over it?” she asked.
“He never mentioned it. I can’t imagine that killing Roy and Ozella would stop it. His kids might up and sell the whole parcel to developers anyway,” said Jonas. “Besides, Roy wasn’t even the driving force behind it—that was a man named Joe Watson.”
Diane felt a cold chill run up her spine. “Did you say Joe Watson?” she said. “Was his wife named Ella?”
“I don’t know,” said Jonas. “Roy just mentioned it in passing.”
Diane could detect the note of caution in his voice as he spoke. His words came out more slowly, and each syllable seemed to carry a question with it.
“A Joe and Ella Watson were the second couple who were murdered,” said Diane.
“Well,” he said, “then I suppose someone did think the project was worth killing over.” He paused a moment. “I don’t understand it. It was only talk at this point—just speculation. It doesn’t make sense that anyone would kill over it now. But what do I know? I’m just an archaeologist.”
“Can you think of any other people or things he mentioned that might be important?” said Diane.
“Sooner or later, most of our conversations got back around to his grandfather. LeFette Barre was a big influence in Roy’s life. From the time Roy was eight years old, his grandfather took him surveying with him. His grandfather was a surveyor and did some cartography.”
“Roy mentioned it,” said Diane.
“I bet he did. He loved to talk about his grandfather. They would camp in the woods and hunt for Indian arrowheads and whatever else caught their eye. To hear Roy talk, it was the happiest time in his life. But then, he’s always happy. Was,” he added. “Roy said from the time his grandfather could walk, he was out looking for interesting things in the woods. The man should have been an archaeologist instead of a surveyor.”
“Was there anything in LeFette Barre’s diary that could shed light on any of this?” asked Diane.
“I’ve only read Roy Barre’s catalog of the arrowheads and the notes he made from the diaries.”
“Diaries?” said Diane. “I thought there was only one diary.”
“One?” said Jonas, a little startled. “The guy started keeping them when he was fifteen, and he died when he was seventy-two. We’ve got several boxes of them in my office.”
Chapter 27
“Boxes of diaries?” said Diane. She was rather stunned by the revelation. “How many?”
“Well, I think there are three boxes,” said Jonas.
“And here I thought you took his diary with you to Arizona,” said Diane.
“I brought Roy’s catalog with me,” Jonas said. “I haven’t quite decided how to approach the diaries.”
“I’m wondering if there is anything in them that would shed light on what happened to Roy and his wife,” said Diane.
“I don’t see how,” said Jonas. “They were written years ago by his grandfather. But you were asking about secrets. People tend to keep their secrets in a diary—which strikes me as a strange place to expect to keep a secret. I suppose there could be some dark secret that has suddenly come to the fore.”
It did seem unlikely, thought Diane. “Are they legible?” she asked.
“I’ve thumbed through only a couple of them. I think the later ones are more legible. When he became a surveyor he used that neat engineer’s print. When he was younger, it was a combination of printing and writing, like most of us do. I’ve never kept a journal myself,” said Jonas, “unless field notes count.”
“Before I let you go, do you remember a cigar box Roy kept in a cabinet in the living room?” Diane asked.
“Full of his grandfather’s trinkets. I remember it,” he said.
“The killer apparently took it, and I was wondering what was in it,” said Diane.
“The killer took it? That’s odd. Let’s see . . . There were a few broken quartz points from the Old Quartz Culture—Archaic Period. Several marbles of different colors—one looked kind of like confetti—several cat’s-eyes. A couple of shiny metallic gold-colored marbles that looked like shooters. You know what that is?” he said.
“I do. It’s the marble you scatter the others with,” said Diane.
Jonas chuckled slightly. “His shooters looked a little worse for wear—lots of nicks in them. What else? Let me think. . . . There were several rocks of different sizes and colors. A couple of seashells, bottle caps, and a Scout knife—it was pretty old. Several gumball or Cracker Jack charms—old too, from a time when they put good prizes in boxes and candy machines. I think there was a blimp . . . you know . . . a dirigible. There was an airplane, a baseball, a horse head, a cowboy boot. . . . That’s all I can remember.”
Diane listed the items on a notepad on her desk as Jonas ticked them off.
“Jonas, I’m amazed you can remember so much of it. His kids, who’d seen that cigar box all their lives, could barely give me any description at all of what was in it.”
“You know us archaeologists; we like old stuff,” he said.
“I appreciate the things you’ve been able to tell me,” she said. “I have another piece of bad news. I debated whether to tell you—it just seems like too much,” she said.
“Oh, no. Nothing’s happened to Kendel, Mike, and little Neva in Africa, I hope,” he said.
“No. It’s still about the Barres. Their oldest son, Roy Jr., was in a car accident. He’s alive, but in critical condition. It looks like someone ran him off the road,” said Diane.
“Horror just keeps coming to that family, doesn’t it?” said Jonas.
“Yes, it does,” said Diane. And it offends me, she thought.
Diane was relieved to have that discussion over. She had dreaded telling Jonas the terrible news. But she had learned more from Jonas—who until recently was a stranger to the Barres—than she had from anyone else.
On her notebook Diane started writing motives for the Barres’ murders. She started with religion, only because that was what everyone else started with. Even though religion was a recurring reason throughout the centuries for various conflicts, it just wasn’t tracking for her. What would be the details of such a motive—fear of progress, scorn for dancing? No, Diane just couldn’t see religion as the basis for a homicidal motive in this case.
Maybe she could ask Frank; he was more religious than she was. Diane hadn’t lied to Sheriff Conrad when she said she believed in God, but she wasn’t particularly religious and found God to be very remote. She occasionally went with Frank or one of her friends to their church, mainly because she liked the people.
Judging from the people she had met so far in this case, it didn’t seem likely that members of one of these congregations could whip themselves up into a homicidal frenzy over a minor point of theology. But perhaps it was fear that another person’s religion would change their own way of life. She shook her head. That still didn’t sound like a realistic motive. She put a question mark beside it.
She wrote down, Land. That seemed like a more reasonable motive. Land translated to money and to style of life. She could see people fighting over land and its use. She had seen the kind of changes in a community that could result from land development, and how those changes might be unbearable to some—especially a profound change, like going from a quiet, secluded rural area to a busy tourist town. It seemed even more likely a motive because the Watsons, who were spearheading the development campaign, were also killed.
Travis had said something about a dispute over the property line between Slick Massey and the Barres. That held possibilities. If Massey thought he was being cheated by the Barres, Diane could see him committing murder. But what motive would he have to kill the Watsons?
All in all, land showed much more promise as a motive than did religion.
Diane wrote down, Unknown motive, in her notebook. She had nothing to put under it, of course. Still, that category nagged at her as being most likely. Since nothing made sense, there was something missing.
She went back to the cigar box again. Was the box of old childhood trinkets important, or just a souvenir for the killer? Was there something in it that had more meaning than was evident? Were the contents valuable?
Diane slipped the small notebook into her purse. Before she left she turned to her computer and called up a template of a form and filled it in, and she gave Dr. Lynn Webber, Rosewood’s ME, a call. That tended to, she shut down her computer and left by way of Andie’s office.
Sierra was still sitting at Andie’s desk.
“Aren’t you going home tonight?” asked Diane.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything before I left.”
Diane smiled at her. “If you wait on me, you’re likely to be here all night.” She told Sierra she had done a good job relieving Andie today, and received a broad, very white-toothed smile in return.
“I don’t mind extra work,” Sierra said. “Anytime you need me for something, I’m willing.”
Diane smiled at her. “How fast do you read?”
If Sierra thought that an odd question, she didn’t show it.
“Unfortunately, I’m slow. I mean, I remember everything; I’m just not a speed- reader. But you know, up in Archives, Mikaela Donovan and Fisher Teague both read really fast.”
“Really? Thank you, Sierra. That’s extremely helpful,” said Diane.
That elicited a smile that almost blinded Diane.
Sierra rose from behind Andie’s desk, straightened the objects on it, looked at it wistfully, and started collecting her things.
“If you are willing, there are often projects to work on. Andie is working on the webcam project for schools.
I have a whole in-box full of project proposals from curators and exhibit planners. If I come across one that I would like to follow up on, I’ll let you help with it.”
“That would be just great,” said Sierra. “I would love that. Thanks, Dr. Fallon.”
The two of them walked down the hall together. It was getting late but the night lighting hadn’t yet come on in the museum and they still had visitors leaving. Soon the museum itself would close, but the central hallway with its own entrance would stay open for people eating at the restaurant and those who wanted to shop at the museum store, which was where Sierra was going, saying she wanted to buy one of the new T-shirts for her younger sister if the dinosaur tees had arrived.
Diane drove to Rosewood Hospital and rode the elevator up to the critical-care unit’s waiting room. She paused at the door and scanned the room, looking for the Barres, finally spotting Christina and Spence sitting on a sofa against the wall near a window. She held a file folder under her arm with the forms she had printed out.
Chapter 28
Critical care’s waiting area was a comfortable room with thick carpet and soft sofas and chairs, all in shades of sea green and blue. A giant painting of a stylized ocean in the same colors hung on one wall. All in all, a soothing room.
Christina and Spence were sipping their cups of coffee, not talking, simply waiting for the next time they could go in and see their brother. Spence looked up first, then Christina. Each smiled wanly at Diane as she approached. Spence stood and looked grateful for something to do. Diane understood the emotional pressure they were under. Waiting for news was hard and tiring.
“I came to see how Roy Jr. is doing,” said Diane.
“He’s had a craniotomy,” said Spence. “They don’t tell us a lot.”
Diane started to explain about relieving pressure on the brain, but remembered that Spence was a medical technician and he probably knew.
“It sounds good, though. He’s alive, so there is hope,” said Diane. “I know waiting is hard.”
They nodded.
“Brian is getting us a hotel room across the street,” said Christine.
“That’s a good hotel. They cater to the needs of people who have loved ones in the hospital,” she said. Words of comfort weren’t something Diane was good at. What could one possibly say to comfort a person at a time like this? Was comfort even possible?
“Why did this happen?” asked Christine. “Do you think it had anything to do with what happened to Mom and Dad?”
“I don’t know,” said Diane. “It could be only a terrible coincidence.”
Diane sat down in a chair near the sofa, mainly so Spence would feel free to sit down again. But she also had something she wanted to ask them. She started with the easy part and told them that she would like to attend church services this coming Sunday at Rendell First Baptist and speak with members who knew their parents and the Watsons.
Christine nodded. “That’s a good idea. We can go too.” She looked over at her brother. “People will be more willing to talk if we are there.”
“Sure,” said Spence. “I haven’t been to church in a while. It’ll probably be good for me.”
“I have another request. It’s rather delicate. I know and respect the pathologist here. I would like her to do a second autopsy on your parents,” said Diane.
Christine leaned forward and put a hand on Diane’s arm. Her eyes had a bright, moist look to them. “We want to find out what happened. We’re very fond of Dr. Linden, but he’s not up to this.”
“Linden’s been retired for at least ten years—or more,” said Spence, his face creased in anger. Diane got the idea he wasn’t as fond. “You have to keep up with new technology and techniques that are developed constantly. You think he’s been reading pathology journals these past ten years?” He shook his head. “I’ll see to it; I’ll see that Mom and Dad’s bodies are sent to . . .”
Diane handed him a card on which she had written the instructions.
“ ‘Rosewood Hospital, Pathology Department,’ ” he read from the card. “You know this Dr. Lynn Webber, you say?”
“Yes,” said Diane. “I spoke with her before I came here and she’s willing to do the second autopsy. I’ve worked with her on many cases. She’s very competent,” added Diane.
And very high-maintenance, she thought. Sometimes Diane had to walk on eggshells around her. Lynn Webber hated to be contradicted or have anyone step into her territory. She had recently put Diane in a very sticky situation with Diane’s superiors in order to even a score with someone from her past, so Diane had a lot of stored-up capital with her at the moment. But the autopsy request had not been a problem for Lynn. She had been happy to accommodate Diane. Not to mention, Lynn loved to be the one brought in to solve a problem.
“Dr. Webber will have to have authorization from you,” said Diane. “I a
lso have another request.” Diane paused, struggling with how to word it as delicately as possible. “I would like some of my people from the crime lab to be there to collect tissue samples for our use, along with Dr. Webber’s. We are looking for ways of determining postmortem interval—that’s time since death. We are trying to find indicators—biosignatures, if you will—of biological changes that are time-dependent.”
“Why is the pathologist taking samples?” said Christine. “Mama or Dad didn’t drink . . . or take pills.” Christine looked alarmed.
Diane had thought Christine and Spence might be upset by her crime lab taking the samples, but not if the pathologist did it.
“We don’t know that the killer, or killers, didn’t drug them in some way,” said Diane.
“They always take samples,” said Spence, frowning at his sister. “It has nothing to do with their character. That’s just how it’s done.” He turned to Diane. “You don’t think the sheriff and Linden determined time of death accurately, do you? Will this help?”
“I’m hopeful that it will,” said Diane. “But, if not for your parents, then perhaps for victims in the future. We’re working on a way to more accurately calculate time of death when there’s not a pathologist available at the scene to determine it right away.”
“So it’s a study,” said Christine. She didn’t seem too happy about her parents being part of an experiment.
“Yes, what we learn from them will be used in the larger study. But I am hoping for some information useful specifically in your parents’ case,” said Diane.
“Even with the sheriff’s bumbling,” said Spence, “you pretty much know the time of death because of the time when you last saw them alive and the time when you returned and found them.”
“Yes,” said Diane. “We have a time window. But your father died sometime—at least an hour—after your mother. I want to know why.”
“How do you know?” said Christine.
“I took pictures with my cell phone camera before I went for help,” said Diane. “I didn’t know if the killer might return and disturb the scene before it could be secured.”
The Night Killer Page 15