“How about people who weren’t strangers?”
“No. It was pretty quiet. Bernie came in and looked around on his rounds, but that’s all. That was a little after eight, I guess.”
Chanell Napier came back with a black carrying case about the size of a small suitcase. “I called the police while I was down there.”
“Good.” Diane set the case on a stool, opened it, and began searching through the materials for the things she needed.
“Shouldn’t the police be doing that?” asked one of Korey’s assistants.
“They won’t,” answered another assistant, before Diane could say anything. “My dad’s house was robbed a year ago. They took the television, Mom’s jewelry, and my brother’s computer. The police told them they probably wouldn’t get any of their stuff back. They didn’t even look for fingerprints or canvas the neighborhood.”
“I thought they always tested for fingerprints,” said the first assistant.
“No. And Dad was really pissed. When this fracas with the city council and the mayor started, he wrote letters to the editor about how sloppy the police were. If they won’t take fingerprints for a burglary, they sure won’t when nothing was stolen.”
As they spoke with each other, Diane examined the print on the table, determining which of the various methods of obtaining a good impression would be best. She closed the case and asked Korey to bring her a camera.
“You’re not going to take it after all?” The guard sounded disappointed.
“I think the best method will be to photograph it and enhance the photo. Check the trash for any latex gloves that might have been thrown away. Whoever made this had on gloves.”
“Then you can’t get a print anyway,” said an assistant.
“For any of you contemplating a life of crime,” said Diane, taking the camera and tripod Korey handed her, “I’ll tell you a little secret. Surgical gloves fit like a second skin. Fingerprints can show through them.”
Diane mounted the camera on the tripod Korey set up, set it for greatest depth of field and took several shots. “Korey, can you get that light and shine it under this ledge? If I’m not mistaken, there should be a thumbprint.”
She and Korey looked under the edge of the table, but saw nothing.
“Nothing visible,” said Diane. “You have a UV light, don’t you?”
“Yeah, for detecting microorganisms,” answered Korey.
“There’s one in the fingerprint kit,” said the security guard. “In the leather pouch.” She pulled out the pouch and retrieved the light. “Battery operated.” Diane looked at her. “I went through the kit.”
Diane laughed as she reached for the orange goggles. “Okay, you guys without goggles step back.” She turned on the light and looked under the table. There it was: a large thumbprint—faint, but she could enhance it.
“We don’t have any of that superglue stuff,” said Chanell.
“Cyanoacrylate. I guess we’re going to have to make sure we have a better supplied security office.” Diane grinned at her. “I’ll use powder. I think that should do.”
“Were you a crime-scene expert in another life?” asked one of Korey’s assistants.
“Forensic anthropologist,” Korey answered for her.
“Cool.”
“Where I worked, it was a good idea to learn everything,” Diane said.
She chose a magnetic powder and brush from the case. Holding a piece of paper under the table edge to catch the powder that fell, she dusted the print and removed the excess with a magnet. It was faint, but usable. Diane lifted it with tape, which she placed on a backing card.
Just as she finished, the door to the conservation lab opened and Andie came in with two policemen and another man in a gray suit, matching hair and a sour expression.
The mayor, Diane thought. She wondered why a little break-in at the museum rated the mayor’s assistance.
Chapter 17
One of the policemen was Izzy Wallace, whom she’d met the evening before. The other one she had caught a glimpse of on the porch when he came with Izzy to the Boone house.
Diane had an uneasy feeling in her gut, but didn’t know why. Something about Izzy’s demeanor the previous evening and the mayor’s expression now.
“Will you develop this, Korey?” Diane handed him the camera and slipped the fingerprint card in the pocket of her blazer. “Chanell, take the fingerprint kit back to the office, please.”
“Sure, Dr. Fallon.”
Diane washed her hands at the sink and turned to greet the police. “Thanks for coming.” She held out her hand.
“Nice to see you again,” said Izzy, giving her hand a firm shake.
“How’s your guest?” asked Diane.
“Not a happy camper, but at least he’s tucked away safe and sound.”
Izzy was courteous, but not friendly. She turned to the mayor.
“Mayor Sutton, nice of you to come visit the museum,” she said, taking his offered hand. His handshake was a little too hard to be polite. He’d have to work on it if he wanted to campaign for governor.
“I thought it would be a good time to meet you,” the mayor said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be at your . . . event the other evening. Pressing matters. But perhaps we can talk now, privately.”
“Of course. Korey, fill the policemen in on the break-in.”
She started to escort the mayor to Korey’s office, but it had a large window open to the lab.
“This way,” she said, and they stepped out into the hallway.
As they emerged into the hallway, an older man, about five foot seven, if he weren’t slightly stooped in the shoulders, stopped to greet her. “Dr. Fallon. I wanted to thank you for the opportunity to work here.” With his white hair, bushy eyebrows, toothbrush moustache and crystal blue eyes he might have been a wizard dressed up in modern, albeit well-worn clothes.
“Jonas Briggs.” Diane clasped his outstretched hands in hers. “My pleasure. This is—”
“Mayor Walter Sutton,” Jonas said. “Yes, we’ve met, after a fashion. Crossed verbal swords in the city council meetings. Democracy is a wonderful thing, don’t you think, Mayor?”
The expression on the mayor’s face suggested that he didn’t think democracy was wonderful at all. “Yes, yes,” he muttered.
“Jonas, may I use your office?” she asked.
“Certainly. It’s unlocked. I was just going to the staff lounge. Introduce myself to some of the people in the museum here.”
Jonas Briggs looked like a man who had found a home.
“His office is on this floor,” Diane told the mayor. “We’ll use it, rather than going downstairs to mine.”
Jonas’ office was across from the archaeology exhibits, the smallest section in the museum. In the back of his office was a small workroom. Through its open doorway Diane could see pieces of broken pottery sitting on worktables.
In his outer office he had already moved in large bookcases and filled them to capacity with his books. On the wall were enlarged photographs of archaeological excavations. From their dress, the archaeology crew looked like they were from the thirties. In one corner of the room was a table flanked by two stuffed chairs. A Staunton sandalwood chessboard was set up on the table and a painting of bold, bright slashes of color hung on the wall.
Diane sat behind the desk and indicated one of the stuffed chairs for the mayor.
“What is it you want to talk about?” she said as he pulled the chair nearer the desk and sat down and leaned forward, resting both elbows on the arms of the chair. If Jonas was a wizard, the mayor was a toad.
“I’m going to be blunt, Ms. Fallon. I believe in speaking plainly and getting to the point. It saves time, and time is money.”
“Please do, Mr. Sutton.”
He twisted and sat half upright. His frown deepened and he stared hard at her. She kept a pleasant expression on her face and held his stare. She was tempted to ask him if this was a contest.
; “There are two things I want to talk with you about. First, it has come to my attention that you are interfering in police business.”
Come to my attention was an unpleasant weasel phrase that annoyed Diane. She raised her brow and cocked her head. “I believe you’re misinformed.”
“Misinformed?” He leaned forward. “I have this from the police chief himself.”
“He is misinformed.”
“Let’s not dance around this, Ms. Fallon. You were seen by two policemen at a crime scene—the George Boone house.”
“Detective Janice Warrick had released the house before I was asked to take a look at it. As far as the detectives were concerned, it was no longer a crime scene.”
“You were asked there by an Atlanta detective who has absolutely no jurisdiction in the case.”
Diane was beginning to wonder just how good a friend Izzy Wallace was to Frank. “Again, you have been misinformed.”
“Frank Duncan is an Atlanta detective. He’s in the fraud division, not even homicide. He has absolutely no business interfering in a Rosewood matter.”
Walter Sutton leaned farther forward and placed a hand on the desk. For a moment, Diane thought he was going to pound it. She had never met the mayor and was becoming increasingly puzzled by his hostility. She’d learned from her friend Gregory that you only show anger in diplomacy when it gives you an advantage, and that most of the time, calm in the face of anger gives you the most advantage—so Diane remained outwardly calm.
“Mr. Sutton. Frank Duncan is executor of Louise and George Boone’s will. He is now, on their deaths, guardian of their minor daughter—who has been arrested for murder. It is most certainly his business to protect her interests and secure for her a defense. I’m shocked that you would think otherwise. A responsibility of that nature is a sacred trust.”
The mayor glared a moment before he settled back on the seat of the chair. “There’s another matter that’s of the utmost importance to this community.”
Diane knew what was coming and she almost laughed. Instead she picked up a pencil lying on the desk. Another of Gregory’s little bits of wisdom: Put a desk between you and the subject and trifle with a writing instrument. It works mainly in Western cultures, he had told her. There are so many authority figures that it’s subconsciously associated with—teachers, principals, doctors, psychiatrists, lawyers . . . just one more little thing that can give you a psychological edge.
“And what would that matter be?” she asked, absently rolling the pencil between her palms.
The mayor shifted in his seat.
“We’ve been working hard to build a community with a strong economic base,” said the mayor, straightening up in the stuffed chair.
“I know,” said Diane. “We at the museum are proud to have contributed to that base by being able to hire more than a hundred employees, not to mention offering two business opportunities—the restaurant and the museum shop—to local entrepreneurs. And, of course, there are our liaisons with the local schools, technical colleges and university.”
“Yes, well, there’s an opportunity to enhance the museum’s contribution.” By getting us to fall on our sword, thought Diane. “I understand,” the mayor continued, “that you have refused to consider an opportunity that would not only be good for the museum, but bring much-needed jobs to the community.”
“Mr. Sutton. You have me completely bewildered. You came in here under the impression that I was interfering in police business. However mistaken that impression was, you were correct in condemning that as inappropriate behavior. So you can see why I’m now puzzled that you’re interfering in museum business, which is my business.”
Mayor Sutton’s face reddened slightly. Gregory always said she would make a terrible diplomat, because she took such a perverse pleasure in making the other person mad. She had to confess he was right.
“When it is something so important to the community, as a leader it’s my business as well. Look, Ms. Fallon, we’ve gotten off to a shaky start. It was not my intention to make you defensive, but to ask you to see reason. It’s not fair to the people that you use a position you fell into by the merest chance.”
“Chance?”
“I have no desire to embarrass you, but you know Milo Lorenzo hired you because he was a friend and had compassion for you. Losing your job, being out of work for a year. That’s hard on anyone, and I’m not condemning you for it. However, had Milo known he was going to die so soon, he would have changed the way the museum governance was set up. You shouldn’t use this accidental power you have to make bad decisions. You are in over your head.”
Diane laughed out loud. “Yes, we have gotten off to a bad start. Part of the reason is that from the first you have all these assumptions that aren’t true. However, to explain, I would have to go into a whole history that, quite frankly, is none of your concern. Be that as it may, what you and some members of my board have to learn to deal with is that I do have the power. And I will use it to benefit the museum.”
“There are other alternatives for the museum. Do you realize how many jobs are at stake?”
“No, and neither do you. Not only are the other alternatives for the museum inadequate, but they will take it out of the county. Many of the current employees won’t be able to move with it. The county will not benefit from any of the tourism the museum brings or the taxes generated. What jobs would come our way from the sale of the museum land is merely speculation. What we have is solid.”
“There are things about this you don’t know.”
Diane sighed—that old shoe. “Yes, there are, and it would be foolish of me to make decisions of the magnitude that you are suggesting until I have all the facts.”
“I have learned it’s impossible to reason with a person who thinks she has all the answers. Let me just say this—there’s a lot of money involved, a lot. Right now, sitting up in your ivory tower, you seem to think you’re invincible, but you aren’t. There are ways to unseat you, despite what you believe, and when you fall, it will be hard.”
Diane set the pencil down and leaned forward. “If all else fails, try to scare me? Mr. Sutton, I have been threatened by men who will go to far greater lengths to obtain my cooperation than you are even willing to think about. You’re not scary.” She stood up. “I think it’s time this meeting ended.”
Mayor Sutton stood, looking for a moment as if he were searching for something that would be the last word. However, he turned on his heels and walked out the door. Diane watched him through the open office door as he headed for the elevators and punched the DOWN button over and over.
When Jonas Briggs came in, Diane was still standing behind the desk, scowling. She couldn’t shake the notion that had taken hold of her, that there was another, hidden piece to this. Despite the trite old excuse politicians and bureaucrats were wont to drag out about there being things unknown to mere plebes, this time she believed there were.
“I have to hand it to you,” said Jonas Briggs. “I thought I was good at making him red faced, but you’re so much better than me. I’ve never seen him quite so agitated.”
Diane turned her attention to Briggs and smiled. “Thanks for letting me use your office.”
“It’s only my office at your discretion.” He made an elaborate bow. “While you’re here, I’ve got an exhibit idea I’d like to talk to you about.” He sat down in the recently vacated chair. Diane sat back down behind his desk. “I don’t know if you’ve heard about the archaeological excavations in West Africa at the chimp nut-cracking site.”
Chimp nut-cracking site? It sounded like a lampooning of a Christmas musical. “This is a joke, right?”
“No. Since Jane Goodall, we’ve known that chimpanzees use tools. Well, a primatologist and an archaeologist got the perfectly reasonable idea that an excavation of an area where they were seen carrying out that activity might yield some interesting information. So far they have excavated at least six wooden anvils and debitage—waste flak
es—from pounding their hammers to crack nuts. There’s a remarkable resemblance to stone waste flakes found at some early human sites. It’s all quite fascinating.”
“And you want to do an exhibit on—what did Andie call it?—ape archaeology?”
“Not exactly. See that painting?” He pointed to the colorful painting hanging over the chessboard. “Do you know who did that?”
Diane shook her head. “I’m not very well versed in modern art.”
Briggs beamed at her. “But do you like it? You see it as art?”
“Yes, I do.”
“It was painted by Ruby.”
“I’m not familiar with modern painters, either.”
“Ruby was an elephant housed in the Phoenix zoo.”
“An elephant?” Diane stared at the painting for a moment. “I think I have heard of elephants that are trained to paint.”
“Ah, but are they trained? Some animal behaviorists say so, but Ruby’s handler gave her a brush and paint because she saw her doodling in the sand with her trunk. If we see a child doodling in the sand and give him crayons, is that training or nurturing a talent?”
“Where are you going with this?”
“Did you know that elephants play music? Have you heard of the Thai Elephant Orchestra?”
“Actually, I have their CD. However, I do have a hard time wrapping my brain around the idea that it’s the elephants and not their handlers that are composing the music.”
“What I’m suggesting is an exhibit designed to look at animals in a little different way than a collection of instinctive behaviors. Making the familiar strange and the strange familiar, if I may paraphrase T. S. Eliot. That makes good poetry, good anthropology, and good museums.”
Diane’s face turned up in a grin. “I think I like that idea. Go ahead and start working on it. Discuss it with the exhibition planner and designer—she’s up on the third floor. Let me see what you come up with.”
Briggs’s head bobbed up and down happily. “I’ll do that. I haven’t been up to the third floor yet. Thanks for listening to an old man. I’m happy to have a home here.”
One Grave Too Many Page 14