Dead Past

by Beverly Connor

  “Did he tell you not to tell David?” asked Diane.

  “No, he didn’t,” said Jin.

  “Good. Tell David. I’ll be finishing my reports on the explosion remains. Have any of the DNA analyses come back?”

  “No,” he said. “It’ll be a while. Now, if we were doing it . . .”

  “I know,” said Diane. “We need our own lab. Find me Blake’s killer and I’ll go to the mat with Garnett for a DNA lab.”

  Jin looked at her wide-eyed. “You serious, Boss?”

  “Yes.”

  Jin rubbed his hands together. “OK, David. Let’s do it,” said Jin.

  “You are serious, aren’t you?” said David.

  “I am,” Diane said.

  Diane retreated to her osteology lab and began checking over all the forensic reports and filing them away in the vault with the pieces of bone.

  The only skeleton not yet analyzed was the antique individual who was shot in the head. Diane laid him out in anatomical position on one of her tables. She placed the skull on a doughnut ring. She eyed the brown and black bones a moment, then began examining each one.

  Most of the bones were present, with the exception of some very small ones. The tips of all the fingers of the left hand, except the thumb and index finger, were missing. All the distal phalanges were missing from the right hand. Three of the carpal bones—wrist bones—were missing from the left side and one from the right. All the foot bones were present. Diane thought that amazing under the circumstances.

  The hyoid bone—the bone in the throat that supports the base of the tongue—was missing. All the long bones were present. They’re harder to lose, of course, if you’re keeping a box of bones. Human skeletons have twelve ribs on each side. The eleventh and twelfth—called floating ribs because they are not attached ventrally—were missing from the left side; the twelfth was missing from the right.

  She checked all the ribs for nicks and cuts that might have come from a knife or gunshot wound. She found none. She measured the long bones using a bone board. The left leg bones—the femur, tibia, and fibula—taken together were shorter than the right by half an inch. He may have had a slight limp. Other than that, the long bones were unremarkable.

  Two thoracic vertebrae were missing. The coccyx—the tail bone—had a small healed crack. At some point in his life he had fallen and cracked it. It probably gave him trouble the rest of his young life. Diane examined each vertebra. There were no healed breaks, nor were there any signs of lipping or degenerative disease. Other than his teeth, he was basically healthy.

  In the middle of the examination David came in and pulled up a chair.

  “Neva came back. She told us about your car. You have a hard time with vehicles, don’t you,” he said.

  “Apparently,” said Diane not looking up from the bones.

  “I had a long talk with both Neva and Jin,” he said. “I assume you would like to be filled in, as Garnett didn’t tell them not to talk to me about the case and he certainly didn’t tell me not to talk to you about it.”

  David cast a glance at the skeleton on the table. “Is that the guy who was under the bed?”

  “That’s him. I thought I’d analyze his bones. It’s rather relaxing.”

  “What do you know about him?” asked David.

  “Other than he is male in his early twenties? Caucasian, from the look of his skull and the indexes of his other measurements. He had a slight limp that he was born with. He was fairly healthy; broke his tailbone at one time; stood about five feet six, and was left-handed. I’m going to have a stable isotope analysis done on a sample of his bone to see what I can find out about where he grew up and what kind of diet he might have had.”

  “Garnett won’t spring for that,” said David.

  “The primate lab will,” said Diane. “What’s the use of being director of the museum and curator of the primate lab if I can’t order a SIA once in a while?”

  “Who do you think he is?” asked David.

  “Who do I think he is?” Diane repeated. “I have no idea.”

  “How long has he been dead?”

  “My guess right now, from the dry feel of his bones, would be over a hundred years. We’ll learn more after some tests on the bones. There’s a possibility he may be a Civil War veteran. That’s just a guess. Probably, someone accidently found the coffin, thought it was cool, robbed the bones, and sent him to college.”

  “Interesting,” said David. “Poor fellow gets shot in the head and then a hundred years later gets caught in an explosion and fire. He’s one unlucky dude.”

  “Speaking of unlucky dudes,” said Diane, “Tell me about Blake.” She stripped off her gloves, washed her hands, pulled up a chair, and sat down across from David and leaned forward.

  “Blake,” sighed David. “Unlucky is right. You know, being born rich should give you an edge, but it didn’t in his case. Now, I should have been born rich. I wouldn’t have been such a pissant.”

  “You would if you had his parents,” said Diane. “I actually feel sorry for him.”

  “Yeah, so do I. OK, here’s what we know. Blake went from the hospital to arraignment. The judge released him to his parents, even though he is an adult. Money does buy a lot around here. Anyway, he went home with them. Sometime in the night his father woke up. He doesn’t know why. His mother had taken sleeping pills and she was zonked. The father went to Blake’s room and he wasn’t there. He went back to bed.”

  “He didn’t look for him?” asked Diane.

  “He said his son is an adult,” said David.

  “He was released into their custody,” said Diane.

  “I didn’t say his parents were consistent.” David rubbed the top of his head. “Look, these chairs aren’t very comfortable. Can I sit on the couch in your office?”

  “Sure.” Diane rose and stretched, easing the strain in her back. Followed by David, she went to her Osteology office.

  “This is much nicer,” he said, dropping himself onto her stuffed sofa. “Where was I? AWOL, right. Anyway, the father thought the son leaving the house was what woke him up, so he went back to bed—thinking, I suppose, that a one-handed kid just out of the hospital could handle himself.”

  “Where did he go?” asked Diane.

  “Not far. He was found by the maid in the boathouse, shot in the head—no stippling.”

  “What kind of gun?”

  “Don’t know. Didn’t find a bullet. No exit wound, so it’s still in his head.”

  “Could his father have heard the shot? Is that what woke him up?” said Diane.

  “Then why didn’t it wake the entire community? The sound of gunfire carries very well over water. We think maybe the killer used a silencer.”

  “Silencer. OK. Then it was premeditated. A hit maybe?”

  “I’m thinking that. Someone he was involved with lured him out of the house in the middle of the night and shot him in the boathouse. The boathouse is open on the water end. The killer could have ridden up in a boat, tapped him, and left.”

  “Wouldn’t the motor wake everyone up?”

  “One would think. The police are canvassing the neighborhood.”

  “Was there anything on the body? What was he carrying?”

  “He was dressed in sweatpants, sweatshirt, and a coat. He had keys to the house and car in his coat pocket. He had no money, billfold, or credit cards. Those were in his room. Neva found a silver charm of a ballerina slipper on the dock. His parents didn’t recognize it. I don’t think he was expecting to go anywhere but outside for a minute or two. He put on his shoes without socks—in this cold weather.”

  “It looks like a hit. The meth lab connection looks like the best bet,” said Diane.

  “That’s what Garnett thinks. Of course, his mother thinks it was you.”

  “Why?” asked Diane.

  “Neva says she just wants it to be you.”

  “Anything else?”

  “His father recently cut off the k
id’s funds after the kid wrecked the father’s car—it was a 1965 Jaguar. Personally, I would have cut off his nose for that. Anyway, Blake still had plenty of spending money.”

  “Did he have a job?”

  “Are you kidding? No. He was a perpetual student at Bartram. He got good grades, but went from major to major, never getting enough hours in any one department to graduate. He seemed to like the collegiate life.”

  “That sounds like he may have been dealing to students.”

  “I thought so, so does Garnett, but so far they haven’t found any evidence of it.”

  “What does the drug unit say?”

  “Not much. They are new, you know. Our esteemed city councilman turned the unit upside down, like he’s trying to do with the rest of the department. Most of the guys working drugs for any length of time moved on. The people there now are just newbies.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” said Diane. “OK, so the best bet seems a drug-related hit.”

  David started to answer when Neva, who looked like she hadn’t slept in a couple of days, entered, escorting Chief Garnett. The osteology lab was actually a part of the museum and it had a digital lock on the door. Diane’s staff knew the combination, but visitors had to be escorted. Diane’s office door was open and he entered. Neva waved and left.

  Garnett sat down in a stuffed leather chair that matched the couch where David sat.

  “I didn’t expect to see you today,” said Diane. “Is there a break in one of the cases?”

  He cleared his throat. “Diane,” he said, “can you give me a rundown on your activities this morning?”

  Chapter 25

  Diane stared at Garnett for a very long moment.

  “You want to know my activities this morning? What happened? Did someone kill Mrs. Stanton?”

  “This isn’t a joke,” he said.

  And indeed from the look on his face, he wasn’t in a humorous mood. But Diane hadn’t been joking.

  “I can see that. I’ve been here all morning. What happened?”

  “Marcus McNair was murdered this morning while he was jogging.”

  Diane opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. David sat up straight on the sofa, equally speechless. After a moment Diane found her voice.

  “McNair, murdered? My God, what is happening? We have very few murders in Rosewood, and now suddenly in less than a week we meet our annual quota?”

  “I need to give the commissioner and Councilman Adler your alibi. I don’t think the commissioner actually thinks you are guilty, but as far as the councilman is concerned, you are now a suspect in two cases.”

  “Well, hell. OK, after working the Cipriano crime scene until three a.m, I took a nasty phone call from Mrs. Stanton about how she was going to stalk me for the rest of my life. I went to sleep and got up at seven. I had a cold shower to wake me up, ate a bowl of cereal and went outside to go to work, and found my car decorated with KILLER, MURDERER, BITCH, and WHORE written all over it in red spray paint.”

  “What?” said Garnett. “Who?”

  “I’m thinking Mrs. Stanton. She’s been calling the museum, my board members, and anyone else she thinks can give me a hard time.”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  “If you’re looking for her to give me an alibi, I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “What happened after you found your car vandalized?”

  “I called to have it photographed, processed, towed, and painted. I also called Andie to give me a ride to work. She did. I went to my museum office, Patrice called again, I did paperwork—Andie was in the next room. I talked to my security chief and told her to look out for trouble from Patrice in the museum; I called the hospital to check on an employee who was injured in the explosion; I went up to her department and updated her coworkers. On the way to the crime lab, I ran into a board member who had been called by Patrice. She was wondering if I am a murderer. I told her no, then went to the crime lab and said ‘hi’ to everyone and came to the lab to work on bones. David came in and wanted to know about the hundred-year-old bones he’d found. I told him. I’ll tell you if you think the information will be helpful. David was just about to fill me in on what he’s found out from the Joana Cipriano evidence; then you came in. I think that’s it.”

  “Marcus was killed at eight thirty a.m. Do you know exactly where you were then?”

  “I think I was taking the call from Patrice Stanton. I talked to Andie and my security chief and the hospital right after that.”

  “OK. I’ll tell the commissioner. If you would write down all the people you talked to, it would help,” said Garnett.

  “You can pull my LUDS,” said Diane, “if you need extra verification. I mean, most of my alibis are from people I employ, except Patrice. You’ll have to trick her. Don’t tell her I need an alibi.”

  “Diane, I didn’t come here to make you mad.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t, but I’m getting a little tired of being a suspect. This is twice in a row, for heaven’s sake. And there is zero supporting evidence for even one accusation or suspicion. The facts of my schedule and corroborating witnesses put the lie to it.”

  “You’re not really a suspect. I just need to tell the commissioner where you were.”

  “Tell him that if I were a murderer, I’d be after him and the councilman.”

  “I won’t tell them that,” said Garnett. He stood up. “I don’t need to know a combination to get out of here, do I?”

  “No.”

  “I am sorry. If it weren’t for politics, I wouldn’t be here talking to you. It’s just gotten strange lately.” He paused. “The commissioner wants the GBI to handle McNair’s scene. He says it’s just so everyone will know it’s all on the up and up.”

  “Sure,” said Diane.

  When Garnett left, Diane and David stared at each other with a what-the-hell-is-going-on surprised look on their faces.

  “We have got to get to the bottom of this,” said Diane.

  “I’ll get with the gang and we’ll come up with a plan,” said David. “You know Jin is motivated; that’s a big plus for us. Were you really serious about a DNA lab? You think Garnett will go for it?”

  “I’m not sure, but I may ask accounting to crunch some numbers for me. It may pay the museum to have a DNA lab that’s dedicated to forensics and not research. We can bypass the local government.”

  “Jin’ll like that even better. He already tells everyone he works for the museum.” David started to rise off the sofa.

  “Tell me about Cipriano first,” said Diane. “We still have other cases.”

  David dropped to a seated position again. “I didn’t get much from the scene,” he said. “I’ve been running the fingerprints through AFIS. Most, as you expect, are hers. There are a few of her ex-husband in the kitchen and bathroom. One of her neighbors said he usually did the cooking. His prints were on the books that he said were his—the biographies and history books. I’ve got three unknown prints, but I have to collect some more exemplars. She had a repairman in to fix the dishwasher a couple of months ago. She’s had friends in and I have to get their prints. Her mother visited a couple of weeks ago and I have to get her prints. That’s going to be difficult for the poor woman. I’m glad I’m not going to be the one doing it. She lives in Maryland. The authorities there are going to do it for me.”

  “We have nothing?” said Diane.

  “Not nothing. I have foreign carpet fibers from the area rug in her living room and from the carpet in her bedroom. Gray, beige, turquoise, red, and cobalt blue. Jin has identified them as carpet fibers coming from a Saturn, a Chevrolet, two high-end floor coverings, and a cheap floor covering. Again, we need to check exemplars. I did check the husband’s car. He has a 2002 Saturn with gray interior. Jin is matching the fibers now. The cobalt blue is from a 1999 Chevrolet Impala. So far, neither her mother or any of her friends have a Chevrolet Impala with a cobalt blue interior carpet. Her mother does have an expensive beige c
arpet throughout her house. The Maryland authorities will take a sample of her carpet, too.”

  “That’s something. Anything else?”

  “Neva sat down with Jere Bowden and has a sketch of the man she saw. It was from the back, so I don’t know how much good it will be, but Mrs. Bowden said it is accurate. The police are canvassing the neighborhood and put the picture on the news. I’m sure that drew a lot of laughs from viewers—the back of a man. Right now the detectives are asking the public about the stranger and a 1999 Chevrolet Impala.”

  “How about the books?”

  “I’ve looked through a number of them, and so far nothing jumps out. It would help if I had some idea what I am looking for.”

  “If we had the solution, we’d have the solution, wouldn’t we?” said Diane.

  “Cute. I’ll keep you informed on all the cases,” said David.

  “I’ll take the Cipriano case, and you three work on the rest. Garnett will probably tell you what the GBI finds at the McNair crime scene if you ask him nicely.”

  “You think the cases could be linked?” asked David.

  Diane shrugged. “Right now I can’t see how. The only commonality between Stanton and McNair is me, unfortunately. And I really can’t see a connection with Cipriano—maybe Stanton and the meth lab, but you can’t get too far with rhyming words.”

  David stared at her for several moments. “What? Did I miss something? Was there something in one of the poetry books about the meth lab explosion?”

  Diane smiled. “No. I just wondered to myself, What if Jere Bowen heard wrong? She said the voice was muffled and she couldn’t hear exactly what he said.” Diane went over her rhyming list with him, stopping at cook. “It was just a thought.”

  “Interesting. Long shot, but could be true.” David looked like he was going to laugh.

  “OK, it was crazy, but who knows,” she said. “It will be a while before the GBI processes the trace from McNair, but maybe you can get some of the details of the crime scene from Garnett.”

  “I’ll get to work.” David stood up. “We’ll solve this,” he said.

  Diane could tell from his voice that he meant it.