Dust to Dust dffi-7

by Beverly Connor

  Diane supposed he was trying to explain his hostility, but he still sounded defensive.

  “I don’t know where that rumor came from exactly,” said Diane. “Those times when I have been more involved in a case than my position as a director of the crime lab would dictate that I should, I have been either asked by detectives-here”-she gestured toward the station-“or the perpetrators themselves have pulled me into it by coming after me. I have never just showed up and told a detective that I was taking over his case and would he please hand me his file.”

  “I got the impression you were more subtle than that,” he said, almost smiling again.

  “There are reasons Garnett occasionally invites me to observe interrogations, and they have nothing to do with any personal interest I might have in the case itself. And he only allows me to observe, nothing else. Today, for instance, I would have advised my friend not to answer your questions without a lawyer present. Not because he was guilty, but because we all know why detectives want to interview people without an attorney present. But Garnett wouldn’t have allowed me to interfere-just observe.”

  “That’s very cryptic. Why does he extend that courtesy? He doesn’t to anyone else. Do you get to observe the questioning of all your friends?” asked Hanks.

  Diane smiled. “Well, my friends don’t often find themselves in this situation. But the answer is no, not all my friends. Just certain types of friends. After you have been here longer, you’ll figure out why.”

  Diane got in her car and left him with a puzzled look on his face. Sooner or later he’d figure out it was not so much about her as it was about the museum and its relation to the crime lab. Garnett and the mayor didn’t want her to tell them to leave and take their crime lab elsewhere.

  Diane drove home-home to Frank’s house. She’d left him early this morning when David called and she hadn’t talked with him since. And it was Sunday, the day they usually spent together. She should have told Hanks she was very content to leave his case to him. Did they all think she just went around making work for herself?

  Diane parked the SUV in the driveway behind a car she did not recognize. It had Atlanta plates. As she passed by she felt the hood. Warm. It hadn’t been here long.

  Frank was a detective in the Metro-Atlanta Fraud amp; Computer Forensics Unit. It must be for him. She hoped they didn’t want him to go in to work. She walked up to the door of the familiar, old Queen Anne-style house and went in.

  Chapter 9

  Diane was greeted with the aroma of hot coffee when she opened the door. She walked through the small entry into the living room, where she heard talking. She was going to pass by, let Frank know she was home, go take a shower, and let him get on with his business. Then she recognized the voice.

  It was Ross Kingsley, an FBI profiler friend of hers. He and Frank were drinking coffee and laughing over something.

  They rose when she entered holding her dress over her arm and clutching her evening bag and heels in her hand.

  “Diane,” said Frank, his blue-green eyes sparkling as he spoke, “look who dropped by.”

  Something was up. Diane could tell by the way his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at her.

  She hadn’t seen Ross in several months. When she first met him, she didn’t think he looked like an FBI agent. She still didn’t. He looked like a college professor, with his neatly trimmed beard and tweed sport coat. She noted some small changes since she last saw him: His brown hair was a little longer, and he looked tanned. He must have been on vacation.

  “Ross, this is a surprise. How are you?” said Diane.

  “Quite well, thank you. I hope this is not inconvenient. I should have called-you might have been in a cave somewhere-but I had to be in Rosewood anyway, so… anyway, here I am.”

  Frank looked at the distressed dress over her arm, arched an eyebrow, and looked back up at her.

  “Long story,” she said.

  “Did you have to go to the hospital?” Frank asked.

  Diane knew he was only half joking.

  “No,” she said, smiling sweetly at him. “I was lucky. It was a short drop.”

  She noticed Kingsley had a briefcase. It was sitting on the floor near his feet. This was business. The last time he came to her about business hadn’t turned out well. Actually, it eventually turned out well, but the journey was hell. He followed her gaze.

  “I have something I would like to talk to you about,” he said.

  “Okay. Would you mind if I hop in the shower and change into some fresh clothes first? I’ve had an eventful morning that began long before dawn. It won’t take me long,” she said.

  “Sure,” said Kingsley. “Frank is being a very entertaining host.”

  Diane went into the bedroom, stripped off her clothes, and got into the shower. The warm water felt good on her sore muscles and she would have liked to stay longer. But she hurriedly washed her hair, soaped up her body, and rinsed off. Frank came in as she was dressing.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Fine. I’ll tell you about it in a minute.” She smiled and kissed him. “Really, I’m fine this time. I only rolled down an embankment.”

  He laughed and left the room. Diane finished dressing in slacks and a sweater and combed back her short wet hair.

  Frank had her a cup of fresh, steaming coffee sitting on the table next to her favorite chair when she came back into the living room. It felt good to get comfortable in the cozy room with its stuffed chairs, polished wood, and sunny, cream-colored walls. There was no fire in the fireplace, but its presence in the room dialed up the cozy factor. Ross Kingsley certainly looked comfortable.

  “So,” said Kingsley, “what happened this morning? I’ve had interesting mornings myself, but I don’t think they ever quite reach the same level of interest that yours do.” He grinned and took a sip of his coffee.

  Diane told them about the early morning’s events, leaving out details of the case. Kingsley listened with a combination of openmouthed disbelief and amusement. Diane tried to make it more of a comedy of errors than the real danger it was. Frank had his usual, I-can’t-let-you-out-of-the-house-can-I expression on his face.

  “As I said, my mornings aren’t nearly as interesting,” said Kingsley. He paused for a moment as if looking for another excuse not to get down to his business.

  “How’s the FBI?” asked Diane.

  “I’m not with the FBI anymore,” he said.

  Diane hadn’t expected that. Ross had seemed so comfortable there. “I wasn’t aware,” she began.

  “I had an identity crisis. I discovered I wasn’t wearing clothes; I was a fraud,” he said.

  Diane glanced over at Frank. He looked as puzzled as she felt.

  “You’re going to have to explain,” she said.

  “I came to the realization as I was working on my book on profiling that it was all smoke and mirrors. I was a con, no different from those psychic-astrologer folk you visit at carnivals for a psychic reading,” he said.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” said Diane.

  “I’d been regarding profiling as if it were a science,” he said.

  “You have repeatedly told me it isn’t an exact science, that it’s a tool,” said Diane.

  “I know I said that, but down deep I believed it was something more than that. I thought it rested, at least, on good psychological models that were verified by empirical studies, hard data, statistics, and probabilities.”

  “What changed your mind? How did you come to your epiphany?” asked Frank.

  Frank, Diane knew, was a critic of profiling, so he probably approved of this turn of events.

  “Looking at some of the research done in the UK on profiling and case histories. Looking back at my own work and seeing in reality how fuzzy some of my profiles and those of my colleagues were.”

  “Like… he’s someone you wouldn’t suspect of being violent,” said Frank.

  Diane smiled and Kingsley nodded.
“You know, before now, I never really realized how that statement fit most people.” He shook his head. “So many descriptions are like that-‘He’s someone who tends to be a hermit, but sometimes enjoys being with friends.’ You know, when I read my profiles in hindsight, I am astounded at how hazy and contradictory many of them were. They would be concrete enough to point to particular individuals, and yet vague and general enough to fit a lot of very different people. I mean, the profiles sounded good, but what did they really say? I don’t know how detectives got anything worthwhile out of them. And the lack of consistency. You have two profilers evaluate the same case and their profiles point in completely different directions. You remember the BTK killer?”

  Diane and Frank nodded.

  “A little,” said Diane. “The serial killer in Kansas?”

  “I didn’t work on his profile, but I studied it. He was profiled out to be basically lower class, an outsider, probably unmarried, and uncomfortable with women. When he was caught, he turned out to have been married for thirty years, a father of two children, president of the congregation council of his church, a Cub Scout leader, and a right-upstanding member of his community.” Kingsley shook his head again. “They got some things right, but only because so many of the descriptions were so general, they would have fit about anyone.”

  “How did they catch him?” asked Diane.

  “Old-fashioned detective work and a little trickery on the part of detectives,” said Frank. “The killer was sending the police taunting messages. They got him to send a message by floppy disk, telling him there was no way to trace it. There is, of course, and they traced it back to him.” He grinned.

  Diane could see that it pleased him that computer technology had played a part in the apprehension.

  “There was a lot more to his capture, but that’s the Cliffs Notes version,” said Frank.

  “It was a research report that first tested my faith,” said Kingsley. “A British study analyzed a couple hundred criminal cases in which profiles were used by the police. Profiles led detectives to the guilty party in fewer than three percent of the cases,” said Kingsley. He straightened up in his chair and leaned forward for emphasis. “That statistic is what got me started on my own reevaluation of profiles.”

  “Is that what made you give up on profiling?” asked Diane. She was a little puzzled by Ross and wondered whether he was having more of a burnout than a career crisis. But then again, she had been a skeptic of profiling too. On the other hand, she did believe there were observable patterns of behavior that could be traced back to the psychology of the person, and those behaviors were predictable.

  “I think the final straw was a case that several of us profilers were assigned to.” Kingsley gestured with his hands, then put his fingertips together. “We were called in on a series of rapes. There were nine of them. In each case the victim was tied with her hands behind her and had a hood put over her head or a large blindfold over her eyes. The rapist used a condom and bathed the victim in the shower or bathtub afterward, so there was little forensic evidence.” Kingsley settled back in the chair again and relaxed. He took another sip of his coffee.

  “Want me to warm that for you?” asked Frank.

  “No. This is fine,” he said. “Not all the rapes took place in the same city. Five were in a college community and four were in a suburb about forty miles away. The rapist was never seen by the victims. We went back and forth on the profile. We were throwing out ideas left and right. But most of us decided he worked at the university and lived in the suburbs and was raping in his comfort zone. We had an elaborate profile that I won’t go into except to say that when unsubs do things like cover the victim’s face, it has meaning. We’d look at the other elements of the crime and decide which set of meanings made sense. We had it figured that he was young, not experienced with women, and didn’t want them looking at him, either from inadequacy or to hide his face, et cetera.”

  He paused a moment. “See, that’s the problem. Different unsubs do the same things, but for different reasons,” he said. “Anyway, we were pretty sure of our profile.”

  “And?” asked Frank.

  “The case was broken by two detectives working separately: one from the suburbs and one from the campus police. It turned out there were two rapists who had no relationship to each other, but who had more or less similar MOs, but different motivations for their respective methods. One blindfolded the women because he didn’t want to be identified and washed them because he wanted to get rid of any trace evidence. He chose his victims from the university because there were lots of young women there and they were easily available. He did not work at the university. He worked at a car repair shop.

  “The other rapist started out as a stalker. His stalking victim committed suicide and he was overcome with grief. He made an iron-on transfer from a photograph of her and attached it to a hood. He fantasized about her when he was raping his victims. The washing of his victims was part of his ‘romantic evening’ with them. He was a delivery guy and actually lived somewhere else. He delivered in the area and chose victims from there because he was familiar with all the streets and houses. Both of the rapists tied their victims because they didn’t want them pulling their blindfolds off. Not one of us guessed there were two unsubs, because the rapes were so similar. We were driven by our profile. The detectives who ended up solving the case had more open minds.”

  Kingsley paused. “We had actually been encouraging the detectives to look at another guy who came up on the radar because he fit our profile. Fortunately, the detectives didn’t get around to pursuing our suspect before the cases broke in both locales.” Kingsley shook his head. “First, do no harm,” he said.

  “Remember the guy accused of the Atlanta Olympic bombing? Turns out he was innocent. But just because he had wanted to be a policeman and failed, it looked like he fit a classic profile and was made out to be the perp. His life was turned upside down and just about ruined. Terrible. Anyway, it all just fell apart for me.” He took a sip of coffee. “So here I am.”

  “What are you doing now?” asked Diane.

  “I work for a detective agency in Atlanta-Darley, Dunn, and Upshaw,” he said.

  “I’ve heard of them,” said Diane. “Big firm. They do a lot of client defense work. What do you do? Tear down profiles in court?”

  He grinned. “As a matter of fact, I have, but that’s not my goal. What I would like is for profiles to be used as a simple tool, a guideline, and not to drive the case.”

  “What brings you here?” asked Diane, staring at the briefcase that Kingsley put his hand on.

  “I have a case I’m working on. It’s pro bono. The firm likes to do a few freebies when they can. Makes them look good. It’s a case where I think the police misused profiling techniques we taught them. I was hoping you would help.”

  Chapter 10

  “This is going to need more coffee,” said Diane. She took their cups and disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a tray of cups of fresh coffee.

  Frank had cleaned off the coffee table to make room for the files Kingsley pulled from his briefcase. Diane put the tray on an end table and passed around the fresh cups of still-steaming coffee. Ross Kingsley took a sip, then another one, and Diane had the fleeting impression he was numbing his tongue against the upcoming narrative contained in the folders he’d set on the table.

  “This isn’t pleasant,” said Kingsley.

  “When you find murder that is pleasant, please come and share it with me,” said Diane. “You are talking about murder, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe. That is why I’ve come to you. The firm I work for-although they like and encourage pro bono work, they don’t put the entire staff on it. That’s why I need to consult. How do you feel about pro bono?” he asked, looking up at her with a thin smile.

  “I’ve done my share,” said Diane, smiling back.

  Kingsley pulled a file off the bottom of the stack and opened it. “I have to
start with a murder that took place nine years ago. That’s where the story begins.”

  Diane looked down at an eight-by-ten mug shot of a man who looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had straight blond hair and brown eyes. His face was thin. He had a narrow, crooked nose and full lips. He looked frightened.

  “This is Ryan Dance. He’s serving a life sentence for the murder nine years ago of Ellie Rose Carruthers. El, as her friends called her, was fifteen years old. She was reported missing on a Saturday. She had been left alone at home in an upper-middle-class neighborhood while the rest of the family visited her grandmother in a nursing home. When the family returned, El was not at home. They called all her friends, drove to all her favorite spots looking for her, and finally called the police. She was discovered two days later when an anonymous caller reported a possible body on the side of the road near I-85. She had been strangled and there was an attempted rape. She apparently fought and was killed before the assailant could complete the rape. At least, that was the analysis.”

  Kingsley stopped speaking and took another drink of coffee.

  “Who was the anonymous caller?” asked Diane.

  Kingsley shook his head. “Don’t know.” He set down his coffee cup and continued the story.

  Diane looked at the stack of folders and sensed it was going to be a long one. She stared at the picture of Ryan Dance.

  “This is not a cold case. They made an arrest,” said Diane.

  “Yes. They found cigarette butts near the body and matched the DNA to Ryan Dance,” said Kingsley.

  “He stuck around and smoked cigarettes after he dumped the body?” asked Diane.

  “I found that a little odd too, but it was an out-of-the-way place, and God knows, perps do strange things,” he said. “Besides, as I was told, the cigarette butts could have been carried there when he carried the body.”

  “Is there more evidence?” asked Diane.

  “The police searched his car and found strands of her hair, a button from her dress, and a smear of her blood in the trunk,” Kingsley said.