Dust to Dust dffi-7

by Beverly Connor

  “Then this was a slam dunk,” said Diane.

  “Ryan Dance’s sister, Stacy, didn’t think so. Stacy Dance was fourteen years old when her brother, Ryan, was arrested, tried, and convicted. She always believed him to be innocent. When she turned twenty-one, she started an investigation on her own. Four weeks ago, Stacy Dance, age twenty-three, was found dead in her apartment over her father’s garage. Her father came to see me last week, and that’s why I’m here.” Kingsley closed the file and picked up another one. He started to open it, then stopped. “As I said, it’s not pleasant.” He opened the folder.

  “Stacy’s death was ruled an accident by autoerotic asphyxiation. The father believes it was murder. The police won’t listen to him. Understandably, their position is that the father simply does not want to believe his child would do what it appears that she did.”

  Kingsley handed the detective’s report, the autopsy report, and the crime scene photo to Diane.

  “Most cases of autoerotic asphyxia are male,” commented Diane as she read the police report.

  “I know,” said Kingsley. “One thing that attracted me to his case was the profiling. The detective in charge had taken basic profiling courses the FBI offered to local law enforcement departments-I was the instructor. I should be jailed for malpractice.”

  Diane glanced up at him. He sounded bitter.

  “The detective first suggested that because she was a little overweight, and homely-his word, not mine-that she was dateless and therefore frustrated. That led her to practice this form of entertainment-again, his word, not mine.”

  “I imagine her father had a reaction to that,” said Frank.

  “He did,” said Kingsley. “He pointed out that his daughter had a boyfriend, and many other friends, she was enrolled in the local community college, and she and a couple of her friends had a band. They practiced in his garage. He was sure she was not into anything kinky.”

  “What did the detective say about the boyfriend?” said Diane.

  “He revised his original ‘profile’ to suggest that since she was a college student and involved in a band, the autoerot ica was probably something kids in her group were trying out. He made it sound like sniffing glue or taking drugs. When his first profile hadn’t panned out, he revised it to fit his conclusion of what happened. First she did it because she was unpopular; then she did it because she was popular.” Ross Kingsley threw up his hands as if in surrender. “Anyway, tell me what you think. I promised Mr. Dance I would look into it. In the space of nine years he has lost both his children. He is a devastated man with no other recourse. He was going to give us his life savings to open an investigation. I talked my bosses into letting me work on it pro bono.”

  Diane read the report twice and handed it to Frank when he reached for it. She took a breath and looked at the photograph. It showed a young adult woman, nude, with a rope around her neck. She was in a kneeling position on a bed. One end of the rope was tied to a bedpost and she was leaning forward into the noose. There was a towel half under the rope and half falling out. There were clothespins attached to each of her nipples.

  “Her father didn’t find her, did he?” said Diane.

  “No. How did you know?” asked Kingsley.

  “He wouldn’t have left her this way. No father would, even if it meant disturbing evidence,” said Diane.

  “She was found by a friend, who called 911,” said Kingsley.

  Diane put down the photograph and picked up the autopsy report. She read it several times, picked up the photograph again, and looked at it. She rose from her stuffed chair and went into the kitchen and came back with a magnifying glass.

  “Is this the only crime scene photograph?” asked Diane.

  “Yes,” said Kingsley. “Have you found something?”

  Diane didn’t answer; she continued examining the photograph with the magnifier. After a minute she put the picture and the magnifying glass down on the table.

  “There are two things that make me question the finding,” she said. “The first is the knot in the rope. Do you have the rope?”

  “That’s right, you do forensic knot analysis,” said Kingsley. “How could I forget that? What about the knot? Oh… no, we don’t have the rope.”

  “Anyone who is into this form of self-gratification would use some variation on a slipknot to hold the rope around the neck so that when pressure is released, the rope loosens. This is a granny knot-an incorrectly tied square knot. Granny knots are known for their difficulty in untying. Look at this.” Diane handed the photograph to Kingsley along with the magnifying glass. “The rope is tied tight around her neck. No way did she do this. Frankly, I’m surprised the forensics people didn’t notice it. Did any forensics person work it as a crime scene?”

  “No, just the detective assigned to the case,” said Kingsley. “I see it now. Of course. She would never have been able to get out of this. In fact, as tight as the rope was around her neck, she would have passed out before she could even arrange herself in this position. Funny, I never noticed how the rope was tied, and I studied crime scene photographs of autoerotic asphyxia. They contained elements much like this one-accessories to aid in arousal, rope around the neck, a towel to prevent ligature marks… ”

  “But that’s the second thing,” said Diane. “She does have ligature marks on her neck.”

  “Are you saying… What exactly are you saying?” asked Ross Kingsley.

  “Ligature marks are briefly mentioned in the autopsy report, but only that they are present. They are not described in any detail,” said Diane. “But look at the photograph. Look at the marks on the neck where the towel has slipped. See this ligature mark?” She pointed to a clear linear bruise on the victim’s neck and looked up at Kingsley. “It’s an inch lower on the neck than where the tightened rope is cushioned by the towel. If I could see autopsy photos, I believe they would show two ligature marks. One made perimortem, and the other made postmortem.”

  “You’re saying she was strangled; then this was staged after her death?” said Kingsley.

  “It looks that way. What I believe is the second ligature mark looks very deep and appears to extend under the towel-at least, the mark is deep right up to where the towel covers the neck. The rope should have made a lighter impression on the skin at the edge of the towel.”

  “The towel at that point would start to hold the rope off the neck,” said Kingsley.

  Diane nodded. “I think this makes the manner of death worth a second look.” Diane looked at the signature of the medical examiner-Oran Doppelmeyer. “I’m not familiar with this medical examiner. Is he new?”

  “I believe so,” said Kingsley. “So, does this mean you will help me?”

  “You have enough here to get the lead detective to reopen the case,” said Diane. “The father would probably give permission to exhume the body.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sure we could do that. But it would be really good for my firm if we could get the credit for solving the case.” He raised his hand when Diane opened her mouth to speak. “I know we will have to hand it off to the police eventually, but I, on behalf of the firm that so graciously hired me, would like to hand the detective a truckload of evidence along with the solution. After all, it’s a closed case and we would not be interfering in an ongoing investigation. Besides, they might botch it up again.”

  Frank had been quiet the whole time Kingsley and Diane discussed the case. He eyed Kingsley.

  “You think Stacy was killed because of her investigation into her brother Ryan’s murder conviction,” said Frank. “But you’re afraid the detective will ignore that angle and try to hang her death on the boyfriend, or some other friend. You think he’s a man who likes to take shortcuts.”

  “You’re pretty good at this profiling thing yourself,” said Kingsley.

  “Why do you believe her death is connected with her brother’s case?” asked Frank.

  “Because Stacy’s father told me that in her room she
kept a thick folder filled with documents, clippings, interviews, and notes on her investigation into the case against her brother. Now the folder, along with all her findings, is missing. It’s too much of a coincidence,” said Ross. “I felt it before. And now, with what you’ve found in the evidence, I’m convinced there is a connection, and her death was no accident.”

  Diane was quiet for a moment. She understood what Ross wanted; so did Frank. It wasn’t so much that he wanted credit for his firm. He wanted to control the investigation against people he believed were incompetent to carry it out-or wouldn’t carry it out.

  “Is her room still intact?” Diane hoped that Stacy’s father had kept the room as it was.

  “Yes,” said Kingsley. “It is. And I’ve got an appointment at the prison for tomorrow to talk with Ryan Dance. I know how you love to visit prisons and would want to get it over with first thing.”

  Chapter 11

  Diane hated prisons. They were drab, depressing, and they smelled bad. Prisons were places people wanted to leave. The last time she visited someone in prison was when she came to interview Clymene O’Riley, a black widow she had put away. It was more or less an official visit then and, although not pleasant, it was bearable. This time she almost decided to just forget about it and leave. She would have if Ross Kingsley hadn’t been with her.

  She filled out the mandatory forms that, among other things, gave the guards permission to search her person and allow the drug dog to sniff her up and down. The papers must also have given them permission to be ill-mannered. The prison personnel probably didn’t like being there either. Once she passed the sniff test, she was allowed to go into the visiting room. Ross went to see the warden on his own mission.

  The visiting area wasn’t a bad room. It was painted salmon pink, and she wondered whether the color meant anything-perhaps that it sapped your strength or something, kind of aroma therapy for the eyes. On the back wall was a row of cubicles with telephones. Each cubicle contained a stool screwed to the floor. The communication stalls resembled those small doorless phone booths you used to see everywhere, except for the window in the wall that separated visitors from the prisoner on the other side.

  Diane sat down on the stool in cubicle three, as she had been instructed. In a few minutes Ryan Dance came into the room on the other side of the window, sat down, and picked up the phone.

  He looked older than the young man in his mug shot. Of course, the photograph was taken nine years ago. He was thirty-one now. He looked older. His once gold-blond hair was now brown, dull, and stringy. His nose looked even more crooked. He had a front tooth missing and prison tats on his arms and fingers.

  Diane picked up the phone, introduced herself, and told him she was sorry about his sister.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled.

  “Your father believes Stacy was murdered because she was getting close to discovering who framed you,” said Diane.

  Ryan nodded his head and looked away for a moment. “She is a neat kid-was a neat kid” he said.

  Diane saw his eyes sparkle with moisture.

  “I told her not to do anything dangerous. Dad doesn’t have anybody now.”

  “I’m working with someone your dad hired to find out what happened to her. The police ruled her death an accident,” said Diane.

  Ryan’s face transformed into a cruel mask. “I know what they said and they’re full of shit. Stupid bastards. They were stupid then. They’re even stupider now.” He spat out the words as if they were bitter seeds. “She don’t deserve none of this. None of us do.”

  More visitors came in and filled the cubicles, and the noise level rose. Most everyone spoke in low voices, but Diane could pick out sniffling, sobbing, whispered anger, and laughing among the low cacophony of sounds. She wanted to finish this, get the hell out, and go home.

  “Would you mind telling me what you think put you here?” said Diane. “From your point of view.”

  He was quiet for a moment and his face went back to the emotionless mask it had been before she’d mentioned the death of his sister.

  “Don’t you think I’ve been laying awake at night for nine years trying to figure that out? I don’t know. I didn’t know that Carruthers girl. Never knew her. I was twenty-two years old, for Christ’s sake; she was in fucking high school. I never went driving by her house like they said I did. I never went into that neighborhood.”

  “Start from the beginning and tell me what you do know,” said Diane.

  “The beginning was me sitting watching the Atlanta Braves on TV and the police coming in with a search warrant. That’s the first I ever heard of that girl.”

  “A witness reported seeing your car in the neighborhood, and took down your tag number,” said Diane. She tried keeping her voice even and calm.

  “Don’t I know it. She was at my trial. I never saw that bitch before and I wasn’t in that neighborhood. A lot of rich folk live there. What would I be doing there?”

  “She said she recognized you in your Atlanta Braves cap, your gold Chevrolet, and your license plates,” said Diane.

  “Maybe my car was there, maybe my hat was there, but I wasn’t there. Somebody put the frame on me.”

  “You have any idea who would do that?” asked Diane.

  “No damn idea whatsoever. I’ve never hurt nobody bad enough to do this to me,” he said.

  “Sometimes people overreact to something hurtful. Is there anyone you can think of who might have a small grudge, something that got blown out of proportion in their mind?”

  “I’ve broke up with girlfriends, but none of them would do this. Like, they’d have to be crazy to kill somebody and blame it on me. What kind of maniac would do that? I never went with no girls that crazy… or that mean.”

  Diane wasn’t getting anything useful out of Ryan. It was a wasted trip. He genuinely seemed clueless, or he was a really good actor. On the other hand, many criminals were really good actors.

  “Did you have your car stolen or used by anyone else around that time?” asked Diane.

  “No, not that I know,” he said.

  “How would you not know?” she said.

  “Well, I wasn’t in my car all the time. Somebody could’ve borrowed it and brought it back while I was working or watching TV or… sometimes I’d go out drinking and, well, somebody could’ve borrowed it then,” he said. “I might not know about it.”

  “Did you always take your car keys with you?” said Diane.

  “I left the keys shut up in the sun visor, you know, like in Terminator 2,” he said.

  “I understand you were a truck driver at the time,” said Diane.

  “Dad got me the job. He was a loading dock foreman at Walker Ace. They transport all over. But I only drove local,” said Ryan.

  “Where was your car when you were working?” asked Diane.

  “Sometimes at my apartment, when I rode to work with Dad. Sometimes in the lot at work. They keep the lot locked so nobody can steal stuff out of your car.”

  “Did Stacy tell you what she was working on?” asked Diane.

  “Just that she was going back and talking to witnesses and stuff. I told her to be careful. I told her to get a detective to do that, not do it herself. But she was stubborn.”

  “Did she tell you any details about what she found?” asked Diane.

  He shook his head. “She had a hard time getting people to talk to her, but…”

  “But what?” prodded Diane.

  “Last time we talked she seemed, well, happy. She never wanted to get my hopes up, but I know she felt good about something,” he said.

  “When was that?” asked Diane.

  “About a week before she… before she died,” he said. “She should have left it alone. Maybe she could’ve found some detective real cheap to do the legwork for her. She shouldn’t ’ave done it by herself. You find out who killed her. It’s not right for her to be dead and me stuck in here. None of us did nothing to deserve this.”

  D
iane saw movement of the guards in the background and looked at her watch. Time to go.

  “Thank you for talking to me,” she said.

  “Thanks for helping my sister and my dad.”

  He spoke as if there was no hope for him. Diane watched him leave before she rose from the stool.

  She didn’t wait for Ross inside the prison. Instead, she left and waited outside by the car for him to return. It didn’t take long. Within five minutes he came walking out of the gates and over to the car.

  “How was it?” he asked.

  “Waste of time,” said Diane. “Either he knows nothing or he’s a good liar. I don’t know which.”

  They got into Kingsley’s Prius and he started the engine. Diane felt relief when they pulled out of the prison grounds and into traffic toward Rosewood.

  “He did seem genuinely sad about his sister,” she said. “How did you do?”

  “Interesting, in a way. No information, but he had some pinups under his mattress. All were more mature and voluptuous ladies than Miss Carruthers. Judging from that, his tastes don’t seem to run to high school girls.”

  “He was closer to her age back then,” said Diane. “Besides, maybe those were the only kind of pictures he could get hold of.”

  “I know the pictures don’t mean anything. But if he had pictures of younger girls hidden in his cell, that would have meant something,” said Kingsley.

  “Anything else in his cell?” asked Diane.

  “Books about sports, a Bible, hygiene stuff, letters from his father and sister,” he said.

  “How did you get the warden to let you in his cell?”

  “You’d be surprised at how many career employees would like to retire from criminal justice and take a job with a private firm-and take home two salaries, as it were. To that end, they can be awfully accommodating to firms such as the one I work for,” said Kingsley.

  “Interesting,” said Diane. “Did you read the letters?”

  Kingsley nodded. “Nothing there that contributes to our purposes. His sister didn’t keep him apprised of what she was doing.”