DF02 - Dead Guilty

by Beverly Connor

  Diane looked carefully at the other ropes, paying particular attention to the one from which the body had fallen.

  ‘‘It’s like the others.’’ Diane started to explain, when their attention was drawn to a rustling of the bushes, and her forensic team filed into the clearing.

  ‘‘Well, this is weird.’’ Deven Jin set down his case and stared at the two bodies in the trees and the one on the ground.

  Neva Hurley stopped abruptly, her mouth agape. ‘‘One of those flies is going to light on your

  tongue,’’ said Jin, shoving her gently.

  Neva snapped her mouth closed.

  David Goldstein used a small set of binoculars to

  focus in on the bodies, then shifted to the leafy can opy. ‘‘I suppose you’ve seen the other rope,’’ he said. ‘‘Just now.’’ Diane introduced her team to Dr. Web ber and the sheriff. ‘‘Neva came to us from the Rose wood Police. Jin’s from New York, where he worked crime scenes, and David worked with me at World Accord International as a human rights investigator.’’ They shook hands, muttered hellos and commented briefly on the strange state of the corpses.

  Her team was anxious to get started. Jin, the youn gest, was in hyperactive mode, his body moving even though he was standing in one spot, looking as if he was about to break into dance to some music only he heard. Diane envied his youthful energy. He snapped opened his case and began pulling out the marker flags, rope, wire stakes and drawing supplies. He shoved his straight black hair out of his eyes, pulled it back into a ponytail and donned the plastic cap that Diane required.

  ‘‘David doesn’t need a cap,’’ Jin said. ‘‘He just wears one so people will think that fringe around the edges is a full head of hair.’’ Laughing, he handed a cap to Neva.

  David rolled his eyes and quietly took out his cam era equipment.

  Dr. Webber watched as he loaded it with film. ‘‘He doesn’t use a digital camera?’’ she asked Diane.

  ‘‘I use both, but I get greater depth of field and finer detail with the film,’’ said David over his shoulder. ‘‘David’s actually quite an artist,’’ said Diane. David scowled. ‘‘Trying to be accurate isn’t artistry.’’ ‘‘I’m talking about your bird photographs.’’

  He cocked his head. ‘‘One might describe them as artistic.’’

  Neva put on her cap and stood glancing from David and Jin to Diane, as if waiting for directions. Diane was torn between giving her some reassuring gesture or leaving her to manage whatever insecurities she was dealing with. Neva was one of the gifts Diane had to accept in her curious bargain with the Rosewood Po lice. She wasn’t sure Neva really wanted to be here.

  The ropes tied around the branches made a creaking sound as a breeze passing through the trees caused the bodies to swing slowly. The stench of dead flesh washed over them. Diane watched Neva hold her breath.

  ‘‘You’ll get used to the smell,’’ Diane told her. ‘‘This is actually mild. Breathing through your mouth helps.’’

  Neva looked horrified. Probably thinking about the flies and her open mouth.

  ‘‘You should work with a decaying body that’s in an enclosed space,’’ said Jin. ‘‘I swear, the smell per meates your eyeballs. Your tears even stink,’’ he added, grinning.

  ‘‘The stench of adipocere formation is the worst,’’ said David, swinging his camera to his side and turning toward Neva. ‘‘Absolutely the worst. One time, the smell just wouldn’t go away. I had to have steroid shots in each nostril.’’

  Neva looked miserable.

  ‘‘You should have to autopsy those bodies,’’ said Dr. Webber. ‘‘One of my first autopsies was on a bloated body found in an abandoned trailer. Like an idiot, I stuck a scalpel in the thing and it exploded all over everyone. I thought I could taste the stuff for a week.’’

  That did it for Neva. She turned and headed for a tree, heaving. Diane followed and handed her a bottle of water.

  ‘‘They’re making fun of me, aren’t they?’’ Neva pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her face.

  ‘‘A little,’’ said Diane. ‘‘You’re the new guy, and they’re just breaking you in. They mean no disrespect. We all had to have a period of adjustment to this kind of work.’’

  ‘‘Did David really have to get shots in his nose?’’

  ‘‘No, he made up that little story. And the odor doesn’t make your tears smell either. But bodies do blow up with gasses, and if you puncture them just right—well, you can imagine. But the pathologist al ways wears a face shield when autopsying decayed bodies.’’

  Neva took several swigs of water and screwed the cap back on. ‘‘I’m all right.’’

  ‘‘The trick is to focus on the work.’’

  Neva nodded and walked back to David, Jin and Lynn Webber’s good-natured smiles.

  ‘‘Chuck over here’’—the sheriff pointed to one of his deputies—‘‘threw up so often when he was new, we all started calling him Upchuck.’’

  Jin handed her a template and a pad of graph paper. ‘‘You can help me with the sketches,’’ he said.

  ‘‘We’ll have the bodies ready for you as soon as we can,’’ Diane told Lynn Webber.

  Lynn nodded. ‘‘Do you want me to have the diener clean the bones?’’

  ‘‘Please. Unless we find their driver’s licenses tucked away in their clothes.’’

  ‘‘I’m not usually that lucky.’’ The sheriff looked up at the two hanging corpses again. ‘‘Something tells me these are going to be hard to identify. Judging from the clothes they’re wearing, I’d guess they might be some poor homeless people who crossed paths with a killer.’’

  ‘‘You don’t think it’s a suicide pact?’’ asked the other sheriff’s deputy, a hefty man who had been studying the woods, looking almost anywhere but at the bodies. ‘‘Ain’t most hangings suicide?’’

  ‘‘Yes, most are,’’ said Diane, ‘‘but how did they manage it without anything to stand on?’’

  ‘‘I guess you’re right. But they could’ve climbed the trees and jumped.’’

  Lynn Webber and Diane winced at the thought.

  ‘‘Or maybe the fourth guy chickened out and, not wanting to leave a good ladder, took it with him.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure the crime scene investigation and autopsy will sort all that out,’’ said the sheriff.

  ‘‘I’ll leave you to it.’’ Dr. Webber dusted her hands together, mentally washing them of the crime scene, even though she hadn’t touched anything. ‘‘I need to clear my calendar for these new clients.’’ She turned to Diane. ‘‘If you’d like to attend the autopsy, you may.’’

  ‘‘Thanks. I’d like to collect the ropes and the insects inside the corpses.’’

  ‘‘You’re welcome to it. I hate collecting larvae. Though Raymond, my diener, doesn’t seem to mind.’’

  Dr. Webber left them and disappeared through the undergrowth up the trail. The sheriff’s gaze followed her until she was out of sight.

  She was replaced by the two deputies coming back from the road. It was apparent by their faces they had something to tell the sheriff.

  ‘‘Edwards and Mayberry—that’s the timber guys— said they seen a place where it looks like a vehicle mighta come through the bushes,’’ said the taller of the two, waving his hand to shoo away flies as he spoke. ‘‘Said there’s a place where the weeds was kinda beat down.’’

  ‘‘They’s supposed to be some old timber roads over yonder.’’ The other deputy pointed northeast of the bodies. ‘‘Right through there.’’

  Diane motioned to the sheriff. ‘‘Let’s have a look.’’ She turned to David. ‘‘After the photographs and sketches are done, start a grid search under the corpses. We need to clear a work space so we can get the bodies down. Go ahead and collect the insects.’’

  The sheriff ordered his deputies to follow David’s instructions and not get into trouble. He and Diane walked to the edge of the clearing where the deputy had pointed
. A large fallen pine tree covered head high in broken limbs, briars and loose brush blocked the path. It was a place where Brer Rabbit might have hidden.

  The sheriff stooped and looked through the bram bles at the tree stump. ‘‘It was cut down with a chain saw. And not long ago—I can still smell the pine.’’

  ‘‘Could the timber guys have done it?’’ asked Diane.

  He shook his head. ‘‘We can ask, but I can’t see why they would do it. They were counting trees, not cutting them down. And why would they pile a bunch of weeds and dead limbs on top of a fresh tree? A lot of work for no purpose.’’

  ‘‘So the tree was cut and brush was piled on top of it to hide the crime scene, or block access to it,’’ said Diane.

  She took out her digital camera and snapped pic tures of the blockade from different angles. The side leading away from the woods was as the timber sur veyors had described: a ghost of a trail where tires had crushed the dry weeds.

  Seeing the direction from which the tire tracks had come, Diane walked back through the brush, squatted and examined the ground on the side leading to the crime scene. She could see it now in the leaves cov ering the hard ground beneath the trees—faint impres sions where a vehicle had passed.

  ‘‘David,’’ she called. ‘‘There’s some tire marks through here. Be careful to record it before you search the ground.’’

  A thorough ground search would require moving the forest litter, and with it, all signs of a passing.

  ‘‘I knew they would have left some kind of trail,’’ he said. ‘‘We’ll take care of it.’’

  Diane returned to the sheriff, who was studying the tire impressions in the crushed grass.

  ‘‘From the width of the tracks, I’d say it was a truck or SUV. I suppose your people will measure it.’’

  ‘‘We will. Where did the timber guys park their vehicle?’’

  ‘‘They said down one of the dirt timber roads. Their work’s done on foot, you know. About like land surveyors.’’

  Diane walked a hundred feet down the indeliberate roadway, turned and looked at the makeshift barrier. The crime scene was hidden. The barricade looked like an or dinary brush pile from that distance. Not an uncommon sight in this setting, but usually juxtaposed to a firebreak, a roadway cut or a clearing. This pile was at the end of a path through weeds and trees. These were the perpe trator’s tracks and the perpetrator’s doing.

  ‘‘What you reckon this is about?’’ the sheriff asked after he had joined her on the trail. He shook his head. ‘‘I’ve seen hangings, but they were all suicides in the victims’ houses. Around here, if people kill themselves in the woods, they do it with a rifle or a shotgun. I’ve never seen multiple hangings like this. It looks like a lynching. And why would they all be dressed alike?’’

  As the words were out of his mouth, a deputy ap peared from the bushes and trotted toward them. ‘‘Sheriff, you gotta come take care of this. Word’s done got out about the hangings, and they’re saying there’s been some lynchings. Elwood Jefferson from the AME Church is here and wants to talk to you.’’

  ‘‘What was I just saying? That’s all we need. At least it’s Elwood. He’s not a guy who shoots from the hip like some I could mention.’’

  At that moment a tall lean black man in a charcoal gray suit came through the brush and strode purpose fully toward the sheriff.

  Chapter 3

  ‘‘Elwood, you know you’re not supposed to be here.’’ Sheriff Mick Braden regarded the man standing be fore him.

  Elwood Jefferson was a head taller than any of them. Maybe in his sixties—his age was hard to tell— his smooth dark brown skin stretched over angular bones. His gray suit was well made and his trousers sharply creased. It was not a suit for tramping through the woods.

  ‘‘We heard some black men have been lynched down here in Cobber’s Wood. You know, Sheriff, if I hear a rumor like that, I’ve got to come see about it.’’

  ‘‘Would you be here if . . .’’ the deputy began. ‘‘Leon, let’s not go there,’’ said the sheriff. Elwood Jefferson didn’t look at the deputy, but at

  the sheriff. ‘‘You know when those black teenagers tore up the playground at the First Baptist Church, I brought them in myself.’’

  ‘‘And you know that not everyone wanted them brought in,’’ the deputy said. ‘‘You remember the stink Boden Conrad raised . . . making all kinds of excuses for ’em.’’

  ‘‘Leon,’’ the sheriff said, giving the deputy a look that carried more weight than his words, ‘‘why don’t you go see if the crime scene folk need some help.’’

  Leon shot Jefferson a scowl before he reluctantly trotted back to the crime scene.

  ‘‘After a body starts to decompose, the skin turns black,’’ said the sheriff. ‘‘I’m sure someone up there on the road heard somebody say they were black and that’s how all this started.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t come here to accuse,’’ Elwood said. ‘‘I came to get information.’’

  Sheriff Braden turned to Diane. ‘‘I know you haven’t had a chance to examine them, but...I’m sorry. Diane Fallon, this is Elwood Jefferson. He’s pastor of the AME Church up on St. Chapel Street. Dr. Fallon here is a forensic anthropologist loaned to us from Rosewood.’’

  ‘‘I’ve been to the museum in Rosewood. You’re the director there, aren’t you?’’ He extended his hand, and Diane shook it.

  ‘‘Yes, I am. I hope your visit to the museum was an enjoyable one.’’

  ‘‘It was indeed.’’ He nodded. ‘‘And you also work crime scenes. That’s an odd combination.’’

  ‘‘Yes, it seems that way to me sometimes.’’

  ‘‘Is there anything you can tell me about the bod ies?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘One of the victims has long, fine blond hair. The other two have dark brown straight hair. That’s not necessarily a defining characteristic, but I believe all three are Caucasian.’’

  Elwood Jefferson shook his head. ‘‘I didn’t get a look at the hair. All I could see was those necks. Who would do such a thing?’’

  ‘‘That was my reaction too,’’ the sheriff said. ‘‘But Dr. Fallon tells me that’s a natural outcome of hanging by the neck for a long time in dry weather.’’

  Jefferson raised his eyebrows. ‘‘Is that so? I’ve never heard of that. That’s a relief.’’

  ‘‘I’ll have to ask you not to talk about the crime scene to anyone,’’ said the sheriff. ‘‘We don’t really know who or what might be involved here.’’

  ‘‘You can rely on me. You’ll tell me if anything changes in the identification of these poor souls.’’

  ‘‘We won’t hide the identities—you don’t need to worry about that. I’ve got no interest other than get ting to the bottom of this.’’

  ‘‘And tell your deputy that we’ll pray in church for the families of those victims just like we would if they were black.’’

  ‘‘Leon can be a lot like Boden Conrad.’’

  ‘‘Boden’s just looking out for justice.’’

  ‘‘I could say the same about Leon.’’

  The sheriff walked Elwood Jefferson back. Diane stayed, looking toward the murder site, her eyes fol lowing the sheriff and the pastor as they disappeared through the underbrush.

  She watched them, but her mind was trying to grab hold of the killer’s thoughts. He had to know the area. He must have known he could come and go without being seen and be here for as long as he needed to hang three victims. Or was it four? How familiar was he with this place? Was he from here? Had he hunted here?

  All the bodies were in the same state of decay. He’d probably killed them at the same time. That could have taken anywhere from half an hour to half a day. She tried to remember if she’d heard or read about murders involving multiple victims at one time.

  Why hanging? That seemed like very risky business. Of the many methods of killing a person, hanging is one of the most difficult.

  She’
d been thinking about one killer, but there may have been more than one. More than one killer would have made the task a lot easier.

  What would be the killer’s motive? Were the hang ings a message? A warning? Maybe it was a hit of some kind. Her mind flashed for a moment to the St. Valentine’s Day massacre. Gang warfare? Not likely. Not here.

  All three bodies were dressed the same. Did that have any special meaning? Did they work at the same place, belong to the same group, or were they dressed the same by the killer? For what reason?

  ‘‘What I need is a victimology,’’ Diane whispered.

  For that she needed to know who they were. She doubted the bodies would have driver’s licenses, credit cards or other identification on them, but there could be enough skin left on the hands to get fingerprints. If the sheriff was lucky, he wouldn’t need her profes sional specialty to identify them.

  Diane looked down the path in the other direction, away from the crime scene. There were spots where the trees grew so close together that a truck or SUV would have a tight squeeze. She followed the trail of the vehicle, inspecting the ground, the brush and the trees. The first narrow spot showed no sign of damage, but from where she stood she could see a light-colored gash on a tree ahead.

  She was hoping for paint flakes or something scratched off the side of the killer’s vehicle, but the gash appeared to be the result of a section of bark and wood cut out with a saw.

  Could be the killer sideswiped the tree and stopped to cut out the evidence, leaving no paint to match up with his vehicle. Diane took an orange marker flag hanging from her belt and pushed the wire holder into the ground next to the tree.

  She continued along, looking for more tight squeezes and surveying the ground, looking for any thing.