A Rumor of Bones: A Lindsay Chamberlain Mystery (22 page)

Lindsay looked at the object Derrick was holding.
"Another photography connection."

"What's that?" The sheriff peered over Derrick's
shoulder.

"A part for a camera tripod," said Derrick.

"Oh, Lord," the sheriff said.

"That means there may be pictures somewhere, if
this belongs to the killer," Lindsay said. "Can't you
search Lawson's studio?"

"I don't have probable cause to get a warrant for
Mickey's place."

"He took the portraits of the children," said Lindsay, "and he showed up at the search for Jenna."

"So did half the town." The sheriff pulled up a
chair and sat down. "And it's true he took the school
pictures, but he and Adam Bancroft are the only two
professional photographers in this area. Mickey is
well known. I know you don't like to hear this, but his
family, the Tylers, have a lot of influence in this town.
I need a little more evidence before I can zero in on a
member of the Tyler clan."

"Can you get a warrant for both Adam's and
Mickey's studios, so it won't look like you're focusing on Mickey?" Derrick asked.

"You can't just get warrants like that," said the
sheriff. "We have absolutely nothing to link Adam
Bancroft to the murders, and you can't just focus on
someone and point them out as a possible child killer
when you have no grounds to prove it."

"Yeah, you're right," Derrick agreed. "I guess even
the most liberal of us can turn fascist in the right circumstance."

The sheriff grinned. "Yep, that's why you have
people like me to watch out for people like you. How
`bout we go out for lunch?"

A few minutes later, the sheriff, Derrick, and Lindsay sat in a far corner of the diner and, as had become their tradition, finished eating before mentioning anything about the murders.

The sheriff cautioned them. "I know it looks to you
like you have a good suspect in Mickey. But you have
no hard evidence, and your circumstantial evidence is
very thin."

"Who owns the land the crime scene is on?" Lindsay asked.

"The Timberland Paper Company now. They
bought it from the Tylers about 15 years ago"

"The Tylers again," Lindsay remarked.

"Yes," the sheriff said, "but they have owned a lot
of land over the years. They are the biggest landowners hereabouts, besides the paper company."

"Still, a family member would be familiar with the
land."

"And a lot of other folks who might have hunted on
the land. Gun clubs have rented it for years. I need
something that connects Mickey to the scene or to the
children, something besides him being the one who
took their school pictures."

"Can you find out if he has a broken tripod?" Derrick asked.

"Yes. I can do that," said the sheriff.

"I was thinking," Lindsay said. "Derrick is well
known at the hardware store and other places for
scavenging tools for the site. What if he asks around
for old tripods to use for parts to fix his surveying
tripod?"

"Good idea," the sheriff said. "I don't think that
would raise any suspicion at all."

After lunch, Derrick took Lindsay to the crime scene.
He sat on a log and watched as she walked among the
children's filled-in graves.

It came to her mind easier than she thought it
would, as easily as for archaeological sites. She saw a
truck turn into the overgrown road. It was a common
pickup truck, like every other one on the road.

He slid out, coins dropping to the ground from his
truck seat.

The girl slid out the other side, dropping the pen
and candy wrappers. She was sucking on a Tootsie
Roll pop. Lindsay couldn't see which little girl it was,
nor could she see the face of the man. Even though
she thought the man was Mickey Lawson, his face
was a haze. The man took his camera from the seat,
walked to the rear of his truck, and began setting up
the tripod. The little girl played around the site,
crunching on her sucker and throwing away the cardboard stick when she finished. When she became restless, the man soothed her, telling about the pretty
pictures he was going to take of her and how pleased
her parents would be. He picked her up and a large
black fog appeared in front of them through which
Lindsay could neither see nor hear what he did. When
he came out of the fog, he was carrying the little girl,
and she was limp.

Suddenly, Lindsay was being shaken.

"Come out of it." Derrick's voice was almost
angry.

"Why did you do that?" Lindsay shouted at him.

"Because you're crying."

Lindsay put a hand to her face. It was wet with tears.
"I didn't even realize it."

Derrick took out a handkerchief and began wiping
her eyes and pulled her to his chest. "I shouldn't have
brought you here"

Lindsay felt the steady thump of Derrick's heart.
They said nothing, and after a moment she stopped
crying and pulled away from him. Derrick guided her
back to the Jeep, and they left the crime scene.

On the way back to the site, Lindsay told him of
the vision she had seen. "He had to have some kind of
truck or Jeep to get out there, and it had to be inconspicuous. The little girls knew him, or he couldn't
have lured them out there."

"Then you think they were killed at the crime
scene?"

"Yes, I think so. I'll bet the tripod was knocked
over in a struggle. Are you going to look for it tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I'll do as you suggest, pretend I'm looking
for an old broken one for spare parts. But, if you're
right about him knowing the little girls and luring
them away, he broke his pattern with Jenna-provided it is the same person"

"That's right," Lindsay agreed. "I didn't add that in
as a factor."

"Your story fits the artifacts, though"

"Many stories could fit the artifacts. After all, we
never know if any of my stories are right." Lindsay
was quiet for a moment, staring out the window.
"Maybe the killer was compelled to commit the crime
again," she said, "but couldn't do it his usual way by
luring a child he knew, so he took an opportunity to
kidnap a child he found alone."

"You know, there may be two killers: one who takes the photographs and the other who ..." Derrick
let the sentence trail off.

"Maybe. Who knows? We don't know enough
about criminal psychology to be making the assumptions we have been making."

"I agree. Just let the sheriff find the killer. We've
certainly done our part already," Derrick said.

The sheriff made an arrest. It shocked everyone when
Brian came from town with the news.

"Ned?" Lindsay exclaimed.

I don't believe it," both Frank and Derrick said.

"Believe it," Brian said. "From what I hear, the
sheriff has a strong case. The folks of Merry Claymoore are none too happy about us either. Talk about
guilt by association. All that goodwill that Lindsay
built is gone now."

"Surely not," said Frank. "Ned is sort of a hometown boy."

"Some of them see us as a bad influence," Brian
said. "At least they are not assembling in mobs with
torches yet, but between that Plackert guy being found
dead here at the site after his run-in with us, and now
Ned under arrest for murdering little kids ..."

Marsha's Lincoln slid to a halt on the gravel. She
jumped out of the car and hurried to the small group
gathered in the eating area. "I guess Brian told you,"
she said.

"Yes," answered Frank. "It's hard to believe. Ned is a
first-class ass, but I can't believe he is a murderer. I
hope Brian is exaggerating the town's reaction."

"There is not a ground swell of antagonism, but
some people are frightened."
"

"I'll talk to the sheriff," said Lindsay, "and find out
what's going on."

"You want me to drive you?" Frank asked.

"No, I'd prefer to go alone."

"I know what you're thinking, Lindsay," the sheriff
said as he stood face-to-face with her in his office.

"No, you don't," she answered.

"Good, because what I'm thinking you're thinking
is that I passed over arresting a resident of Merry
Claymoore to get one of yours."

"I don't make snap judgments. Right now I don't
know why you arrested Ned."

"I don't make snap judgments either. I arrested
Ned because Jenna identified him."

Lindsay's mouth flew open. "What?"

The sheriff nodded his head. "Sit down, and I'll tell
you about it."

Lindsay sat down in the brown leather chair in
front of the sheriff's desk and watched as he sat down
in a matching chair across from her.

"Jenna's mother took her to get ice cream. Ned was
there, and Jenna pointed to him and said, `That's
him.' Later, I showed her several pictures" He leaned
forward for emphasis. "Mickey's among them. She
picked out Ned Meyers."

"I see."

A doubt you see yet. There's more. Ned fits the
profile."

"Profile?"

"Yes. You didn't think I was relying only on you
archaeology people to find the killer, did you?"

"No, I didn't assume that," she said stiffly.

The sheriff frowned. "Both of Ned's parents were
alcoholics. Did you know that?"

"No, but that's hardly-"

The sheriff held up a hand, and Lindsay did not
finish. "He stayed a lot with his mother's parents,
who lived in Merry Claymoore until their deaths
several years ago. He was here summers and many
times during the school year. What with going back
and forth between homes and coming from a troubled family the way he did, he didn't make many
friends."

"But still," Lindsay said, "I can't imagine Ned as
the killer."

"Does Ned date?"

Lindsay shrugged. "I don't know very much about
his social life."

"Has he dated anyone this summer?"

"He came to the Locomotion with us," Lindsay
evaded.

"Alone?"

Lindsay looked down at the floor, then back up at
the sheriff. "Okay, he had a troubled youth and is shy
with women."

The sheriff raised his hands in a gesture. "You were
ready for me to lock up Mickey Lawson because he's
a photographer."

"Lawson took all the pictures of the children."

"That's true, he did. You do know that Ned is a
photographer, too?" The sheriff raised an eyebrow
and waited for Lindsay's response.

"It is not uncommon for archaeologists to have that
skill," she evaded again, then added, "Mickey is excessively neat and precise."

"When you all were looking for housing for your
digging crews, Ned didn't volunteer his home, the
one he inherited from his grandparents. Have you
seen it? It is a very neat place."

"Well, sheriff," said Lindsay, "if you know students, you would not want them staying in your home
either. All this is slim evidence."

The sheriff smiled. "I agree, and I'm still building
a case. But with Jenna pointing him out, I had to
arrest him, even if only for his own protection."

"Have you thought about Patrick Tyler as a possible suspect?" she asked.

"Sure, but these guys are pretty much one dimensional. They usually have only one variety of obsession. With Patrick, it's females his own age."

Lindsay sighed. "Brian says people are pretty mad
at us"

"Some are, but you need not worry. I won't allow
vigilantes in my county. I'll keep deputies looking in
on the site."

"What about bail for Ned?"

The sheriff shook his head. "You won't find a judge
around here who will give him bail, not with the chance
he's a child killer. It's best if he stays here anyway"

"Can I see him?"

The sheriff nodded. "Lindsay, I don't like any of
this. I have a lot of respect for you, but if this guy's
guilty ..."

"All right, sheriff, I understand."

The sheriff led Lindsay to the lockup. When she
heard the steel door slam behind them, she felt panicked. Ned must be awfully frightened, she thought.

She had expected the bars on the jail cells to be black. They weren't. They were tan, as were the floor
and the walls. As she walked down the cell-lined
hallway, Lindsay's loafers made hollow clicking
sounds on the polished floor. The odor of chlorine
and urine were strong, and she involuntarily put her
hand to her nose. Someone shouted at her as she
went by. Lindsay kept her eyes straight ahead.

Ned was in a cell by himself, sitting on the lower
bunk and holding his head in his hands. He looked
even more lonely than when she and Derrick had seen
him leaving by himself from the Locomotion.

"I won't be very far," said the sheriff. "Call when
you are finished." He opened the cell door and
allowed her to enter.

Ned raised his head and looked at Lindsay. For a
moment she thought he didn't recognize her.

"Hello, Ned. Are you okay?"

"I'm innocent, Lindsay. I didn't do this."

"Do you have a lawyer?"

Ned shook his head. "I imagine the court will
appoint one. At least that's what it said on that damn
little card they read to me "