Dead Guilty (23 page)

Ross
Kingsley let his gaze wander around her office
before bringing his attention back to Diane. Diane’s
eyes never left Kingsley.

Interesting
choice
of
words,
she
thought.
Sparse,
bare, cold,
perhaps, but not
Spartan
—the places to sit
were far too comfortable.

‘‘Garnett
told me you suffered a great tragedy doing
human rights investigations in South America.’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘And you don’t want to revisit it. I can understand.
What do you do for fun?’’
‘‘Why are you profiling me?’’
Kingsley shifted in his chair. ‘‘Because this man who
may be the killer has focused his attention on you. I
want to know why, so I can understand him.’’
‘‘I enjoy caving.’’
‘‘Exploring caves?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘You like dark places, then.’’
‘‘I always carry at least three sources of light.’’
He laughed. ‘‘But caving is dangerous.’’
‘‘It can be.’’
‘‘What is it that you like about it?’’
‘‘I enjoy cave mapping. I like exploring a new world.
I also like dangling on the end of a rope.’’
He laughed again. ‘‘Why do you think your office
is so devoid of personal items?’’
‘‘Because
I
haven’t
put
any
in
yet.
I
spend
more
time in the labs here or in my other office.’’
‘‘Other office? At the station house?’’
‘‘How much about me did Garnett reveal to you?’’
‘‘Not a lot. That you are a forensic anthropologist
who used to do human rights investigations. We lis
tened to the tapes of you and the caller. Most of my
time so far has been spent looking at the reports of
the crime scenes.’’
‘‘I have an office in the museum. That’s where you’ll
find personal items, including a rather nice photograph
of me dangling on the end of a rope.’’
‘‘In the museum? This one connected to the crime
lab?’’
‘‘Yes. I’m the director.’’
That caught him by surprise. Diane wondered why
they hadn’t told him. Perhaps Garnett just hadn’t con
sidered
it
pertinent.
She
could
almost
see
Kingsley
revising his profile of her.
‘‘I see. Well, that’s certainly interesting. You must
be a busy woman.’’
‘‘I am.’’
‘‘You don’t have any cognitive’’—he waved a hand
in
the
air—‘‘dissonance
switching
from
one
job
to
the other?’’
‘‘No.
Actually,
they
go
together
better
than
you
might expect. I have within a couple of floors experts
in a great many fields—geologists, biologists, entomol
ogists,
archaeologists.
Sometimes
my
duties
overlap.
For instance, we just inherited a mummy. He’s getting
the same analysis that a modern body would. For me
and my forensic staff, being next to the museum has
very definite benefits. After working a gruesome crime
scene, it’s amazingly calming to go look at the collec
tion of seashells, or at the giant dinosaurs.’’
‘‘I’ll bet it is. This is interesting. Very unexpected.
So, why do you think this guy is calling you?’’
Diane wasn’t fazed by his abrupt change of subject.
She suspected that was why he did it—to see if she
really could switch attention on a dime.
‘‘I don’t know. He says he wants me to understand
his position. It sounds like he wants my approval. I
don’t know why.’’
‘‘Do you think it was he who attacked you last night?’’
‘‘In the last conversation with him, I had a sense he
was frustrated that I wouldn’t tell him he was right. I
assumed it was him, but I don’t know. Nor do I know
who else might have done it.’’
‘‘That’s
a
good
question.
Did
you
get
a
sense
of
how old the caller is?’’
‘‘Twenties was my impression. I’d say not much into
his thirties, if that old. But that is just an impression.’’
Kingsley looked at his notes. ‘‘You say that the per
son who tied the ropes that hung the people in the
forest wasn’t the same person who tied the ropes that
hung the guy in the house. Is that something you’re
sure of?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Would you explain that to me?’’
Diane went through the same explanation that she
gave Chief Garnett and Sheriff Braden about how the
knots were tied.
‘‘So the person who tied’’—he looked down at his
notes—‘‘Chris Edwards’ knots did not know how to
tie a proper knot?’’
‘‘No. He tied a granny knot.’’
Kingsley referred to his notes again. ‘‘You mention
that
all
the
knots
tied
by
the
person
who
tied
the
hanging victims in the forest had... what did you
call it?...a stopper knot on the tail end of each?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Would you call this compulsive behavior? I mean,
why did he do this with all the knots he tied?’’
‘‘No, I wouldn’t call it compulsive. One thing you
have
to
make
sure
of
is
that
the
end
of
the
rope
doesn’t
slip
through
the
knot
you
just
tied
when
weight is put on the knot. That’s what a stopper knot
is for. This guy used a stevedore’s knot. I use a figure
eight when I need a stopper knot. A stevedore is like
a
figure
eight,
just
with
an
extra
turn.
It
might
say
something about where he learned to tie his knots.’’
Kingsley
nodded.
‘‘And
this
length
of
rope
you
found. You actually re-created the knot that was once
tied in it?’’
‘‘I found a knot that I could make correspond to
the kinks left by previous knots and that also corres
ponds to a specific spiral wear pattern on the rope.
That’s not to say I am right.’’
He smiled. ‘‘I appreciate your careful use of words.
Say you were right. You mention that it is a knot used
by truckers.’’
‘‘I don’t know how commonly it is used by them,
but
it
is
a
knot
used
by
that
group.
It’s
a
knot
for
tying
up
and
securing
a
load.
When
the
tension
is
released, the knot is easy to untie. In knots, being able
to untie them is almost as important as being able to
tie them.’’
‘‘I find this interesting. This is the kind of thing I
don’t usually get from evidence. Tell me this. Suppose
for a moment that the person who is calling you is the
one who killed the victims in the forest. Is he smart
enough to try to fool you?’’
‘‘Dr.
Kingsley,
anyone
is
smart
enough
to
try
to
fool me.’’
‘‘I guess you’re right. Let me rephrase. What I’m
getting at is, would this person tie the wrong kind of
knot on purpose at a second crime scene just to throw
you off track?’’
‘‘He could, but how would he know that we would
even look at the knots?’’
‘‘Perhaps in the TV interview...’’
Diane
shook
her
head.
‘‘I
never
mentioned
the
knots—just bones. Most people don’t even know there
is such a thing as forensic knot analysis.’’
‘‘Good point.’’ He rose. ‘‘According to the report I
read,
you
haven’t
found
any
physical
evidence
that
links any of the crimes together.’’
‘‘That’s true—none.’’
‘‘You have been very helpful. I assume I can call
on you if I need any more information?’’
‘‘Of course.’’
Diane opened a drawer and handed him a card. On
it she wrote her cell phone number.
‘‘Another thing. I don’t think this was in any of the
reports exactly, but it just occurred to me. He seems to
know how to avoid having his calls traced to him—that
is,
he
uses
calling
cards,
or
someone
else’s
E-mail
ac
count. That took some cheek—one of the E-mail mes
sages came from inside the museum in the Internet cafe
downstairs from here. He apparently waited for some
one to leave their computer a moment and just slipped
in
and
sent
his
own
E-mail.
I
understand
he
knew
enough to erase it from the person’s sent file.’’
‘‘That’s interesting. You’re right, that wasn’t in the
report—not in that way.’’
‘‘Why do you think he is calling me?’’
‘‘I think you are right and that for some reason he
wants your approval. I don’t know if you remind him
of his mother, sister or the nun who used to rap his
knuckles. He might simply think you look like a sym
pathetic person. I’m not sure yet.’’
‘‘How should I handle the conversations? Should I
push him for information?’’
Kingsley
hesitated
for
a
moment.
‘‘Handle
it
the
same way you’ve been doing it—as the firm but kind
teacher. I may change my mind when I’ve been over
everything.’’
They shook hands, and Diane walked with him to
the lab, where they found Chief Garnett engrossed in
what was apparently a lengthy explanation from Neva
of how one arrives at the shape of a nose from skele
tal remains.

Diane
had
to
go
to
a
Raymond
Waller’s.
She’d
and left the museum just before noon to go home and
change into a dark navy suit. Elwood Jefferson of the
AME Church was conducting the funeral. When she
arrived, she sat down by Lynn Webber.

‘‘Raymond
had a lot of friends,’’ said Diane.
‘‘He did,’’ said Lynn. ‘‘I’m proud to count myself
among
them.
You
know,
I
work
with
death
all
the
time and I still don’t understand it. Why do people
do
it?
It’s
not
something
you
can
take
back.’’
She
shook her head. ‘‘Raymond was just the nicest, funni
est man.’’
‘‘Yes, he was.’’ Diane gazed around at the people
gathered to say good-bye to Raymond Waller. Most
funeral
that
afternoon—
borrowed
Andie’s
Honda
of the people she didn’t know. About a third of them
were white and the rest black. There were several peo
ple
from
the
neighborhood
that
she
recalled
seeing
standing on the side of the road. She saw Chief Garnett and Ross Kingsley in the back. She wondered if
Raymond’s murderer was there.
Reverend
Raymond’s
Jefferson
gave
a
stirring
eulogy
about
life
and
the
wickedness
that
took
him
early. As moving as it was, Diane was glad when it
was over.
The small church was hot, and Diane was relieved
to finally get outside. The church had its own ceme
tery, and that was where Raymond was buried. A little
less
than
half
of
the
congregation
left
before
the
graveside service. Diane stayed. She and Lynn walked
together to the grave site and stood across from the
family. There weren’t many of them. An older man
and woman who looked like they were probably hus
band and wife. Two younger women with men who
were
probably
their
spouses,
and
a
boy
of
about
thirteen.
After
the
family
said
their
last
farewells
and
the
casket was being lowered, Diane walked with Lynn to
give their condolences to the family.
‘‘Have you met them?’’ asked Diane.
‘‘No. Raymond didn’t talk about them much. I got
the idea that not everyone got along.’’
Diane held out her hand to the first family member,
a very pretty woman dressed in a black cotton suit.
She had a head full of dark spirals, brownish green
eyes
and
skin
slightly
lighter
than
Raymond’s.
She
looked
like
she
was
probably
in
her
early-to
midthirties. Diane introduced herself and was in the
middle
of
expressing
her
sympathy
when
the
other
woman,
who
appeared
to
be
an
identical
twin,
stepped forward.
‘‘I heard somebody tell us to get in touch with you.
You have Raymond’s things. I want you to know, we
expect to get them back. Don’t think you are going
to get away with them—no, ma’am, we’re going to get
them back.’’
‘‘Hello,’’ the first woman interrupted. ‘‘I’m Kather
ine
Markum
and
this
is
my
sister,
Elisabeth—also
known as my evil twin. We’re Ray’s cousins. Momma
here was Ray’s momma’s sister. We appreciate your
not leaving his valuables in the house to get stolen.’’
‘‘Speak for yourself,’’ said Elisabeth.
‘‘They’re at the museum. My head conservator cata
loged them when they were stored,’’ said Diane. ‘‘We
also have Mr. Waller’s journal of photographs describ
ing his holdings.’’
‘‘We had no idea that Raymond had anything valu
able,’’ said Katherine.
‘‘One
of
my
employees
tells
me
that
it’s
a
very
good collection.’’
‘‘Don’t
you
be
thinking
you’re
going
to
get
your
hands on it.’’
‘‘Elisa,
please,’’
said
her
uncle.
‘‘This
is
Ray’s
funeral.’’
She
ignored
him.
‘‘I’ve
already
had
people
call
wanting to buy them. We’ll be picking them up right
now.’’
‘‘We who?’’ said her sister. ‘‘Ray has a will, and I
know he wouldn’t leave anything to you. It’s not like
you and he were friends.’’ Katherine turned to Diane.
‘‘I am
sorry to
be airing
our dirty linen
in front
of
you, a perfect stranger, but at least you don’t have to
live with her.’’
Diane was beginning to regret telling Garnett that
it was all right to store the baseball collection at the
museum.
‘‘One
thing
I
don’t
understand,’’
said
Katherine.
‘‘Why
did
the
museum
work
Raymond’s
crime
scene?’’
Diane
started
to
explain
when
a
tall
middle-aged
black man stepped forward and spoke to the family.
‘‘Excuse me. I’m Russell Keating, Raymond’s attor
ney. I have his will. You should have gotten a letter
from me. We’ll be meeting tomorrow in my office.’’
He turned to Diane. ‘‘I think, right now, a museum is
a good place to hold his collection. I understand you
have it in an environmentally controlled room.’’
‘‘Yes, we do.’’
‘‘Humph,’’
said
Elisabeth.
‘‘We
have
airconditioning.’’
Katherine lowered her head. ‘‘Please, Momma, tell
me I don’t have the same DNA as this woman.’’
‘‘Kathy, I’m getting really tired of your snide little
comments,’’ said Elisabeth.
‘‘We can clear all this up tomorrow,’’ said Keating.
‘‘In my office at ten
A
.
M
.’’
Diane gave her condolences to the rest of the family
and walked with Lynn Webber to her car.
‘‘Well, they’re a pair,’’ said Lynn. ‘‘I’ve never seen
twins
who
look
so
much
alike
and
are
so
different.
Raymond told me a little about them. He liked Kathy,
couldn’t
stand
Elisa.’’
Lynn
stopped
at
her
car
and
opened the door. ‘‘I’m glad I’m not going to be at the
reading of the will. He told me he wanted the Negro
Leagues
Baseball
Museum
in
Kansas
City
to
have
his collection.’’
‘‘You’re
right.
I’m
glad
to
be
missing
that
too.
I
have an appointment at
the hospital in about thirty
minutes
to
have
a
CT
scan
done
on
our
mummy.
Would you like to attend?’’
Lynn stared at her for a long moment. ‘‘A mummy?
Oh yes, you told us about him.’’
‘‘We inherited him. We don’t have any provenance
on him, but we’re all excited just the same—hoping
he doesn’t turn out to be a fake.’’
‘‘That’d
be
interesting.’’
Her
eyes
misted
over.
‘‘That’s the kind of thing Raymond would have just
loved.
He’d
have
had
me
and
him
front
row
seats
before you even knew you had a scheduled date. I am
sure going to miss him.’’
As Diane spoke with Lynn, she caught sight of Garnett and Kingsley as they got in Garnett’s car to leave.
She wondered if Kingsley got any information of im
portance from the gathering.
Garnett reached for his cell in his breast pocket and
put it to his ear. She felt her phone vibrating in her
purse. She took it out and looked at the display. It
was David.