DF08 - The Night Killer (20 page)

I have a whole in-box full of project proposals from curators and exhibit planners. If I come across one that I would like to follow up on, I’ll let you help with it.”

“That would be just great,” said Sierra. “I would love that. Thanks, Dr. Fallon.”

The two of them walked down the hall together. It was getting late but the night lighting hadn’t yet come on in the museum and they still had visitors leaving. Soon the museum itself would close, but the central hallway with its own entrance would stay open for people eating at the restaurant and those who wanted to shop at the museum store, which was where Sierra was going, saying she wanted to buy one of the new T-shirts for her younger sister if the dinosaur tees had arrived.

Diane drove to Rosewood Hospital and rode the elevator up to the critical-care unit’s waiting room. She paused at the door and scanned the room, looking for the Barres, finally spotting Christina and Spence sitting on a sofa against the wall near a window. She held a file folder under her arm with the forms she had printed out.

Critical care’s waiting area was a comfortable room with thick carpet and soft sofas and chairs, all in shades of sea green and blue. A giant painting of a stylized ocean in the same colors hung on one wall. All in all, a soothing room.

Christina and Spence were sipping their cups of coffee, not talking, simply waiting for the next time they could go in and see their brother. Spence looked up first, then Christina. Each smiled wanly at Diane as she approached. Spence stood and looked grateful for something to do. Diane understood the emotional pressure they were under. Waiting for news was hard and tiring.

“I came to see how Roy Jr. is doing,” said Diane.

“He’s had a craniotomy,” said Spence. “They don’t tell us a lot.”

Diane started to explain about relieving pressure on the brain, but remembered that Spence was a medical technician and he probably knew.

“It sounds good, though. He’s alive, so there is hope,” said Diane. “I know waiting is hard.”

They nodded.

“Brian is getting us a hotel room across the street,” said Christine.

“That’s a good hotel. They cater to the needs of people who have loved ones in the hospital,” she said. Words of comfort weren’t something Diane was good at. What could one possibly say to comfort a person at a time like this? Was comfort even possible?

“Why did this happen?” asked Christine. “Do you think it had anything to do with what happened to Mom and Dad?”

“I don’t know,” said Diane. “It could be only a terrible coincidence.”

Diane sat down in a chair near the sofa, mainly so Spence would feel free to sit down again. But she also had something she wanted to ask them. She started with the easy part and told them that she would like to attend church services this coming Sunday at Rendell First Baptist and speak with members who knew their parents and the Watsons.

Christine nodded. “That’s a good idea. We can go too.” She looked over at her brother. “People will be more willing to talk if we are there.”

“Sure,” said Spence. “I haven’t been to church in a while. It’ll probably be good for me.”

“I have another request. It’s rather delicate. I know and respect the pathologist here. I would like her to do a second autopsy on your parents,” said Diane.

Christine leaned forward and put a hand on Diane’s arm. Her eyes had a bright, moist look to them. “We want to find out what happened. We’re very fond of Dr. Linden, but he’s not up to this.”

“Linden’s been retired for at least ten years—or more,” said Spence, his face creased in anger. Diane got the idea he wasn’t as fond. “You have to keep up with new technology and techniques that are developed constantly. You think he’s been reading pathology journals these past ten years?” He shook his head. “I’ll see to it; I’ll see that Mom and Dad’s bodies are sent to . . .”

Diane handed him a card on which she had written the instructions.

“ ‘Rosewood Hospital, Pathology Department,’ ” he read from the card. “You know this Dr. Lynn Webber, you say?”

“Yes,” said Diane. “I spoke with her before I came here and she’s willing to do the second autopsy. I’ve worked with her on many cases. She’s very competent,” added Diane.

And very high-maintenance
, she thought. Sometimes Diane had to walk on eggshells around her. Lynn Webber hated to be contradicted or have anyone step into her territory. She had recently put Diane in a very sticky situation with Diane’s superiors in order to even a score with someone from her past, so Diane had a lot of stored-up capital with her at the moment. But the autopsy request had not been a problem for Lynn. She had been happy to accommodate Diane. Not to mention, Lynn loved to be the one brought in to solve a problem.

“Dr. Webber will have to have authorization from you,” said Diane. “I also have another request.” Diane paused, struggling with how to word it as delicately as possible. “I would like some of my people from the crime lab to be there to collect tissue samples for our use, along with Dr. Webber’s. We are looking for ways of determining postmortem interval—that’s time since death. We are trying to find indicators—biosignatures, if you will—of biological changes that are time-dependent.”

“Why is the pathologist taking samples?” said Christine. “Mama or Dad didn’t drink . . . or take pills.” Christine looked alarmed.

Diane had thought Christine and Spence might be upset by her crime lab taking the samples, but not if the pathologist did it.

“We don’t know that the killer, or killers, didn’t drug them in some way,” said Diane.

“They always take samples,” said Spence, frowning at his sister. “It has nothing to do with their character. That’s just how it’s done.” He turned to Diane. “You don’t think the sheriff and Linden determined time of death accurately, do you? Will this help?”

“I’m hopeful that it will,” said Diane. “But, if not for your parents, then perhaps for victims in the future. We’re working on a way to more accurately calculate time of death when there’s not a pathologist available at the scene to determine it right away.”

“So it’s a study,” said Christine. She didn’t seem too happy about her parents being part of an experiment.

“Yes, what we learn from them will be used in the larger study. But I am hoping for some information useful specifically in your parents’ case,” said Diane.

“Even with the sheriff’s bumbling,” said Spence, “you pretty much know the time of death because of the time when you last saw them alive and the time when you returned and found them.”

“Yes,” said Diane. “We have a time window. But your father died sometime—at least an hour—after your mother. I want to know why.”

“How do you know?” said Christine.

“I took pictures with my cell phone camera before I went for help,” said Diane. “I didn’t know if the killer might return and disturb the scene before it could be secured.”

“And you didn’t expect that Sheriff Conrad would do a good job. I think his reputation as an investigator is well-known. I see your reasoning,” said Spence.

“How could you tell from photographs?” asked Christine.

Diane opened her mouth and shut it again. How was she going to word this?

“Christine, honey,” said Spence. “You are putting Dr. Fallon in a difficult situation. She doesn’t want to talk about our parents using the terms forensic specialists use with the dead. She’ll write a report and I’ll look at it, so you don’t have to. It will be easier that way.”

Diane nodded. “Sometimes it’s an awfully cold-sounding way to talk about a loved one,” said Diane.

“I know Mom and Dad would still want to help people, and their research will. Dr. Fallon’s not going to take any more samples than necessary. It’ll be all right,” said Spence.

Christine nodded and the two of them signed the papers that Diane handed them.

“You know, you’ll need Joe and Ella Watson to have a second autopsy too,” said Spence.

“Do you think their children would be willing?” said Diane.

“Oh, yeah,” said Spence. “We called them to give our condolences, and they are as anxious as we are to find out what happened. They don’t like Sheriff Conrad, but didn’t think there were any choices. They trust Dr. Linden, but I think I can persuade them.”

“Okay,” said Diane. “That would be very helpful.”

“We’re going to help all we can,” said Spence. “I’m not convinced that Roy Jr.’s accident isn’t a part of this. If it is, then does that mean it’s not a serial killer? I mean, running somebody off the road isn’t the same as . . . well, you know . . . as what happened to Mom and Dad.”

“No, it’s not,” agreed Diane. “But I don’t know where it fits.”

Spence nodded and stood up. “I’ll see to it right now, about Mom and Dad,” he said, looking at the card Diane had given him containing contact information for Lynn Webber, “before the sheriff tries to send them to a funeral home. It’d be like him to pick out a funeral home, send them there, and pretend he was just helping us.”

Diane left them with mixed feelings. She believed she’d helped Spence by giving him something to do. But Christine didn’t look as if she were comforted at all by Diane’s visit.

It was good to leave the hospital. Diane hated going there. It sometimes seemed as if it were a regular stop for her. Not just visiting either, but to get care for herself.

There was a cloud cover and it was getting dark earlier than normal. She put on her brights when she could on the drive home. She still couldn’t shake the nagging feeling she was being followed.

“This is just silly,” she muttered to herself. “You are really getting to annoy me,” she told herself.

Still she watched the lights behind her. Everything seemed normal. By the time she turned onto the scenic stretch of highway nearing Frank’s house, people had turned off to go elsewhere and all the headlights behind her had disappeared. She realized that she had let her speed creep up. She relaxed, slowed down, and reached to turn on the radio. With a terrifying crash and a violent jerk sideways, something rammed her from behind.

Diane’s head popped back against the headrest; then she was thrown forward against her shoulder strap, knocking the breath out of her, then jerked back against her seat again.

What . . . the hell?
She struggled to recover her breath as a second jolt bounced her vehicle. She gripped the wheel hard, her muscles tensed, and struggled to keep her SUV on the road.

She looked in her rearview mirror. All she could see were bright lights. It was something big. A truck.

And instantly she realized that someone had been following her with their lights off.

The unknown assailant hit her again, ramming her against the seat. He locked onto her bumper, jerked his vehicle left, then right, trying to push her off the road or make her run into the ditch. Diane steered in the direction she was pushed for a second, then sped up and freed herself. She wasn’t far from home. She pressed the accelerator until she was going faster than she felt safe. If he hit her again, she was worried she would flip. She forced herself to release the pressure on the accelerator.

The driver came up again, hitting her, pushing her. Abruptly her attacker backed off, then sped past her, scraping the side of her vehicle, and flew down the road, out of sight.

“Oh, God,” she whispered under her breath, sick with relief. Acid rose and stung her throat. She was tempted to pull off onto the shoulder and compose herself. She was also tempted to chase him down. She increased her speed again, hoping Frank was at home. She didn’t want to arrive to an empty house. She needed company. His company.

Diane was getting close to her turnoff when she saw headlights up ahead . . . on her side of the road. They were coming fast. She moved toward the other lane. The headlights did the same. She moved back to her own lane. The headlights followed her movements.

They were coming faster. She had only microseconds to think, to work out a plan. There was little time to act. If she swerved at the last minute, the driver might swerve in the same direction—they would still hit head-on. She slowed to decrease the force of the impact. He stayed in her lane, coming fast. The headlights grew larger and brighter. She held the steering wheel so tight her hands were growing numb.
Relax
, she told herself. She tried, but the lump in her chest and the fear in her stomach were too great. He stayed in her lane. He was going to hit her. She hoped her air bag worked. She hoped he wasn’t suicidal. She hoped he didn’t have an air bag.

Diane was almost stopped. She mentally braced herself for the crash and tried to relax. The headlights seemed close enough to touch. The driver swerved at the last moment and flashed past her.

Diane stepped on the accelerator and sped for home, hoping she would make it before he caught up with her again.

There it was—Frank’s driveway just ahead. She made the turn a little too fast and drove the eighth of a mile to the house. His car was in the garage. Another car was parked in the driveway behind his. She pulled in beside Frank’s car and closed the garage door with the remote.

She usually parked outside the garage and entered by the front door, but she needed to secure her vehicle. She wanted to collect paint transfer. But right now, she wanted more than anything to get inside the house.

From the garage she walked into the mudroom, pulling the door closed behind her a little too hard, and locked it. From there she walked through to the kitchen, then into the living room, where Frank was entertaining Ben Florian. They rose when she entered.

“Diane?” Frank’s voice was like cool water, or music, or chocolate—comfort. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She must look a fright. That was what she was—affright—sick with it.

“You’re pale,” he said. “Are you ill?”