Dead Past (23 page)

“What crime?” she whispered.

 

It had been four days since Frank talked her out of investigating the murders and into simply handling the trace evidence from the crimes they themselves processed. She had to agree that this was far more relaxing. However, Jin, David, and Neva were still on the case. Jin was determined to get his DNA lab.

McNair’s murder had an unexpected effect. Patrice Stanton stopped harassing her by phone. Apparently, she actually thought Diane had killed two people already and she didn’t want to be next.
Well,
thought Diane,
whatever works
.

Today, Kendel sat in front of Diane’s desk with several sheets of paper in her hand and a large box under her arm.

“We have a researcher who says he is going to petition the Egyptian government to ask for the return of our mummy if we don’t allow him access,” said Kendel.

Diane sighed. “That’s a new tact.”

“I’ll write a letter to the legal affairs department of his university,” Kendel said. “Maybe they have some influence on him.”

Diane nodded.

“I’ll also see if he’s tried this with other institutions.”

“Do that,” said Diane.

“I wouldn’t worry,” said Kendel.

“I’m not,” said Diane. “Lately I’ve had people threatening worse.”

Kendel smiled. “I guess you have. By the way, Whitney Lester’s starting her management training today.”

“I hope she learns something,” said Diane, eying the box. “What else do we have?”

“Mike sent you a gift. He wanted me to give it to you in person.” Kendel handed Diane the box.

Mike was the curator for the geology collection at the museum and her caving partner, and he had on more than one occasion suggested that he would like to be more.

Diane smiled. “What is it? Do you know?” She weighed the box in her hands. “It’s heavy.”

“It is,” said Kendel. “Open it.” Kendel sat back smiling. “It’s something you’ll like.”

Diane cut the tape on the box. Inside was filled with Styrofoam peanuts. She stood and put her hands down in the box, spilling the peanuts all over her desk. She found a roundish object wrapped in bubble wrap. She pulled it out and cut off the wrapping.

“Oh, my,” said Diane, “this is lovely. You’re right, I do like it. I love it.”

She turned it around in her hand and looked at it. It was something Diane had wanted for a long time—a crystal skull carved out of quartz.

 

Diane set the skull on her desk under a lamp and watched the light play off the surfaces. She placed her fingertips on the top of the skull and caressed it. It was as smooth as glass. The sutures etched into its surface were perfect. It was a beautiful piece. She opened the card that came with it.

Another thing she and Mike had in common was a love of science fiction. In particular, they both liked
Stargate-SG1
. His note referred to an episode in that series. He was right. Staring into the eyes, she was transported.

“Aren’t you tempted just a little?” asked Kendel.

Diane was startled out of her reverie. Kendel’s voice abruptly transported her back from wherever she was.

“Tempted?” Diane asked.

“Mike.”

“I’m seeing someone that I like very much. Mike is younger than I, and he works for me.”

“That wasn’t what I asked,” said Kendel.

Diane smiled at her. “That is all the answer you’re going to get.”

“Well, I’d be tempted. And I’m dating a great guy whom I like very much. Just one of Mike’s crooked smiles in my direction and I’d melt.”

“I like the skull,” said Diane, evading any talk of Mike and his crooked smile. “Did you help him find it?”

“I did. It wasn’t easy finding one that nice and that large, but I managed,” she said.

Diane imagined she did manage. Kendel was the best at finding things.

“I understand you’ve been visited by headhunters,” said Diane.

Kendel had not tried to hide the fact that other museums had contacted her. Diane knew it would happen. She had been lucky to hire Kendel. Now that other museums were seeing her work, Diane knew they would be interested in her.

Kendel nodded. “Still have my head.” She grinned. “The Illinoisan and the Smithsonian are looking for upper management.”

“Kendel, you are well qualified for a director’s position. I don’t want you to stay here out of a sense of loyalty if something good comes your way.”

Kendel shook her head. “They weren’t looking for a director.”

“Even so, those are big museums.”

“The thing I liked about RiverTrail from the beginning was the quality of the collections and the physical facilities. The collections here may be small, but they are good and the potential for this museum to grow is tremendous. You have the space and the resources. That’s not true of other museums.”

Diane agreed. Good quality space is something they had in abundance, and they had strong financial resources.

“I can make a substantial contribution to a museum like this one,” continued Kendel. “The effect of my work would have much less impact at a really big museum. The geology collection here is already one of the best in the Southeast and it keeps growing. On each of Mike’s excursions he sends back a unique selection of rock and mineral specimens and their petro-genesis. More and more of Bartram’s graduate students in geology are coming to the museum to use our reference collection in their research. I’ve been working closely with the Geology Department on their exhibits. They’re one of our strengths.”

Diane knew that was true. The geology exhibits alone had raised the museum’s ranking in the eyes of neighboring universities.

“I’m pleased to hear that you’re happy here. I just want you to feel free to consider options when the headhunters come to you.”

“Not a problem. That’s another thing, they can’t offer me the freedom I have here. Another quality I like about this museum is the lack of politics—and that’s mainly your influence. I can concentrate on the collections and not constantly worry about sensitive egos and political agendas. Other museums aren’t like that. This is a good place.”

RiverTrail was indeed a good place. Diane counted it as one of her major jobs as director to keep it always a good place.

Kendel was summoned back to her office for some pressing matter, and Diane went to her other job—the one in the crime lab—for a different kind of pressing matter.

“We have the autopsy reports for Blake Stanton and Marcus McNair,” said Neva.

“Bring them to my osteology office,” said Diane, as she passed through. Even though she was more relaxed taking a hands-off approach to the investigations, she had had enough. It was not in her nature to avoid the thick of things.

Neva, David, and Jin followed on her heels. When Diane sat behind her desk, Neva handed her all the reports, including crime scene and autopsy photos.

Diane started with McNair’s autopsy report. The cause of death was the gunshot to the head. He might have survived the hit to the chest. She flipped through the photographs of the scene. It was strange seeing McNair lying dead—the smirk finally gone from his face, permanently and forever wiped away.

She searched for the autopsy photos of McNair and Stanton, the head wounds in particular. She laid them side by side. Both bodies had a similarly sized hole in the middle of their forehead. McNair’s had a large inflamed area around the wound. Neither had powder tattooing. Rankin noted the lack of tattooing, but made no conclusions. Rankin rarely went beyond what he knew.

“Did I hear you guys say the detective in charge thinks all shots were fired at a distance?” asked Diane.

“Yes,” said Neva.

“Rosewood detectives don’t get much experience with bullet wounds made by a gun with a silencer,” said Diane. “And since no one in either scene heard anything, I believe a silencer was used.”

Diane turned the photos around so they could see them. “Look at McNair’s. The detective thought it was not a contact wound because of the lack of tattooing. But you often don’t get tattooing with a silencer. This red ring is the muzzle imprint. Notice that it’s erythematous—red and inflamed looking—and not abraded, as the muzzle imprint of a gun without a silencer would be. If we find the silencer, it will probably have the victim’s tissue inside it.”

Neva picked up the photograph and examined it. Jin looked over her shoulder. David hung back. Examining autopsy photos was not his favorite thing to do.

“If you look at Blake’s wound,” said Diane, “there’s no stippling or muzzle imprint. He was shot from a distance. The bullet was found in his head—which may mean that considerable energy was lost before impact—also a factor with silencers, but that doesn’t prove a silencer was used. It’s just suggestive.”

“So what do you make of it?” asked Neva.

“McNair’s murder was personal. The shooter hits him in the knee first. That hurts. Then they shoot him in the chest, and for good measure they come right up to him and shoot him in the head point-blank.”

“It sounds personal to me,” said Jin.

“It was also someone who knew his schedule,” said David. “You would have to know McNair or shadow him for a while to know his habits.”

Diane agreed. “With Blake Stanton,” she said, “it wasn’t as personal—or maybe the shooter couldn’t get any closer.” Diane shrugged. “Or maybe it was a different killer altogether.”

She looked at the report again. “It says here that McNair was probably killed with a Beretta—same type of gun as Stanton. I think both murders were executions and probably done by the same person.”

“What about Joana?” asked Neva. “She wasn’t even killed with a gun. Besides, it looks like her death may have been an accident.”

“At least an accident that it happened before the killer got the information he wanted,” said Diane. “But you’re right, it doesn’t have the same feel to it as the others—despite the fact that similarly dressed individuals were spotted at both scenes.” Diane thought a moment. “Find out for me if the guy who found the body, the second jogger, also has regular running habits.”

“You suspect him?” asked Jin.

“The killer would know when someone was likely to come along if he’d been casing the trail where McNair was ambushed. That’s the thing about dedicated joggers—you can set your clock by them.”

“I don’t see the connection,” said Jin.

“Maybe the killer wanted to be seen. Assume for a moment that both Stanton and McNair were killed by the same person. He seems to be professional; he left very few clues. Why then would he show himself at a time and place where he knew he was likely to be seen?”

“Good thought,” said David. “You thinking he disguised himself as another suspect? Could happen; the description was in the news as well as all over the neighborhood. In that case, there might be no link between Joana Cipriano and Marcus McNair. The detectives are just running in circles trying to make a connection.”

“All of this is conjecture,” said Diane. “But it is something to think about.”

“We need to look at each crime scene with a fresh eye,” said Jin. “Just look at the evidence and build from there. . . .”

As Diane listened to Jin, she picked up Neva’s report on the processing of her car that had been lying on her desk for days. She absently thumbed through it and stopped abruptly, stood, and stared at the page.

“Where is the evidence you gathered from my car?” said Diane.

Jin stopped in the middle of what he was saying. “What?” he asked.

“Which one?” asked David.

“The first one, the carjacking,” said Neva, looking at the report Diane was holding. “It’s all in the evidence locker.” She pointed in the direction of the crime lab.

Diane rushed out of her office, through the osteology lab, and into the crime lab. She made a beeline for the evidence locker, keyed in the digitized combination, opened it, and walked in. The box she was looking for was right up front. It was labeled with her name, the make and model of her car, Blake Stanton’s name, and the date and time, written in neat black lettering on the end. She pulled it out and set it on the table.

Jin, Neva, and David had followed her. They stood looking at each other quizzically and shrugged.

“Is something wrong?” asked Neva

Diane ignored her as she searched through the box for the evidence bags. She found the bag she was looking for, initialed it, opened the seal, and poured out the contents into her hand where she examined them closely before placing them on the table.

“These are
Cypraea aurantium,
” she said, eying Neva.

“Sorry, I thought they were seashells.” Neva creased her forehead in a worried frown.

“They look like those shells that you see in African motifs,” said Neva. “That’s what I thought they were.

“Cowrie shells,” said Diane. “Golden cowries—they are worth about three hundred dollars apiece.”

“Three hundred dollars for one of those?” said Neva, pointing to the eight shells, each the color of a deep yellow sunset.

Jin whistled. “Wow, Boss, you sure know your seashells.”

“I know these because they belong to the museum,” said Diane. “You found these in my car, Neva?”

“In the backseat. They were in that Ziploc bag with the blood on it. The blood is his. We sent it off to be tested. The shells have his fingerprints—from the hand that was cut off. He had a scar on his thumb that shows up in his prints. So he had them before he got in your car.”

“I’m not following this,” said David, standing with his hands in his pockets, staring at the cowrie shells. “These are your shells?”

“Not mine personally. The museum’s. We’ve had a series of thefts. Among them, six thousand dollars worth of rare seashells. So far we’ve discovered the loss of rare items valued at a total of over thirty thousand dollars missing from various departments in the museum—including Vanessa Van Ross’s ten-thousand-dollar diamond that she gave to the museum’s gem reference collection.”