She selected the X-rays showing the thorax—the midsection—of the mummy. As was her custom, she started by examining the pelvis. It was a male pelvis. That was no surprise. The innominates, the large flat hip bones, showed signs of thinning. It looked as though he had suffered inflammation of his ischial tuberosities—the site of several muscle attachments as well as the place where he sat.
However, it was the mummy’s lumbar vertebrae that were the most interesting. She pulled out two other X-rays, a side and back view, from the envelope. He also suffered from vertebral scoliosis, and on the margins of the body of his lumbar vertebrae there was a significant degree of lipping.
Interesting. While the condition of Red Doe’s lum bar vertebrae was caused by excessive arching of her back, the mummy’s condition was caused by a pro longed position in the opposite direction. The mummy, whoever he was, had spent long periods bending over in a seated position.
Diane stared at the X-rays, but saw the mummy and tried to visualize the person. What came to mind was a small Egyptian statue she had seen—a scribe in a cross-legged seated position. The kind of inflammation in the ischium was also called weaver’s bottom, be cause of the prolonged sitting in front of a loom that weavers had to endure. Could the mummy have been a scribe? Or maybe he was some artisan, like a jewelry maker, who was seated over his work for hours a day. She liked both of those possibilities.
Diane examined the remainder of the X-rays and found more evidence of arthritis, but no other condi tions. Perhaps when they discovered when he had lived, her observations would have more meaning.
Andie brought in more mail for Diane to go through.
‘‘Probably more requests for mummy tissue,’’ said Andie. ‘‘Want me to go ahead and deal with it?’’
‘‘Please.’’ Diane handed them off to Andie.
‘‘You’ve been looking at the X-rays. What did you find?’’ Andie pulled up a chair and sat with her elbows on the desk and her chin in her hands.
Diane went into detail about all of the conditions and her speculation about what they meant. ‘‘We should get even more information from the CT scan.’’
‘‘This is so cool. Do you think he could be a pha raoh? Maybe one with a hobby?’’
‘‘I hope not. We’ll have to give him back to the Egyptian government if that turns out to be the case. They like to keep their heads of state.’’
‘‘Oh, I never thought of that. Well, scribe is good. Maybe he was an architect. Did they spend more time drawing up plans or building stuff?’’
‘‘I have no idea. You’ll have to look to Jonas and Kendel for details of Egyptian life. I’m going to have Neva draw his face from the data we get from the CT scan.’’
‘‘Okay, now, that is really neat. This is as much fun as when they were assembling the Albertosaurus.’’
Diane nodded. ‘‘It is, isn’t it?’’
Andie went back to her office, and Diane returned to her paperwork. She checked her E-mail and was relieved to find no more messages from whoever sent her the flowers. Probably just a crackpot.
She reviewed several proposals, signed several order forms for everything from pens to chemicals and an swered queries from her board members. As she worked, an idea came to her about the lone rope from the crime scene. She jumped up from her chair, looked on her shelf for her book on knots and headed for the lab, telling Andie where she would be as she flew out the door.
Chapter 22
Diane’s museum office was in the opposite wing from the crime lab. She enjoyed the walk across the mu seum, even when she was in a hurry. She liked seeing the visitors going from room to room, looking at the exhibits, and hearing children’s delighted voices squeal upon seeing a display upon which the museum staff had worked hard. But today Diane’s mind was focused on a nagging problem, and she bypassed the crowd and took the east wing elevator to the third floor and hurried across to her osteology lab. David met her in the hallway coming from the crime lab.
‘‘Andie said you were on your way up.’’
‘‘Yes. I have an idea.’’
‘‘Chief Garnett called. He traced the E-mail and
talked to Officer Lenderman and his daughter.’’ Diane’s cell rang and she held up a finger motioning
David to wait while she answered it. The ID showed
Frank’s work number.
‘‘Hey,’’ he said. ‘‘Loved seeing you last night.’’ ‘‘Me, too. Frank, I’m...’’
‘‘I traced the origin of the E-mail. It was from inside
the museum.’’
Diane stood there, dumfounded. ‘‘Inside the
museum?’’
David began nodding in agreement.
‘‘You need to tell Garnett,’’ said Frank.
‘‘I will, Frank. Thanks. David’s here, and I think he
has some more information on it.’’
‘‘Good. Call if you need me.’’
‘‘Inside the museum?’’ Diane asked David. ‘‘Yes. Garnett talked to the daughter. She’s a stu
dent at Bartram and comes to the museum to work
on a paleontology project. She said she sometimes
uses the computers in the restaurant—that’s where the
E-mail originated from.’’
‘‘She sent it?’’
‘‘She says not. She remembers sending some mes
sages and leaving the computer for a minute or two
when she saw some friends come into the restaurant.
That’s when someone must have hijacked her E-mail
account. She was still logged on.’’
‘‘Damn. Does she remembering seeing anyone?’’ ‘‘No. I think she was very focused on herself and
her friends.’’
Diane put her hands to her face. ‘‘Not the museum.
This is my worst nightmare.’’
‘‘Wait a minute,’’ said David. ‘‘Why are you worried
about the museum? Whoever this guy is, he’s focused
on you.’’
‘‘But he’s coming into the museum. I can’t have
that. Did Garnett have anything else to say?’’ ‘‘Yes, he wants you to meet him at his office in
about an hour. He’s meeting again with Sheriff Braden. I have a file full of reports you can take to each
of them.’’
‘‘Good. I prefer going over there to them coming
here.’’
‘‘They’re talking to Kacie Beck,’’ David said. ‘‘Kacie Beck. Isn’t she...’’
‘‘Chris Edwards’ girlfriend.’’
‘‘Why is that?’’
‘‘She was there very close to the time of death.
They’ve discovered a witness who puts her there even
earlier than she reported—a lot earlier than her 911
call.’’
‘‘I can’t see her hitting him over the head, dragging
him to the closet and tying him up like that. She
weighs what, a hundred ten pounds at the most?’’ ‘‘They’re thinking maybe she had help—like Steven
Edwards’ partner. But there’s another Mayberry.
problem.’’ ‘‘What’s that?’’
‘‘It was in the report, but I’m not sure it registered
with them. On Chris Edwards’ nightstand we found a digital thermometer—the under-the-tongue variety that keeps the last temperature reading. Whoever used it had a 103-degree fever.’’
Diane pictured Lynn taking the liver temperature at the crime scene. She had commented on the early rigor. ‘‘If it was Chris who had the temperature, that changes the time of death by several hours.’’
David nodded. ‘‘Three hours earlier at least.’’
‘‘Well, damn. That’s all I need is to tell Lynn Web ber she got another time of death wrong.’’
Jin came bopping through the hallway from the crime lab and stopped when he saw Diane and David.
‘‘You tell her about the time and temperature thing?’’
David nodded. ‘‘Just now.’’
‘‘The babe at the scene didn’t have a fever,’’ said Jin.
‘‘You sure about that?’’ asked Diane.
‘‘Sure, I’m sure. How you going to break it to Doc Webber?’’
‘‘Gently,’’ said Diane. She thought for a moment. ‘‘Okay, she’s sure to have noticed at the autopsy if Edwards had any kind of infection.’’
‘‘One would think,’’ said David.
‘‘The medicine on the nightstand with the thermom eter suggests that it was upper respiratory,’’ said Jin.
Diane recalled Chris Edwards coughing a time or two at the Cobber’s Wood crime scene.
‘‘Lynn Webber probably hasn’t alerted Chief Garnett about any possible change in the time of death, so here’s what I want you to do. David, call her at home if she is taking time off, and tell her about the thermometer and the fever, and you are concerned about someone else being in the house and you want to know if Edwards was sick. That ought to give her enough of a nudge to call Garnett herself.’’
‘‘You’re going to tell him too?’’ asked Jin.
‘‘Of course,’’ said Diane. ‘‘I’m just trying to keep the peace.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘I probably shouldn’t bother, and just let the chips fall.’’
‘‘Speaking of letting things fall,’’ Jin said. ‘‘It was cut clean with a sharp knife.’’
Diane stared at him for a moment. ‘‘What was?’’
‘‘King Tut’s jewels.’’ Jin pushed his hair out of his eyes.
‘‘Ouch,’’ said David.
‘‘It was postmortem.’’ Jin grinned broadly. ‘‘That must have been some unwrapping party,’’ Jin contin ued on his way through the museum. ‘‘I’ve sent a sam ple of his blood off,’’ he called as he went through the doors into the museum proper.
‘‘Garnett wants to see me in an hour?’’ said Diane. David nodded. ‘‘Okay. I have just enough time to test an idea about the rope.’’
‘‘Don’t tell me you discovered what kind of knot was tied.’’
‘‘Maybe.’’
‘‘This I gotta see.’’ David followed Diane into her lab.
Diane flipped to the index of her handbook and looked under hitches until she found the knot she was looking for. She found the page and lay the book down next to the rope that she had trussed up with rubber bands.
‘‘They sort of look alike—in a way,’’ said David, comparing the illustration in the book and the rope on the table, tilting his head as if that would give him the ability to see the resemblance more clearly.
Diane took the rubber bands off the experimental rope and looked around the lab for a place to tie the hitch. The cabinets. She studied the rope a moment, looking at the green and red marks that represented kinks and chafes. She secured one end of the rope to the handle of the cabinets above the counter. Then she made a crossing turn at the first green mark and a bight farther down at another green mark. After several complicated twists and loops, she placed one of the loops over the handle of the bottom drawer, tightened the rope, and stood back, surveying her work.
The knots matched up with her green marks. The red marks along the rope also met up with each other, showing that they had rubbed against each other. The loop around the lower cabinet handle also fit with her color coding—a kink with chafing on the inside made by rubbing against something it was looped around.
‘‘Okay, what is it?’’ asked David.
‘‘A waggoner’s hitch. It’s not common, but when I noticed how the chafing spiraled around the rope, something nagged in my brain and I finally thought of this hitch. It’s a hitch for tying down a load in a wagon. It’s kind of a cool knot. It’s very secure under tension. But once the tension is released, the hitch comes loose easily. It has to be tied and set properly for it to work right. One of its characteristics is that if the knot is repeatedly tied in the same place, it really wears down the rope by the friction against it self from movement.’’
‘‘I’m impressed. I really didn’t think you could re create the knot in that scrappy piece of rope. How ever, not to rain on your parade, does this get us anywhere?’’
‘‘It was once used by waggoners. Some truck drivers still use it.’’
‘‘Okay, that does get us somewhere.’’
‘‘It doesn’t mean he’s a truck driver, but he did use this piece of rope often. That’s why it’s in such bad shape. It is the same kind of rope used in the hangings, and it was found at the crime scene. It’s at least suggestive.’’
‘‘Truck drivers travel quite a bit—perfect occupa tion for someone who wants to hide what he does in his spare time. Sheriff Braden’s going to like this.’’
‘‘Would you photograph this? I’m going to pay a visit to the Rosewood Police Department.’’
Chapter 23
The Rosewood police department was housed in a new building constructed in a more modern style than the red brick 1900 courthouse to the left and the 1960s pink granite post office across the street. From the time Diane walked in, she could feel the unfriendly looks in her direction.
Even Frank’s friend, Izzy Wallace, looked sheepish when he saw her. He still didn’t like her. He no longer had a reason. Before, he at least had the excuse of the untruths told about her. Now he apparently just couldn’t break the habit. He turned from the officer he was talking to and forced a big smile onto his fleshy face.
‘‘Why, hey, Diane. What brings you here? How’s
Frankie boy?’’
‘‘He’s back from San Francisco. Convicted his guy,
so he’s happy. How are you doing?’’
‘‘Just fine. Just fine. I understand that’s quite some
crime lab you have over there at the museum.’’ He grinned, and Diane thought she saw some of
the policemen look at each other and snicker. They
probably knew she was pressured into housing it at
the museum. Diane smiled sweetly.
‘‘We’re very proud of it. Good to see you, Izzy.’’
She turned to the sergeant on duty. ‘‘I’m here to see
Chief Garnett.’’
She showed him her identification, and he nodded
and pointed up the stairs.
Homicide squad took up the entire second floor of
the building. She passed reception and entered the
main squad room. It was an open area with desks
marking each detective’s work space. One wall of the
room was a giant magnetic dry-marker whiteboard for
attaching photographs, drawing
social networks, or for simply
thoughts.
interaction patterns, giving pictures to
The board held photos of the three hanging victims from Sheriff Braden’s jurisdiction, photographs of the Chris Edwards and Raymond Waller crime scenes, a list of similarities, a photo of Steven Mayberry’s car, and a map indicating the location of each crime scene. It was not unlike the display she had in her own lab.
As Diane passed various detectives and staff, some were friendly and spoke; others frowned upon seeing her. She had no idea what motivated either of the two camps. She smiled at all of them.
Chief Garnett ushered her into his office, where Sheriff Braden sat in a chair near Garnett’s desk, twirling his hat in his hands. Diane had expected Garnett to have an ornate office, but it was basically utili tarian with faux leather and chrome chairs, metal desk and a long wood conference table. Hanging on sandcolored walls were diplomas, awards, photographs of Garnett shaking hands with numerous politicians and framed newspaper clippings. Diane wondered briefly if he had sprayed the clippings with a deacidifier so they wouldn’t yellow. She smiled inwardly at herself. ‘‘Good to see you again, Sheriff.’’
The sheriff rose and shook her hand. ‘‘I got your
; fax. That’s a lot of good information about those vic tims. Impressed me. We ought to be able to identify them real quick. It doesn’t look like they were home less after all, does it?’’
‘‘No,’’ agreed Diane. ‘‘They seem to have been well off.’’
She sat down at the table, and the sheriff pulled his chair around so that he was opposite her.
‘‘You say you’ll be able to give me pictures of their faces?’’
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