“Want me to warm that for you?” asked Frank.
“No. This is fine,” he said. “Not all the rapes took place in the same city. Five were in a college community and four were in a suburb about forty miles away. The rapist was never seen by the victims. We went back and forth on the profile. We were throwing out ideas left and right. But most of us decided he worked at the university and lived in the suburbs and was raping in his comfort zone. We had an elaborate profile that I won’t go into except to say that when unsubs do things like cover the victim’s face, it has meaning. We’d look at the other elements of the crime and decide which set of meanings made sense. We had it figured that he was young, not experienced with women, and didn’t want them looking at him, either from inadequacy or to hide his face, et cetera.”
He paused a moment. “See, that’s the problem. Different unsubs do the same things, but for different reasons,” he said. “Anyway, we were pretty sure of our profile.”
“And?” asked Frank.
“The case was broken by two detectives working separately: one from the suburbs and one from the campus police. It turned out there were two rapists who had no relationship to each other, but who had more or less similar MOs, but different motivations for their respective methods. One blindfolded the women because he didn’t want to be identified and washed them because he wanted to get rid of any trace evidence. He chose his victims from the university because there were lots of young women there and they were easily available. He did not work at the university. He worked at a car repair shop.
“The other rapist started out as a stalker. His stalking victim committed suicide and he was overcome with grief. He made an iron-on transfer from a photograph of her and attached it to a hood. He fantasized about her when he was raping his victims. The washing of his victims was part of his ‘romantic evening’ with them. He was a delivery guy and actually lived somewhere else. He delivered in the area and chose victims from there because he was familiar with all the streets and houses. Both of the rapists tied their victims because they didn’t want them pulling their blindfolds off. Not one of us guessed there were two unsubs, because the rapes were so similar. We were driven by our profile. The detectives who ended up solving the case had more open minds.”
Kingsley paused. “We had actually been encouraging the detectives to look at another guy who came up on the radar because he fit our profile. Fortunately, the detectives didn’t get around to pursuing our suspect before the cases broke in both locales.” Kingsley shook his head. “First, do no harm,” he said.
“Remember the guy accused of the Atlanta Olympic bombing? Turns out he was innocent. But just because he had wanted to be a policeman and failed, it looked like he fit a classic profile and was made out to be the perp. His life was turned upside down and just about ruined. Terrible. Anyway, it all just fell apart for me.” He took a sip of coffee. “So here I am.”
“What are you doing now?” asked Diane.
“I work for a detective agency in Atlanta—Darley, Dunn, and Upshaw,” he said.
“I’ve heard of them,” said Diane. “Big firm. They do a lot of client defense work. What do you do? Tear down profiles in court?”
He grinned. “As a matter of fact, I have, but that’s not my goal. What I would like is for profiles to be used as a simple tool, a guideline, and not to drive the case.”
“What brings you here?” asked Diane, staring at the briefcase that Kingsley put his hand on.
“I have a case I’m working on. It’s pro bono. The firm likes to do a few freebies when they can. Makes them look good. It’s a case where I think the police misused profiling techniques we taught them. I was hoping you would help.”
Chapter 10
“This is going to need more coffee,” said Diane. She took their cups and disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a tray of cups of fresh coffee.
Frank had cleaned off the coffee table to make room for the files Kingsley pulled from his briefcase. Diane put the tray on an end table and passed around the fresh cups of still-steaming coffee. Ross Kingsley took a sip, then another one, and Diane had the fleeting impression he was numbing his tongue against the upcoming narrative contained in the folders he’d set on the table.
“This isn’t pleasant,” said Kingsley.
“When you find murder that is pleasant, please come and share it with me,” said Diane. “You are talking about murder, aren’t you?”
“Maybe. That is why I’ve come to you. The firm I work for—although they like and encourage pro bono work, they don’t put the entire staff on it. That’s why I need to consult. How do you feel about pro bono?” he asked, looking up at her with a thin smile.
“I’ve done my share,” said Diane, smiling back.
Kingsley pulled a file off the bottom of the stack and opened it. “I have to start with a murder that took place nine years ago. That’s where the story begins.”
Diane looked down at an eight-by-ten mug shot of a man who looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had straight blond hair and brown eyes. His face was thin. He had a narrow, crooked nose and full lips. He looked frightened.
“This is Ryan Dance. He’s serving a life sentence for the murder nine years ago of Ellie Rose Carruthers. El, as her friends called her, was fifteen years old. She was reported missing on a Saturday. She had been left alone at home in an upper-middle-class neighborhood while the rest of the family visited her grandmother in a nursing home. When the family returned, El was not at home. They called all her friends, drove to all her favorite spots looking for her, and finally called the police. She was discovered two days later when an anonymous caller reported a possible body on the side of the road near I-85. She had been strangled and there was an attempted rape. She apparently fought and was killed before the assailant could complete the rape. At least, that was the analysis.”
Kingsley stopped speaking and took another drink of coffee.
“Who was the anonymous caller?” asked Diane.
Kingsley shook his head. “Don’t know.” He set down his coffee cup and continued the story.
Diane looked at the stack of folders and sensed it was going to be a long one. She stared at the picture of Ryan Dance.
“This is not a cold case. They made an arrest,” said Diane.
“Yes. They found cigarette butts near the body and matched the DNA to Ryan Dance,” said Kingsley.
“He stuck around and smoked cigarettes after he dumped the body?” asked Diane.
“I found that a little odd too, but it was an out-of-the-way place, and God knows, perps do strange things,” he said. “Besides, as I was told, the cigarette butts could have been carried there when he carried the body.”
“Is there more evidence?” asked Diane.
“The police searched his car and found strands of her hair, a button from her dress, and a smear of her blood in the trunk,” Kingsley said.
“Then this was a slam dunk,” said Diane.
“Ryan Dance’s sister, Stacy, didn’t think so. Stacy Dance was fourteen years old when her brother, Ryan, was arrested, tried, and convicted. She always believed him to be innocent. When she turned twenty-one, she started an investigation on her own. Four weeks ago, Stacy Dance, age twenty-three, was found dead in her apartment over her father’s garage. Her father came to see me last week, and that’s why I’m here.” Kingsley closed the file and picked up another one. He started to open it, then stopped. “As I said, it’s not pleasant.” He opened the folder.
“Stacy’s death was ruled an accident by autoerotic asphyxiation. The father believes it was murder. The police won’t listen to him. Understandably, their position is that the father simply does not want to believe his child would do what it appears that she did.”
Kingsley handed the detective’s report, the autopsy report, and the crime scene photo to Diane.
“Most cases of autoerotic asphyxia are male,” commented Diane as she read the police report.
“I know,” said Kingsley. “One
thing that attracted me to his case was the profiling. The detective in charge had taken basic profiling courses the FBI offered to local law enforcement departments—I was the instructor. I should be jailed for malpractice.”
Diane glanced up at him. He sounded bitter.
“The detective first suggested that because she was a little overweight, and homely—his word, not mine—that she was dateless and therefore frustrated. That led her to practice this form of entertainment—again, his word, not mine.”
“I imagine her father had a reaction to that,” said Frank.
“He did,” said Kingsley. “He pointed out that his daughter had a boyfriend, and many other friends, she was enrolled in the local community college, and she and a couple of her friends had a band. They practiced in his garage. He was sure she was not into anything kinky.”
“What did the detective say about the boyfriend?” said Diane.
“He revised his original ‘profile’ to suggest that since she was a college student and involved in a band, the autoerot ica was probably something kids in her group were trying out. He made it sound like sniffing glue or taking drugs. When his first profile hadn’t panned out, he revised it to fit his conclusion of what happened. First she did it because she was unpopular; then she did it because she was popular.” Ross Kingsley threw up his hands as if in surrender. “Anyway, tell me what you think. I promised Mr. Dance I would look into it. In the space of nine years he has lost both his children. He is a devastated man with no other recourse. He was going to give us his life savings to open an investigation. I talked my bosses into letting me work on it pro bono.”
Diane read the report twice and handed it to Frank when he reached for it. She took a breath and looked at the photograph. It showed a young adult woman, nude, with a rope around her neck. She was in a kneeling position on a bed. One end of the rope was tied to a bedpost and she was leaning forward into the noose. There was a towel half under the rope and half falling out. There were clothespins attached to each of her nipples.
“Her father didn’t find her, did he?” said Diane.
“No. How did you know?” asked Kingsley.
“He wouldn’t have left her this way. No father would, even if it meant disturbing evidence,” said Diane.
“She was found by a friend, who called 911,” said Kingsley.
Diane put down the photograph and picked up the autopsy report. She read it several times, picked up the photograph again, and looked at it. She rose from her stuffed chair and went into the kitchen and came back with a magnifying glass.
“Is this the only crime scene photograph?” asked Diane.
“Yes,” said Kingsley. “Have you found something?”
Diane didn’t answer; she continued examining the photograph with the magnifier. After a minute she put the picture and the magnifying glass down on the table.
“There are two things that make me question the finding,” she said. “The first is the knot in the rope. Do you have the rope?”
“That’s right, you do forensic knot analysis,” said Kingsley. “How could I forget that? What about the knot? Oh . . . no, we don’t have the rope.”
“Anyone who is into this form of self-gratification would use some variation on a slipknot to hold the rope around the neck so that when pressure is released, the rope loosens. This is a granny knot—an incorrectly tied square knot. Granny knots are known for their difficulty in untying. Look at this.” Diane handed the photograph to Kingsley along with the magnifying glass. “The rope is tied tight around her neck. No way did she do this. Frankly, I’m surprised the forensics people didn’t notice it. Did any forensics person work it as a crime scene?”
“No, just the detective assigned to the case,” said Kingsley. “I see it now. Of course. She would never have been able to get out of this. In fact, as tight as the rope was around her neck, she would have passed out before she could even arrange herself in this position. Funny, I never noticed how the rope was tied, and I studied crime scene photographs of autoerotic asphyxia. They contained elements much like this one—accessories to aid in arousal, rope around the neck, a towel to prevent ligature marks. . . .”
“But that’s the second thing,” said Diane. “She does have ligature marks on her neck.”
“Are you saying . . . What exactly are you saying?” asked Ross Kingsley.
“Ligature marks are briefly mentioned in the autopsy report, but only that they are present. They are not described in any detail,” said Diane. “But look at the photograph. Look at the marks on the neck where the towel has slipped. See this ligature mark?” She pointed to a clear linear bruise on the victim’s neck and looked up at Kingsley. “It’s an inch lower on the neck than where the tightened rope is cushioned by the towel. If I could see autopsy photos, I believe they would show two ligature marks. One made perimortem, and the other made postmortem.”
“You’re saying she was strangled; then this was staged after her death?” said Kingsley.
“It looks that way. What I believe is the second ligature mark looks very deep and appears to extend under the towel—at least, the mark is deep right up to where the towel covers the neck. The rope should have made a lighter impression on the skin at the edge of the towel.”
“The towel at that point would start to hold the rope off the neck,” said Kingsley.
Diane nodded. “I think this makes the manner of death worth a second look.” Diane looked at the signature of the medical examiner—Oran Doppelmeyer. “I’m not familiar with this medical examiner. Is he new?”
“I believe so,” said Kingsley. “So, does this mean you will help me?”
“You have enough here to get the lead detective to reopen the case,” said Diane. “The father would probably give permission to exhume the body.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure we could do that. But it would be really good for my firm if we could get the credit for solving the case.” He raised his hand when Diane opened her mouth to speak. “I know we will have to hand it off to the police eventually, but I, on behalf of the firm that so graciously hired me, would like to hand the detective a truckload of evidence along with the solution. After all, it’s a closed case and we would not be interfering in an ongoing investigation. Besides, they might botch it up again.”
Frank had been quiet the whole time Kingsley and Diane discussed the case. He eyed Kingsley.
“You think Stacy was killed because of her investigation into her brother Ryan’s murder conviction,” said Frank. “But you’re afraid the detective will ignore that angle and try to hang her death on the boyfriend, or some other friend. You think he’s a man who likes to take shortcuts.”
“You’re pretty good at this profiling thing yourself,” said Kingsley.
“Why do you believe her death is connected with her brother’s case?” asked Frank.
“Because Stacy’s father told me that in her room she kept a thick folder filled with documents, clippings, interviews, and notes on her investigation into the case against her brother. Now the folder, along with all her findings, is missing. It’s too much of a coincidence,” said Ross. “I felt it before. And now, with what you’ve found in the evidence, I’m convinced there is a connection, and her death was no accident.”
Diane was quiet for a moment. She understood what Ross wanted; so did Frank. It wasn’t so much that he wanted credit for his firm. He wanted to control the investigation against people he believed were incompetent to carry it out—or wouldn’t carry it out.
“Is her room still intact?” Diane hoped that Stacy’s father had kept the room as it was.
“Yes,” said Kingsley. “It is. And I’ve got an appointment at the prison for tomorrow to talk with Ryan Dance. I know how you love to visit prisons and would want to get it over with first thing.”
Chapter 11
Diane hated prisons. They were drab, depressing, and they smelled bad. Prisons were places people wanted to leave. The last time she visited someone in prison was whe
n she came to interview Clymene O’Riley, a black widow she had put away. It was more or less an official visit then and, although not pleasant, it was bearable. This time she almost decided to just forget about it and leave. She would have if Ross Kingsley hadn’t been with her.
She filled out the mandatory forms that, among other things, gave the guards permission to search her person and allow the drug dog to sniff her up and down. The papers must also have given them permission to be ill-mannered. The prison personnel probably didn’t like being there either. Once she passed the sniff test, she was allowed to go into the visiting room. Ross went to see the warden on his own mission.
The visiting area wasn’t a bad room. It was painted salmon pink, and she wondered whether the color meant anything—perhaps that it sapped your strength or something, kind of aroma therapy for the eyes. On the back wall was a row of cubicles with telephones. Each cubicle contained a stool screwed to the floor. The communication stalls resembled those small doorless phone booths you used to see everywhere, except for the window in the wall that separated visitors from the prisoner on the other side.
Diane sat down on the stool in cubicle three, as she had been instructed. In a few minutes Ryan Dance came into the room on the other side of the window, sat down, and picked up the phone.
He looked older than the young man in his mug shot. Of course, the photograph was taken nine years ago. He was thirty-one now. He looked older. His once gold-blond hair was now brown, dull, and stringy. His nose looked even more crooked. He had a front tooth missing and prison tats on his arms and fingers.
Diane picked up the phone, introduced herself, and told him she was sorry about his sister.
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
“Your father believes Stacy was murdered because she was getting close to discovering who framed you,” said Diane.
Ryan nodded his head and looked away for a moment. “She is a neat kid—was a neat kid” he said.
Diane saw his eyes sparkle with moisture.
Dust to Dust Page 7
