Dust to Dust

by Beverly Connor

  “Please sit down. You have me intrigued. Can I get you something to drink? I always have fresh coffee.”

  Diane and Kingsley accepted and had several sips of hot coffee before Diane began her request.

  “By intrigued, what Lynn means is, what am I trying to get her involved in now?” said Diane. “She knows I have a habit of coming to her with, uh, interesting problems.”

  “Oh, dear, what are you up to?” said Lynn, smiling over her cup of coffee.

  Diane let Kingsley explain his job at Darley, Dunn, and Upshaw. When he got to Stacy’s file, which he had brought with him, Diane took over.

  “I’d like you to look at the autopsy report and the photograph. It’s the only one we have of her. If there were any autopsy photos of her, we don’t have them,” said Diane. She handed Lynn the photograph and the report.

  Lynn examined them carefully for several minutes. “I see your concern,” she said, tapping them with her polished fingernails.

  “We have the father’s permission to exhume her and were wondering if you would perform the second autopsy,” said Diane. “I don’t know the ME who did the first one, but I don’t imagine he will be pleased.”

  “He won’t,” said Lynn. “I know Oran Doppelmeyer.” She looked at Kingsley and then at Diane. “He won’t be pleased at all, which, I’m so ashamed to say, is the main reason I’d be happy to do it.”

  Chapter 17

  Both Ross Kingsley and Diane looked at Lynn Webber with raised eyebrows. Ross had his coffee cup halfway to his lips, about to drink the last sip. He held it there.

  “There must be a story here,” he said.

  “There is. It’s a two-cups-of-coffee story,” said Lynn.

  She poured them each another cup.

  “About seven years ago, Doppelmeyer was the medical examiner in South Carolina and I was assistant ME to him. One evening I was called to the apartment of a young couple after neighbors heard a gunshot and alerted the police. She was on the couch, gun in hand, with a bullet entry wound in her right temple and a big exit wound in the left side of the head. It was messy. She had been dead only about fifteen minutes by the time I got there. She held the gun so tight in her hand, it took me and two paramedics to pry it loose.

  “The neighbors said she and her husband had been arguing. The arguing stopped. A few minutes later there was the gunshot. The husband was an accountant and said he left the apartment following the argument and went to his office to work. That’s where the police found him.”

  She took a sip of coffee and set down her cup, almost spilling it on the glass coffee table.

  “I did the autopsy, determined the manner of death to be suicide, and released the coroner’s report. Well, you would have thought I had just given national secrets to the Russians. What I didn’t know, but wouldn’t have changed anything if I had been aware, was that her parents were well connected. They hated the son-in-law and were convinced he shot her and left her there with her brains spattered all over the white couch they had given the couple. The district attorney liked that story better than mine and he had the police arrest the young man.”

  Diane and Ross were quiet during her story, Diane because she knew Lynn and knew better than to interrupt her with questions, and Kingsley because he was enjoying watching her tell it. Lynn also talked with her hands and was quite animated.

  “To make a very long story a little shorter,” she said, “Doppelmeyer changed my report to say the manner of death was homicide. It went to trial and the defense called me. I testified that it was suicide. I explained about cadaver spasm and how we had to pry, with great difficulty, the gun from her hand. The prosecution, the family, and Doppelmeyer all came down hard on me. Doppelmeyer took the stand and told the jury I was incompetent and he had to constantly check my work—a blatant lie. He told them that what I called cadaver spasm was simply early onset of rigor mortis and the rigor caused her to hold on to the gun that her husband had placed there. He intimated that I had been out drinking before I got the call—I had been out to dinner, but not drinking. It was just awful. I was fired. Me, fired!” She frowned and shook her head.

  Diane half expected her to stamp her foot.

  “The poor husband was sent to prison. He did get out three years later because the prosecution had made several other errors in the trial and the defense attorney gave the new prosecutor a ton of information about cadaver spasm. But you know, there are people in South Carolina today who think that poor fella killed his wife.”

  Lynn’s cheeks had turned pink during the telling of the story. Diane could see it still stung.

  “I can tell you this,” said Lynn. “I’m willing to bet that when Doppelmeyer saw this photograph, he made up his mind this girl was trash. Not only is he a pig, he is a self-righteous pig.”

  “That is a terrible story,” said Diane.

  “It is, isn’t it?” said Lynn. “My parents wanted me to leave forensics and become a pediatrician. I told them no one was going to bring their children to me with this cloud over my head. I got a job in Atlanta, where I built my reputation back up. Let me tell you, that’s why, when I go to court now, I have every kind of documentation you can think of.”

  “So,” said Kingsley, “you aren’t going to mind the fallout caused by a redo of his autopsy?”

  “Mind?” said Lynn. “Honey, I welcome the fallout. I’m older now and have had a lot more experience in court.”

  Diane called Frank to tell him she was on her way home. He said he was ordering Chinese and to ask Kingsley to stay for dinner. The delivery arrived at the same time she and Ross pulled into the drive. Ross waylaid the delivery man and paid for the food.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” said Diane.

  “Oh, it’s one of the perks of your being my consultant,” he said, and they carried it inside.

  “Ah, it’s good to eat,” said Kingsley, sitting down at the table. “Sometimes when I’m working, I tend to forget to eat.” After a few bites and a drink of hot tea, he said, “Lynn Webber likes to have her ego stroked a bit, doesn’t she? I noticed that you’re a little shameless at it.” Ross grinned at Diane as he helped himself to some sweet and sour chicken.

  “She does good work, she’s not afraid of politics, and she’s honest,” said Diane. “She also is good to her dieners. Yes, she likes people to notice her work. It’s a small price to pay.” Diane smiled back at him. Lynn was also supersensitive to even the most gentle slight, but Diane didn’t mention that.

  “So, is she going to be reliable?” Kingsley asked.

  “Yes, she’ll be fine,” said Diane.

  “She seemed a little too eager to give Doppelmeyer the shaft,” said Kingsley.

  “I’m sure she is very eager, but she won’t lie, nor will she exaggerate. What you will get is more corroborating information than you will know what to do with—and plenty of photographs. Of course, you realize her findings could agree with Doppelmeyer’s. In which case, Lynn will be very disappointed, but she won’t fudge the data,” Diane assured him.

  “I got the impression she can be vindictive,” said Kingsley.

  Diane nodded. “Perhaps. But as I said, she won’t lie. And she won’t get caught putting dead rotting fish under his house or frozen shrimp in his curtain rods.”

  Kingsley put a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing and spraying his hot tea. “Touché,” he said, when he was able to talk.

  Frank rolled his eyes.

  “Today was a fruitful day,” Kingsley said. “I knew it was a good idea to ask for your help.”

  “I’ll process the evidence we collected, but you’ll have to interview the army of possible suspects Jin pointed out,” said Diane.

  “Perhaps the evidence will point us in a direction,” said Kingsley.

  “Hopefully, the evidence and the new autopsy will give you enough ammunition to get the lead detective to reopen the case,” said Frank. “I’ve heard of the detective you said handled the case. He’s a little laz
y and pigheaded, but I don’t think he is dishonest.”

  “For the father’s sake, I’m hoping the solution will clear Ryan Dance of the murder that seems to have started this whole chain of events,” said Kingsley.

  “Maybe you need to start retracing the steps of the young woman, Stacy,” said Frank. “If she was trying to clear her brother, she probably talked to the witnesses and to the family of the victim. They might point you in the right direction.”

  “Oh,” said Diane, “I just had a terrible thought. From what you said, Ellie Carruthers’ family were certain it was Ryan Dance who killed their daughter. What if they were afraid Stacy might be successful in getting Ryan released from prison? They still think he’s guilty. It would be awful if it was someone in Ellie’s family who killed Stacy to stop her.”

  “That’s an unpleasant thought,” said Kingsley, frowning. “I hope it’s not that.”

  “There’s going to be some blowback with the new autopsy,” said Diane. “Is that going to be a problem with your employers?”

  “No. The firm handles blowback. It’s usually good publicity. It shows potential clients that when we take a case, things get done. I think my bosses will like it. The more, the better. Our biggest clientele is defense attorneys.” Kingsley took another helping of sweet and sour chicken and rice. “So, what’s the thing with Jin’s technicians?”

  Diane and Frank chuckled.

  “As you heard, they’re identical twins and a bit eccentric,” said Diane, “and big Elvis fans. They’re also very detail oriented. Their reputation for accuracy was the reason Jin hired them—and the fact that they work very efficiently together. Jin’s extremely picky where the DNA lab is concerned.”

  “Do they really dress like Elvis?” asked Kingsley.

  “Not exactly,” said Diane. “If you saw them, you wouldn’t say to yourself, ‘Those guys are dressed like Elvis.’ You might think they look like they would make good Elvis impersonators. They’re more subtle than Jin portrayed them. I think the main reason they drive him crazy is they are constantly telling him how he could improve the efficiency of the DNA lab, and Jin doesn’t like anybody trying to step into his shoes.”

  “Ah,” said Kingsley. “I see.”

  Kingsley left not long after dinner. Diane promised to get him a report on the evidence as soon as she could.

  “He seemed very pleased,” said Frank after they had cleared the table and put away the food. Diane poured Frank and herself each a glass of wine.

  “It was very sad, but it went well. We’ll see how it goes from here. How was your day?”

  He slipped his arms around her waist and danced her a few steps around the living room floor. “My day was fine. But why don’t we leave the topic of crime aside for the rest of the evening?”

  Diane spent most of the next day working at the museum. She heard from Kingsley midday that the exhumation of the body of Stacy Dance was scheduled for the following day. Diane was about to go home when Andie forwarded a phone call to her.

  “Hello, this is Archaeo-Labs,” said a voice. “We’ve been trying to get in touch with Dr. Marcella Payden without success. Your number is a backup number she has in her file.”

  “Yes, Dr. Payden works here. I’m Diane Fallon, director of the RiverTrail Museum. How can I help you?”

  “She uses our labs to identify species-specific protein antigens in bone-tempered pottery sherds.”

  “Yes,” said Diane. “I’m familiar with her work on Texas pottery.”

  “Well, she sent us some pieces from Georgia. Actually, she said it wasn’t archaeological, but relatively modern. And as in the archaeological samples, she wanted to know the species of animal used in the pottery. To tell you the truth, we don’t quite know how to proceed.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Diane. “You don’t do analysis of modern samples? I’m not sure I understand.”

  “No, it’s not that. We did the identification, but . . . well . . . the protein antigen is human.”

  Chapter 18

  Diane was dumbstruck for a moment. The caller must have thought she would be, because he waited patiently on the other end.

  “Human?” said Diane. “Did she give you any information about where in Georgia they came from?” But Diane knew. Marcella dug them up in her yard.

  “No,” he said. “She just labeled them Georgia.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.” said Diane.

  “Oh, I’m Justin Ambrogi. I’m the technician who runs the samples in the lab.” He cleared his throat. “What I’m wondering is, that is, some of my coworkers think the sherds, because of the human bone in them, constitute a body—legally, that is—and must be reported. I suppose it could be old bones that were used, but don’t the laws about the use of humans and their body parts apply to ancient ones too?”

  “Yes, they do,” said Diane. “You couldn’t have known, but in addition to being director of the museum, I’m also director of the crime lab here in Rosewood, Georgia, and those items will fall under our jurisdiction, at least until we sort out exactly where they came from.”

  “Well, this is convenient, then. I called the right place,” Justin said.

  “Yes, you did. I’ll also give you the name of a Rosewood police detective you can send a copy of the test results to. That way, your lab can be assured you followed proper protocol,” said Diane.

  “Yes. Thank you. To tell you the truth, we ran the tests several times. The first time we thought it had to be an error.”

  “I can see why it would give you pause,” said Diane. She fished in her purse and pulled out Detective Hanks’ card and read off his name and address.

  Diane gave Justin her fax number so he could send her the report directly. She thanked him and put the phone back in its cradle.

  “Okay,” she whispered, “that was odd.”

  She picked up the phone and called Detective Hanks.

  “I got an interesting call from a lab in Arizona,” she said.

  “Oh? What about?” he asked.

  She first explained to him about Marcella’s expertise in North American aboriginal pottery. Then she explained about the bone-tempered pottery of the late-prehistoric sites in Texas that Marcella had studied. She explained that Marcella had used a lab in Arizona to analyze protein antigens in the pottery samples to find out what species of animal contributed their bone to the pottery. She debated whether to explain why archaeologists wanted that data, but decided that would be too much information.

  “She sent them some pottery sherds she found in Georgia. I’m assuming at her place, but the lab didn’t know specifically where the sherds were found. When they ran their test, it came up with human antigens,” she said.

  Just as she had, Hanks remained quiet for a long moment. She assumed he was trying to figure how the heck to process that bit of information.

  “She sent them pieces of broken pots that had human bone crushed up in them? Who would do that?” he asked.

  “Pottery made in the late-prehistoric period had a tempering substance added to the clay to keep air bubbles out and keep it from breaking while it was being fired. The additive was usually grit, fiber, shells—stuff like that. Some peoples in Texas used animal bone. Marcella apparently found some pottery sherds in her yard and recognized from their appearance that they were bone tempered. Her daughter said that whoever the artist was who lived in the house at one time was a potter, according to Marcella, and used methods similar to the ones used by prehistoric Indians.” Diane was wondering if she was making any sense at all to Hanks.

  “Okay, this is now officially the weirdest case I’ve ever worked on. I confess, I don’t know what to make of this new information. Were the pots made by the person who lived in the house immediately before Dr. Payden?”

  “I don’t think so. The potter’s shed had fallen into disuse. But I don’t know how long the house sat empty, or the line of ownership of the house, or who lived there before Marcella.”

&n
bsp; “I can get ownership records from the county courthouse,” he said. “We can probably track down some answers about who lived there when. But does this new stuff help us in any way?”

  “I have no idea,” said Diane. “It doesn’t appear that any pottery was made there in recent years before Marcella moved in. It would seem to be too long ago to be involved in what happened to Marcella, but who knows? At any rate, I asked Justin Ambrogi at Archaeo-Labs in Arizona to send you the report. He also faxed a copy to the museum.”

  “The museum?” said Hanks.

  “Yes, Marcella works for us doing pottery sherd analysis.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. What a twisted case this is. I’m inclined to think this bone pottery thing, although an odd thing for sure, is not related to her attack. But like you said, who knows? We may be looking for a frustrated artist. A mad potter.”

  Diane laughed. “Perhaps,” she said.

  She hung up the phone and stood thinking for a moment. It was a bit of information she didn’t know where to put. After a moment, Andie stuck her head in and said good-bye.

  “Bye, Andie. See you tomorrow.”

  Diane gathered her things together and started for the crime lab, hoping her crew would be there and not out somewhere working on a murder. Halfway there, she got an idea and took the elevator down to the basement where the DNA lab was located.

  Jin was there. So were the twins, Hector and Scott Spearman. They were dressed in jeans and pin-striped shirts with pointed collar flaps open at the neck, revealing gold chains. Hector’s shirt was yellow and Scott’s was green. She knew it was Hector because Hector was the older twin and he always wore a shirt color with a higher wavelength than Scott.

  Hector and Scott started talking immediately. They always appeared as if they were never let out of the lab and had to jump at any opportunity to talk with anyone other than Jin.

  “Hello, Dr. Fallon,” said Scott. “We were just discussing . . .”