“I have to cut this off,” he said, and strode across the street to intercept the press.
Diane stayed and waited for her crew who, carrying their crime scene cases, were climbing out of the van. The last thing she wanted was to come between Marcus and publicity.
Marcus McNair wanted her job. He had applied for it when the city announced it was creating a crime scene unit. He thought his bid for the director’s position was a certainty—he was an arson investigator; his brother-in-law was a city councilman with a lot of pull; he was athletic and handsome; and the only person he was up against was a civilian female museum director.
What McNair didn’t know was that the job was wired for the director of the museum where the forensic lab was to be located. He didn’t know about all the political shenanigans the mayor and police commissioner had conjured to force Diane to provide building space in return for relief from an overburdening tax assessment. He didn’t know that the museum director was a former human rights investigator, a crime scene specialist, and an internationally known forensic anthropologist. Judging from the reception he gave Diane at every encounter—scowls, sarcasm, or just plain ignoring her—losing the position had been a blow.
Diane greeted her team and ignored the conversation Garnett and Marcus were having with the news media. David, Jin, and Neva stopped, set down their cases, and scanned the scene before them. They were all bundled in their dark blue winter jackets with CRIME SCENE UNIT printed in large yellow letters across the back. All but Jin wore knit caps and boots.
Jin was bareheaded and wore sneakers. He had worked in New York City as a crime scene specialist, and during the past few weeks he had tried to explain to them many times that this wasn’t really cold weather; they didn’t know what cold weather is. He had wanted to live in a smaller city for a while and Diane felt fortunate to have him. “I hate fires,” he said. “I really hate them.” He covered his straight black hair with the plastic cap that Diane had them wear at crime scenes.
Neva pushed a lock of brown hair under her knit cap and donned the plastic cap. “People are already calling my parents, cause they know where I work,” she said, “and they want to know who’s been killed. This is just terrible.” Neva came to the crime scene unit from the Rosewood police.
David and Diane’s eyes met briefly. She knew what he was thinking. This is too much like the life they left. David worked with Diane at World Accord International doing human rights investigations all over the world. They had seen too many piles of burned bodies.
“We’re going to work the area around the house first. I’ve marked a couple of things I’ve found,” Diane said, pointing to the orange flags—silent sentinels guarding the severed hand and the saw blade. “Work inward. After we clear the way to the house, we will have to build a scaffold over the floor. It’s not stable.”
Diane glanced over at Marcus. She imagined he’d have something to say about that. He and Garnett were walking toward them, only Marcus looked like he was strutting. It was the smirk on his face that made her take a plastic shower cap from Neva’s case and hand it to him. The expression on his face changed as their eyes met.
Chapter 4
Marcus McNair scowled at Diane as she held out the plastic hair cap to him. “You want me to shower?” he said, giving her his deep-throated gravelly laugh.
Judging from his expression, she might as well have asked if he wanted to wrap a snake around his head. She had heard on good authority that many women found him charming. She found him annoying.
“The hair covering is to protect the crime scene. We don’t want any more contamination than has already occurred.”
Diane’s team grinned at McNair. He cast a quick glance at the media.
“I don’t think I’ll be needing that,” he said.
Diane knew that he would never accept the possibility of his picture being taken in anything that looked like a shower cap. She just wanted to see him back out of wearing it, and immediately felt guilty for baiting him.
“What we got here?” he asked quickly.
Garnett responded. “The crime scene unit is going to clear a way to the house. When that’s done, we need to build a low scaffold over the house site so all of you can work.” Garnett gestured as he spoke, as if building the scaffolding with the movement of his hands.
“Well, what I think,” said McNair, “is I can have a look at the structure. We may not need to build anything. . . .”
Garnett cut him off. “The decision is made. If you don’t want to help clear the path, then you need to stay out of the way until you have access to the scene.”
There was something else going on, an undercurrent of hostility Diane had been unaware of until now. She had rarely seen Garnett that short with anyone. Whatever it was, she didn’t want her team in the middle of it. She unconsciously stepped back.
“Now look here, Garnett,” said McNair. “The fire department was first on the scene and took control of the situation. I work for the fire department, not you. I’m investigating a suspicious fire here. This is my turf and I’m in charge. All you need to do is get out of my way.” McNair all but thrust out his chin, daring Garnett to hit it.
Diane glanced at the reporters to see if anyone had noticed. They had collared Lynn Webber and were occupied. However, Whit Abercrombie, the Rose County coroner, was approaching. He winked at her.
“No, I believe I’m in charge,” Whit said. McNair spun around at the newcomer just as Whit slapped him on the back. “We’ve had this conversation before. It doesn’t matter who gets to the scene first, Marcus. State law clearly says that in those instances in which there is loss of human life, the coroner of the jurisdiction—that would be me—has prevailing authority and control of the scene of death until such time as his responsibilities are satisfied and he relinquishes control to other authority. I don’t know why I have to keep telling people that.”
His dark eyes sparkled as he grinned broadly, showing bright white teeth. Whit had a short black beard and it made him look devilish at that moment. Like Jin, he must have a tolerance for cold, thought Diane. He was dressed in jeans and a white cotton shirt with a black leather jacket open down the front.
McNair felt ganged up on; Diane could see it in his eyes as his gaze darted from Whit to Garnett and back to Whit again.
“Whit,” began McNair.
Again Garnett cut him off, explaining to Whit the plan that Diane had laid out. Whit nodded.
“Sounds reasonable. It’s going to be a whole lot messier and more complicated to extract the remains if the rest of the floor collapses.” Whit looked at the burned-out house as if for the first time and shook his head. “We need to get those bodies out as quickly and carefully as we can. If it was a meth lab, there’s no telling what may still be lurking in that rubble. The hazardous waste people are on the way from Atlanta. They’ll handle the septic tank. It’ll be full of contaminants. This whole thing is a tragic mess and we need everyone’s cooperation.” He looked at each of them as he spoke and then settled on Garnett. “Any idea how many kids were in the house?”
“I’ve got my people making a list of possibles,” said Garnett. “When we can, we’ll interview the survivors, see what they can tell us. I think we’re looking at one of the biggest tragedies Rosewood has ever suffered.”
“Marcus,” said Whit, “I think you might as well learn what you can from the firefighters for now. It’s going to be later in the day before you can get access to the house.”
Whit’s mild, friendly manner diffused the situation for the moment, but McNair cast a mean glance at Garnett before he left.
“Do I need to know what’s going on?” asked Diane when McNair was out of earshot.
For a moment Garnett watched Marcus McNair trudge to his car through the thin layer of slush still on the road.
“Albin Adler, the councilman, is trying to start an investigation of the police department, raising a big stink, and McNair’s feeding him misinformation. It’s
just political nonsense. It goes on all the time, but I want to keep it out of here.”
Diane was more than willing to let it not be her problem.
“Adler wants to run for mayor and then governor,” added Whit. “And he’s got all his relatives doing his dirty work. I understand they’re legion.”
Diane’s team had been waiting patiently, appearing to ignore Garnett and Whit’s conversation as they rummaged through their crime scene cases, pulling out what they needed. But Diane knew they were soaking up everything. David would use the information to feed the basic paranoia he enjoyed nurturing; Jin was fascinated with southern local politics; and Neva would use it to wheedle more information from buddies on the police force.
Diane watched them a moment before she spoke, smiling as she thought how much she liked her staff. David looked up at her and grinned. She left Whit and Garnett to their conversations and focused on her team.
“OK,” she said, “David and Jin, I want you to clear a path to the site and a perimeter immediately around it to provide a work area. Neva and I will work the area outside that perimeter.”
“I can handle that,” said Neva, “if you need to set up. . . .” She nodded toward the morgue tent—the place where the bodies and the body parts would be delivered—and let the sentence fade off.
“I’ll work here until the medical examiners are ready,” Diane said. “Let’s get started.”
Marking found items with flags—green flags for debris, orange for human remains—Jin and David were searching a wide path from the driveway to the burned-out house. She and Neva began a search of the front yard from the street to the house.
Most of the debris was pieces of wood and shingles from the house. Other than blood, probably from victims who were outside the house when it exploded, neither she nor Neva initially found any human remains.
Diane was setting a green flag beside what looked like the leg of a chair when she heard her name. She stood up to see medical examiner Lynn Webber waving to her from the road.
Reaching for something hanging on a limb, Neva was a few feet away near a small maple tree.
“Neva, I need to go. . . .”
Neva retrieved the object—it looked like a piece of cloth to Diane—bagged it, marked the limb with a tag, and put a yellow flag beside the tree. Yellow flags were the code for “look up.”
“Sure. We can handle this,” Neva said.
“Neva, I know this is a lot, but when you finish here, I need for one of you to process my car. It’s parked in front of my house.”
“Your car? What happened?”
That’s right, thought Diane, they don’t know. She hadn’t told them about the kid with the gun.
“Someone tried to highjack my car last night.”
“What?” Neva stood openmouthed. Glancing over at the burned-out house still holding the charred bodies, she said, “All this, and you had to deal with a carjacker?”
Diane gave her a quick explanation, waving off her concerns with a flick of her hand. “It turned out all right.” And it had, but the kid with the bloody stump had haunted her dreams during the few hours’ sleep she was able to catch before Garnett’s call.
Diane retraced her steps to where Lynn Webber stood shivering in her brown suede coat. Her white earmuffs looked like snowballs against her short black hair. Her tan linen slacks appeared wholly inadequate for the weather, as did her leather fashion boots with two-inch heels.
Lynn’s dark eyes were somber. “How bad is it?” she asked.
“Bad. Garnett is trying to find out how many students were involved. They’re setting up a command post near the morgue tent,” said Diane, gesturing for her to lead the way.
“Allen Rankin and Brewster Pilgrim are waiting in that tent.” Webber pointed at the green and white striped tent. “They were offered hot coffee.”
“Sounds good.” Diane smiled and walked with Webber toward the hospitality tent.
“You know,” said Webber, “our local hospitals are better equipped to handle this. I feel as though I’ve run away with the circus.”
“You’re preaching to the choir. Apparently, the mayor wants a very visible presence so everyone will see that he’s on top of the situation.”
Lynn Webber shrugged. “Maybe he’s right. People do have a tendency to think you aren’t doing anything if they don’t see you doing it.”
“Well, they’ll have a ringside seat here,” said Diane.
As she walked with Lynn through the slush, she scanned the crowd that was gathering behind the police barricade. Cars were parked down the street as far as she could see. Too many people, she thought. Surely, this many people don’t have missing children.
“Most are rubberneckers trying to catch site of something sensational,” said Lynn, as if reading Diane’s thoughts. “At least, I hope this many people haven’t lost a loved one.”
As she grew closer to the onlookers, Diane could pick out the worried parents and friends. It was the look of desperation and fear that gave them away. The gawkers and ghouls had eyes that glittered with anticipation as they strained to get a look at the burned-out house in the distance. A man with a camera tried to get under the roped-off area, and a policeman pushed him back.
“All those people . . . ,” whispered Lynn.
Diane avoided meeting anyone’s gaze and was glad to duck inside the coffee tent. A young policeman was on his way out with a carton of several cups of coffee for the policemen standing duty. He nodded at them as he passed.
There were few people other than medical examiners in the tent. A long table on one side held a commercial coffeemaker and an array of pastries. Four women manned the table, setting out plastic forks and packages of Styrofoam cups. They looked up as Diane and Lynn entered and began pouring two cups of coffee.
A policewoman was arranging a desk near the entrance. Diane guessed it was to be the location to receive x-rays, toothbrushes, hairbrushes, and other objects that might hold DNA or other clues to victims’ identities. Diane didn’t recognize the policewoman. She thought she was learning all the personnel on the force, but apparently there had been some recent additions.
This young woman looked just out of the academy. In fact, her smooth unlined face looked like she could still be in high school. She was unloading a grocery bag, setting boxes of different sizes of Ziploc freezer bags on the desk.
Lynn Webber walked on past to a waiting cup of hot coffee, but Diane stopped at the desk.
“Hi.” She hoped she sounded friendly. “Are those all the bags for holding objects for comparison DNA samples?”
“And you are?” said the young woman without looking up from her task.
“I’m sorry.” Diane held out the identification that hung around her neck. “I’m Diane Fallon. I’m head of the Crime Lab here in Rosewood.”
The woman looked up and gave her a tight smile. “Yes, I’m to collect the samples from the parents.”
“Plastic bags are good for transporting evidence,” Diane said. “But for storage, plastic isn’t right for all evidence. Let me bring you some evidence bags. . . .”
“My sergeant told me to get these.” Her voice was curt; she broke eye contact and continued unloading the plastic bags.
“If a parent brings in a damp bath towel, for example, it would . . .”
“I do what my sergeant tells me.”
“Of course you do. I’m sorry to have brought it up to you.” Diane took her phone from her pocket, flipped it open, and called Garnett. “Chief Garnett, I would like the evidence from family members collected in the evidence bags from our lab, and I need you to talk to the sergeant in charge so he can change the orders of the patrolman at the scene here.”
Diane paused. The policewoman looked at her, wide-eyed. She sat back and expelled her breath in a huff.
“I’m in the coffee tent, or whatever you call it. The police are setting up a desk here to receive the samples.”
Diane paused again, listening to Garnet
t. “I did tell her myself. She is very into chain of command.” Diane handed the phone to the policewoman. “It’s Chief Garnett. He wants to speak to you.”
The young woman took the phone hesitantly, eying Diane as she said hello.
“Sergeant Davis told me . . .” She stopped talking for several moments. “Yes, sir,” she said and handed the phone back to Diane.
“I’ll have someone bring you the proper bags and boxes,” said Diane, punching Neva’s cell number. She told Neva what she wanted and apologized for pulling her off the scene. Diane was thinking that things like this could be avoided if she gave workshops to the police on collecting evidence. They had resisted the notion, but she’d talk to Garnett about it again.
Diane smiled and thanked the policewoman, but she could see she hadn’t made a friend. Great, she thought, I’ll never get on good terms with the police.
The other two medical examiners, Pilgrim and Rankin, were in a corner, sitting on a couple of folding chairs and drinking from steaming Styrofoam cups. She waved at them and headed in their direction. They had barricaded themselves in with folding chairs held in place by their booted feet. Their bodies looked relaxed, but their faces showed deep frowns. Rankin was on his cell phone. Lynn was a few feet away, drinking her coffee with an amused expression. She handed Diane a cup as she walked by.
“It’s good coffee,” Lynn said, grinning at Diane. “You were so nice. I’d have ripped her a new one.”
“She was only doing what she was told. It always amazes me how little influence I have.”
Lynn’s laugh was almost a giggle. The two of them pulled up chairs and sat across from Rankin and Pilgrim.
“I just got off the phone with Whit,” said Rankin, shifting his position and putting his cell phone back on his belt. “He’s thinking there may be as many as thirty bodies.”
Dead Past Page 3
