There was still an array of pieces to put together. She looked at them, mentally identifying the part of the skull each piece was from. Hard to believe that only yesterday this person was alive—just yesterday.
“They had a special on Court TV two nights ago about missing persons—double feature, two hours’ worth,” said Jin. “Great stuff. Turns out there are several missing persons who meet my criteria of interesting. A teenage girl and her family were leaving church when she went back in for her purse and was never seen again. Doesn’t that sound like Sherlock Holmes? And a whole family just fell off the face of the earth. No one knew they were gone; they just weren’t home anymore—but all their belongings were still in the house, their car in the driveway. And then there was the man who was last seen in the waiting room of his doctor’s office. The receptionist didn’t see him leave and no one knows what happened to him. All these people were normal people with no secret lives or anything—that anyone found out about,” he added. “I’d like to investigate them.”
“No clues at all in any of the cases?” asked Lynn.
Diane picked up a piece of nasal bone and turned it over in her hand. Even blackened as it was, a healed crack was evident. Something distinctive about this individual, she thought as she looked for surrounding pieces.
“No clues,” said Jin. “But I tell you, my favorite is Colonel Percy Fawcett.”
“Never heard of him,” said Lynn.
“He’s the coolest missing person. He disappeared with his son and his son’s friend in the Amazon while looking for an ancient city inhabited by a mysterious tribe. His story is really strange, full of subterranean cities, alien tribes, psychics, with the lost city of Atlantis thrown in. Great stuff,” he repeated.
“Do you ever try to solve any of the cases?” asked Diane. Jin turned to her, looking almost startled that she had been listening.
“I’ve helped with a couple of cold cases that detective friends of mine were working on. I’m afraid I didn’t offer much in the way of a solution. Mostly I just read up on them and try to solve them—you know, like an armchair detective. I’ve gotten a few good hypotheses. You know, there’s been quite a few missing persons north of here in the Smoky Mountains. People disappear and nothing is ever found of them,” he said. “Nothing. I mean, like what’s in the Smokys?”
“Wild pigs,” said Diane without looking up from the piece of skull she was gluing together. “They eat everything with blood on it—bones, sticks, you name it.”
“Yes, pigs,” agreed Lynn. “Once you’re dead, the wild boars scarf you up.”
Jin looked from Diane to Lynn. “Well, thanks for ruining a perfectly good mystery for me.”
Lynn and Diane both laughed.
Diane had finished gluing all the pieces of the skull she had and they sat drying in the sandbox. It looked like the pieced-together ancient skulls that she had in the museum—but this person was recently alive.
“I’m going to take a break,” she said. “When I come back, I’ll see if we have any x-rays of faces with broken noses. I believe I can ID this skull.”
“I think I’ll finish up this cadaver,” said Lynn. She sneaked a peek at the table where Brewster Pilgrim left his.
Jin slipped off his gloves and put on a new pair, walked over to Pilgrim’s table, and began preparations to cut the femur and take a DNA sample. Back to business.
Diane left the tent and gulped in the outside air. The cold bit her lungs. It felt good to be out of the morgue tent.
Chapter 7
Sleet was falling again. The drops felt like cold pin-pricks on Diane’s face. The argon streetlights shining bright against the backdrop of the twilight sky flooded over the tent city and gave the place an eerie glow. There were searchlights and strange machines in one direction along the street, and a quiet crowd of people standing in the other. In a David Lynch movie it could have been the midway of some macabre traveling circus.
Diane looked wistfully in the direction of her apartment but did not yield to the temptation to escape to its peace and solitude. She would take fifteen minutes of relief in the coffee tent. But first she stopped at the crime scene.
The blackened rubble of the house was now crisscrossed by planks and grid strings and illuminated by a ring of large spotlights shining into it from all sides. Neva and David were stretched out on boards, sifting carefully through a grid square near the front of the site. A mobile crane parked to one side of the yard was lifting a basket of something out of the gaping hole of the burned-out basement.
Diane looked over the edge into the pit. Wisps of smoke or steam rose here and there from the dark mass into the cold night air. The bright white light of the spotlights seemed to be absorbed into the charred rubble and not reflected back. A gust of wind carried up from the basement an acrid stench that smelled like a combination of wood smoke, wet, burned garbage, melted plastic, and scorched flesh, with an assortment of chemicals thrown into the mix. Diane stepped backward for a breath of air to clear her lungs.
The house that was there only yesterday had been a yellow Victorian with an octagonal tower, high-peaked roof, fireplaces, wraparound porches, and white gingerbread trim. A long line of students had lived many of their university years in its apartments. Diane remembered scenes of them laying down a large tarp and pouring sand over it to make themselves a beach volleyball court on game weekends, or some student relaxing on the porch swing reading a book, or several sitting on the steps shouting at their friends passing in cars. And now . . . nothing but black ashes covered with the spiderweb of crime scene string and scaffolding.
Was one of those students from the porch swing in happier times now lying on her autopsy table? The thought made her profoundly sad.
Diane walked toward the front of the burned-out house through the safe path that her team had created. All the snow had melted from the path, leaving a muddy walkway covered by planks. David saw her approaching, rose, and walked on the planking toward her, readjusting his baseball cap on his balding head. Neva looked up and waved, but kept working.
The drops of sleet were getting heavier, and Diane could feel her hair getting wet. She pulled a knit cap from her coat pocket and put it on, pushing her hair underneath it.
“How’s it going?” asked Diane. She could tell by the look on David’s face he wasn’t happy.
“Frustrating,” said David. He took off his cap, smoothed down the nonexistent hair on the top of his head, and put his cap back on. “It’s going fine if we can keep McNair away.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Mostly meddling.”
“Meddling?” Diane raised her eyebrows. “He is the arson investigator.”
“Then he should act like one.” David glanced over his shoulder as if someone might be listening. “He looks through all our evidence bags—breaks the seal and paws through the contents. Says he needs to see what we’re finding. I told him that the lab is the place to examine the evidence, and he told me to just tend to my job, that he’s in charge. I don’t know how this guy thought he would be even remotely qualified to be the director of the crime lab. He’s not qualified to be an arson investigator. Any good defense attorney can challenge every piece of evidence we’ve collected, because of him.”
“I’ll speak to him.” Diane felt a sudden flush.
“It won’t work, unless you intend to watch him, too.” David lifted his chin slightly, which was a signal to Diane that McNair was approaching.
“OK. You go back to work and I’ll try and talk some sense into him.”
Diane whirled around and walked to meet McNair as he approached. She watched a scowl form on his face. Unbecoming, she thought.
“We need to talk,” said Diane. Not a good opening, but she wasn’t feeling diplomatic.
“We need to talk?” he said, emphasizing the word we.
“Don’t break the seal on the evidence bags. . . .”
“Listen, you can’t tell me how to run my investigation. I need t
o see what they’re finding.”
Diane’s flush was now a full-fledged burn. “They’re recovering what’s left of the human victims of this fire, and they’re doing it by strict protocol. We have serious chain of custody and contamination concerns here. This is not the time or place to examine sensitive evidence.”
“People want answers fast. The slow way you and your people work won’t do.”
“Forensic analysis and identification of human remains is an exacting process with the most profound legal and personal consequences. It takes the time that it takes. And my people are the best in the business.”
McNair gave her a dismissive snort and a snide smirk. Diane had an almost irresistible urge to hit him right in the middle of his smirky mouth.
“What do you propose we do?” she said. “Give a hasty identification of someone’s child on the basis of a nose ring or a belly piercing?”
McNair glared at her. She fully expected him to yell at her or say something like, “You’re not my boss,” but he was silent for several beats.
“Why don’t we compromise on this?” she said. “Why don’t you set up an examination table inside the morgue tent where chain of custody can be maintained and the dangers of evidence contamination can be controlled?”
“That’s probably a good idea,” he said.
Diane thought she would fall over. He had admitted she had a good idea? Maybe he was trying to make nice after all. She glanced over to the end of the road where there seemed to always be a crowd.
“Is that mostly journalists, onlookers, or loved ones?” she asked.
He shrugged. “All of the above, and they’re all looking at us. They want to know exactly what happened—and they want to know yesterday.”
He walked past her to the site and immediately got on his cell phone. Maybe he was taking her advice, she thought. She hated adding another table to the already crowded morgue tent, but it was better than fighting over the evidence.
Diane walked to the hospitality tent. The sleet was turning into snow. The weather hadn’t chased away the onlookers. Inside the tent was warm, mainly due to the number of people in it. Several men and women were gathered around the police intake desk, all trying to talk at once. More people stood by the long table of refreshments, drinking coffee and eating cookies. Brewster Pilgrim sat by himself in the corner, sipping from a Styrofoam cup. He nodded when he saw Diane.
She worked her way around to the table where the coffee was being served. A slender woman with short brown hair sprinkled with gray and wearing an apron handed her a cup of coffee and a napkin. Behind the table were Diane’s neighbors Leslie and Shane. Leslie was putting out a fresh box of doughnuts, and her husband was pouring coffee. They looked up and smiled when they saw Diane.
“Aunt Jere,” Leslie said to the woman. “This is my neighbor, Diane Fallon. Diane, this is my aunt, Jere Bowden.”
Diane smiled and nodded. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. “Leslie and Shane are the ones who warned me of the danger from the explosion.”
“Well, we’ve always taught our children to care about others.” Mrs. Bowden smiled and handed Diane a chocolate-covered doughnut.
“Were you able to get hold of the guy who lives in the basement?” asked Leslie. “Who is he?”
“A professor of history. Thin man, looks like he wears Goodwill clothes,” said Diane.
“We thought he was a homeless guy the landlady fed. I’ve seen her give him bags of food.”
“That’s old bread from her nephew’s bakery. Keith, that’s his name, likes to feed the ducks in the park.”
“Oh!” Leslie’s face suddenly registered uncertainty. “Sometimes I leave a sack with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an apple along with her sacks.”
Diane smiled and Leslie’s husband laughed.
“He must be mystified as to why the landlady sometimes packs a lunch for the ducks,” he said.
Leslie grinned and looked embarrassed. Her aunt put an arm around her shoulder.
“He probably just thinks the landlady is looking out after him,” she said.
“That is a very kind thing to do,” said Diane.
Leslie’s smile faded. “Diane is identifying some of the—you know.”
“Oh . . . you do need a break, dear,” said Mrs. Bowden. “Why don’t you find a quiet corner to sit awhile and rest? Maybe with Dr. Pilgrim over there. We’ll bring you some fresh coffee when you want it.”
“We have hot chocolate, too,” said Leslie. “And marshmallows.”
“That would be nice,” said Diane.
“We’ll bring you some when you finish your coffee,” said her aunt.
Diane took a sip of coffee just as someone carrying a tray containing extra cups and paper plates came into the tent, almost running into her.
“Sorry, oh, Dr. Fallon . . .”
It was Juliet Price, one of Diane’s museum employees. Juliet stopped abruptly, almost spilling her load of supplies. Her blond hair came loose from its clip and fell in her face. She looked wide-eyed at Diane as if she’d been caught at something.
“I . . . I took vacation time to help in the tent. . . .”
“That’s very good of you, Dr. Price,” said Diane. “I appreciate what you’re doing here. It’s a big help.” Diane used Juliet’s title, hoping to make her feel less like a kid playing hooky from school.
Juliet was extremely, pathologically, shy. She was actually underemployed at the museum, working below her qualifications, but her job allowed her to work by herself, and Juliet preferred working alone. She had even turned down a promotion when Diane offered her the more responsible position of collection manager. From the look of fear that had been on Juliet’s face at the prospect of the new job duties, Diane might just as well have told her the police were coming to arrest her.
Working in the hospitality tent with all its face-to-face interaction was a bold step of courage for Juliet. As she carried her tray of supplies to the table she nodded, and Diane thought she saw a wisp of a smile from her. Well, at least that’s progress, thought Diane.
As Diane started in Brewster Pilgrim’s direction with her steaming cup of coffee, someone laid a hand on her arm.
“Did I hear someone say you are identifying the . . . the students in the house?” The woman looked at Diane with wide blue, red-rimmed eyes. Her honey blond hair was limp and simply combed back. She wore a running suit that Diane knew to be expensive and running shoes that cost at least two hundred dollars. A mother of one of the students, Diane knew immediately.
“Yes.” Diane gave her a weak smile. She wished she could say, “No, I have nothing to do with this”—especially when looking into a parent’s sad eyes.
The woman thrust a folder into Diane’s hands. “These are pictures of my daughter. Please tell me if you’ve seen her.” She opened the folder and all but shoved it into Diane’s face.
“The police have a place set up over there”—Diane gestured toward the intake desk—“to bring pictures and . . .” She trailed off, not wanting to say samples of DNA. Nor did she want to say the truth—that no one was recognizable.
Diane unconsciously backed up as she looked down at the picture of a beautiful young woman of fair complexion and long blond hair with a gentle wave held back from her face with a blue clip. An electric shock rippled through her and she tried not to let her face reveal anything. After all, there was no way to visually identify a person by a lock of hair . . . but it looked so much like the lock that had been on her table. Diane stepped back half a step. She was now up against the table.
“They won’t tell me anything . . . please . . .”
The woman flipped through the pictures of her daughter, showing them to Diane—confirmation, ballet, prom, graduation. A life in an instant. Diane wanted to cry.
“I know waiting is painful. The process is slow. . . . We are working as quickly as we can. As soon as we know anything definite . . .”
“You don’t understand,” sh
e said. Tears welled up in her eyes. “I have to know something. I can’t find my daughter.”
That last statement pierced Diane through her heart. How many times had she uttered the same words in the jungle when she couldn’t find Ariel, her daughter who was killed with many of her friends in the mission—massacred to stop the human rights investigations her team were doing in South America. Diane dropped the doughnut as she grasped the table behind her.
“I’m sorry. . . .” Diane began fumbling for words.
“Mrs. Reynolds.” Jere Bowden had appeared at the woman’s side and put an arm around her shoulder. “You remember me, we are in the same Sunday school class. Waiting is so hard. Let us wait with you. Please come sit down with some hot cocoa; then I’ll go with you to talk to the police officer again.”
Diane watched Mrs. Bowden lead the grief-stricken mother to a chair and sit down with her. Mrs. Reynolds clutched the photographs in her lap as if she were hanging on to her daughter. Diane supposed she was. Shane took her a steaming cup of something. Diane started toward Brewster with her cup of coffee, but he was walking toward her. She took a sip. It burned her tongue.
“Here, this is more relaxing.” Leslie handed her a cup of cocoa with a marshmallow floating on top, took her coffee, and put it on the table.
“Thank you, Leslie. You and your family are very kind,” said Diane.
Leslie cradled her belly. “I can’t imagine what it’s like waiting to find out if your child has been killed. It’s simply awful.”
“Yes, it is,” whispered Diane.
Brewster reached her and took her arm. “Why don’t we walk back together. This is no place for us. We’ll send out for coffee from now on. I think we need to work only a couple more hours today, anyway. We need sleep to do a good job.”
Diane agreed. She looked back at the woman, who broke down in sobs that racked her body as she was being led to a chair by Archie and Jere Bowden. The short interaction with the mother had tired Diane in a way that working over human remains for hours had not. They walked quietly back to the morgue tent. Diane sipped on her hot chocolate. Leslie was right. It was more comforting.
Dead Past Page 5
