DF02 - Dead Guilty Read online

  DEAD GUILTY

  Book 2 in the Diane Fallon Investigation series

  Beverly Connor

  Praise for the novels of Beverly Connor

  ‘‘Calls to mind the forensic mysteries of Aaron Elkins and Patricia Cornwell. . . . Chases, murder attempts, and harrowing rescues add

  adventure.’’

  to this fast-paced

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  ‘‘Connor combines smart people, fun people, and dan gerous people in a novel hard to put down.’’ —The Dallas Morning News

  ‘‘Outstanding. . . . Connor grabs the reader with her first sentence and never lets up until the book’s end. . . . The story satisfies both as a mystery and as an entre´e into the fascinating world of bones. . . . Add Connor’s dark humor, and you have a multidimen sional mystery that deserves comparison with the best of Patricia Cornwell.’’ —Booklist (starred review)

  ‘‘In Connor’s latest multifaceted tale, the plot is ser pentine, the solution ingenious, the academic politics vicious . . . entertaining... chock-full of engrossing anthropological and archeological detail.’’

  —Publishers Weekly

  continued ...

  ‘‘Connor’s books are a smart blend of Patricia Cornwell, Aaron Elkins, and Elizabeth Peters, with some good, deep-South atmosphere to make it authentic.’’

  —Oklahoma Family Magazine

  ‘‘Crisp dialogue, interesting characters, fascinating tid bits of bone lore and a murderer that eluded me. When I started reading, I couldn’t stop. What more could you ask for? Enjoy.’’

  —Virginia Lanier, author of the Bloodhound series

  ‘‘Beverly Connor has taken the dry bones of scientific inquiry and resurrected them into living, breathing characters. I couldn’t put [it] down until I was finished, even though I wanted to savor the story. I predict that Beverly Connor will become a major player in the field of mystery writing.’’

  —David Hunter, author of The Dancing Savior

  ‘‘Combine[s] forensic anthropology with some pretty sharp antagonists. There is something about ancestors and bones that adds unspeakable excitement and fore boding to a mystery story. . . . Connor’s style is origi nal and fresh.’’ —Midwest Book Review

  ALSO BY BEVERLY CONNOR

  ONE GRAVE TOO MANY* AIRTIGHT CASE SKELETON CREW DRESSED TO DIE QUESTIONABLE REMAINS A RUMOR OF BONES

  *Published by Onyx

  ONYX

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,

  London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Onyx, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Beverly Connor, 2004

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA ISBN: 1-101-11127-5

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval sys tem, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resem blance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punish able by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  To Charles Connor

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to give thanks to Judy Hanson and Terry Cooper for patiently answering my questions.

  ‘‘Rule number one of crime scene work: If it’s wet and sticky and it ain’t yours, don’t touch it.’’ —Terry Cooper,

  crime scene specialist, Georgia Bureau of Investigation

  KNOTS

  Bowline Figure Eight Knot Stevedore’s Knot Fisherman’s Bend Handcuff Knot Waggoner’s Hitch

  Chapter 1

  ‘‘If I’d known she was so afraid of snakes, I wouldn’t have hired her,’’ Diane Fallon muttered as she parked her car behind a patrol car on the hard shoulder of the small two-lane dirt road. She could hear the screams of her museum assistant director still ringing in her ears as she took her case from the backseat and climbed out.

  Two guys and four young women dressed in cutoffs and tanktops stood in a knot talking to each other on the opposite side of the road between a beat-up pickup and a Jeep. A blonde, cell phone to her ear, stretched up on her toes, as if that would give her a better view into the woods. The words ‘‘See anything’’ leaped out of the crowd.

  On Diane’s side of the road, two men, tanned and athletic, stood next to a patrol car with what looked like surveying equipment in a pile at their feet. One of them appeared restless. He started to light a ciga rette when the other stopped him, pointing to the dry weeds.

  The onlookers turned their attention to Diane as a patrolman approached her, spawning a minicloud of dust with each step. He was a young freckled redhead, and he squinted at the sun though his dark glasses, his khaki shirt wet with spots of perspiration around his collar and under his arms.

  ‘‘Nothing to see here, lady. Get back in your car.’’ He motioned with his hand as though he was direct ing traffic.

  ‘‘Forensic anthropologist.’’ Diane held out identifi cation that hung around her neck. ‘‘Sheriff Braden called.’’

  The patrolman attempted a smile, nodded and pointed to the woods. ‘‘You have to work your way through the woods there. It’s dense at first, but you’ll come to a deer trail. Follow it about a quarter of a mile.’’ He hesitated a moment, a grimace distorting his features as he nodded toward the two men next to his car. ‘‘They say it’s not normal.’’

  Not normal. The kind of death they called her out for usually wasn’t. ‘‘My crime scene crew will be here soon. Send them down when they arrive.’’

  ‘‘Sure thing. Spray yourself down good. Lot of deer ticks in these woods.’’

  She thanked him, retrieved a can of bug repellent from her case and sprayed herself from head to toe before ducking through the underbrush. She followed orange tie markers through brittle flora until she found the deer trail.

  About four hundred yards into the woods, a breeze brought a brief shot of relief from the heat but carried with it the aroma of death. Pushing her way through a thicket of wild shrubs, she saw the sheriff through the leaves. He and several deputies stood in an open ing under large spreading trees, staring at the crime scene, muttering to each other. They looked in her direction and nodded as she came into the clearing— obviously glad to see her arrive.

  At the familiar yellow-and-black tape she stopped to take in details of the scene. Like a grotesque image from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, three bodies hung by their necks from ropes in the copse of trees.

  The sheriff approached her, shaking h
is head, wip ing his face with a blue bandana and fanning himself with his wide-brimmed hat. He was a tall, thin man with a round face and thick, wavy dark hair that was just beginning to gray at the sides.

  ‘‘I don’t know what they could have done to these people to make them like that,’’ he said, motioning in the direction of the three hanging bodies. ‘‘When word of this gets out...’’

  Diane said nothing. She walked with the sheriff carefully around the perimeter of the yellow-taped crime scene. What had upset the sheriff and his depu ties was not simply the triple death, but the horrid look of it. Bodies hanging still, as though frozen— their necks stretched from one to three feet in length.

  The bodies looked very much alike, the way dead do. The kinship of the dead—skin black with decay, vacant eye sockets, exposed bones, mouths open and askew. They were each dressed in similar if not identi cal coveralls—navy blue, maybe dark gray, it was hard to tell, they were so stained with dried body fluids. One had long blond hair half plastered to its skull, with strands blowing gently in the breeze. The other two had shorter dark hair—brown maybe, or black. All had their hands tied behind their backs.

  Without warning, the farthest body fell as the neck skin ripped apart. The head bounced on the ground and rolled a dozen feet from the torso, trailing a long piece of neck with it.

  ‘‘Oh, Jesus,’’ said one of the deputies, jumping back reflexively.

  Diane watched the fall with interest. To her it was a process, and knowing the processes that work on bodies after death is to understand pieces to a puzzle of great consequence that she had to solve. The direc tion and distance a head rolls when it pops out of the noose is useful information for finding a missing skull. Knowing how long it takes for the head to separate from the torso in a decomposing hanging victim under specific conditions is valuable information for those interested in taphonomy.

  She could see from the faces of the people here watching that this information was not of interest to them. She glanced at her watch.

  The sheriff turned his gaze from the scene and mopped his brow again. ‘‘What do you make of this, Dr. Fallon?’’

  ‘‘We’ve been having a long dry spell,’’ Diane said. He gave her a sideways glance. She crumpled leaves from a nearby bush in her hand and nodded toward the vic tims. ‘‘The dry air aids in this rather peculiar effect.’’

  ‘‘You saying this is natural?’’ He said, ‘‘I’ve seen a few hanging victims, and I know the body stretches, but jeez... I’ve never seen anything like this.’’

  ‘‘You just haven’t seen them at the right time, or under the right conditions. The pull of gravity makes the bodies stretch, making them taller than they were in life. Sometimes you get this effect.’’ Diane gestured toward the long neck of the victim closest to them.

  ‘‘Well, I’ll have to say that’s a relief. We couldn’t figure out how the killer could have done this—or why. Thought it must be some kind of perverted maniac—you know, as opposed to our normal maniacs we have running around.’’

  Diane laughed with him, glad for any comic relief, no matter how mild.

  She turned her attention back to the scene. Not many maggots on the corpses. But she didn’t expect there would be. She turned her attention to the drip zone—an area underneath the bodies where liquified decay and bits of flesh dropped to the ground. Hun dreds of maggots and their beetle predators made the surface of the ground move with a writhing motion. Soon they would find the fallen corpse, and if left alone they and other late arrivals would strip it bare.

  ‘‘This is just disgusting,’’ said one of the deputies.

  Diane didn’t recognize him. She didn’t know all the deputies in this county to the north of Rosewood. He must be new. If he stayed with this job, he’d see things far more disgusting.

  Hang ’em high. The words flitted through Diane’s brain as she looked at the two bodies suspended from the leafy canopy. Even stretched long as they were, their shoes were still three feet from the ground. How had they been hung so high?

  The killer—or killers—had to scout out a place with enough strong limbs for three hangings. Even in heav ily wooded areas, hanging trees weren’t that easy to come by. She glanced at the deputies milling around.

  ‘‘Ask everyone to move back,’’ she said to the sher iff. ‘‘There have to be vehicle tracks here somewhere.’’ But looking at the underbrush and ground cover, she didn’t see where a vehicle could have passed.

  ‘‘You’d think so,’’ said the sheriff, looking at the ground as though the tracks might be under his feet. ‘‘The perp had to use a winch or something.’’ He mo tioned to the deputies. ‘‘All right, everybody. Let’s move back, and watch where you step. We don’t need to be trampling the crime scene.’’

  ‘‘Those guys with the surveying equipment . . . did they find the bodies?’’ asked Diane.

  The sheriff nodded. ‘‘They were doing a timber cruise for the paper company. This land belongs to Georgia Paper.’’

  ‘‘Then the two men are familiar with the lay of the land around here.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure.’’ He turned to speak to a young deputy when he saw him spit out a chew of tobacco. ‘‘Dam mit, Ricky, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Pick that up.’’

  ‘‘What?’’ The deputy looked around at the others, who shook their heads and tried not to laugh.

  ‘‘That wad of tobacco you just spit out. Pick it up. This is a crime scene, not a sidewalk.’’

  ‘‘Pick it up and do what with it?’’

  ‘‘Put it back in your mouth—I don’t care, just don’t throw it away here.’’

  As they bantered back and forth, Diane fished a bag from her case and put a large red X on it and handed it to the sheriff.

  The sheriff poked the deputy with it. ‘‘Here. Put it in this and take it back to your car. And while you’re up there, talk to them timber fellas and see if there’s a back road into here. Leon, you go with him and make sure he don’t screw up.’’

  The deputy picked up the discarded tobacco cud with a wad of leaves and stuffed the whole thing in the brown paper bag.

  As he and the other deputy, Leon, were leaving, the sheriff shouted at them. ‘‘And don’t piss in the woods on the way back.’’ He turned back to Diane. ‘‘I tell you, sometimes I wonder how he gets through the day.’’

  ‘‘Is the coroner here?’’ she asked, suppressing a smile.

  ‘‘Not yet. You know we have a new one, don’t you?’’

  ‘‘It’s not Sam Malone?’’

  ‘‘No. He retired. Moved to Florida. Lynn Webber’s the coroner. She’s a medical examiner at the hospital too. Smart little girl. Real smart.’’

  ‘‘Do I hear you talking about me, Mick Braden?’’

  Sheriff Braden’s face lit up at the approach of a young woman dressed in designer jeans and a white lab coat. ‘‘Nothing but good things,’’ he said. ‘‘Lynn, this is Diane Fallon...’’

  Lynn Webber was several inches shorter than Di ane’s five feet, eight inches, and her short, shiny black hair was much more neatly coifed than Diane’s nononsense haircut. She extended her hand and gave Diane a smile that flashed bright bleached white teeth. ‘‘I just love the museum. I took my parents there while they were visiting. It kept them from thinking about what I do for a living for a whole day.’’ Her dark eyes twinkled as she laughed.

  ‘‘I suppose medical examiner isn’t the job they picked out for you,’’ replied Diane, shaking her hand.

  ‘‘They wanted me to be a pediatrician.’’ Lynn Web ber looked up at the hanging bodies. ‘‘Good heavens. We’ve got something here, don’t we, Sheriff?’’

  ‘‘I’ll say.’’ The sheriff nodded. ‘‘It was a relief, though, when Dr. Fallon told me this is natural.’’

  Lynn lay a hand on his arm. ‘‘Bet you thought someone stretched them on a rack before stringing them up.’’ She laughed again.

  ‘‘Something like that,’�
�� he said. ‘‘Lynn here caught a murderer that almost slipped by us. We all thought the Whitcomb woman died of a heart attack— including her doctor. Wasn’t going to even have a postmortem—natural causes. Lynn just happened to hear the paramedics talking about the woman’s rigor. Something about her position. What’d you call it— hyperextension? Suspected right away it was a poisoning.’’

  ‘‘Sodium monofluoroacetate?’’ said Diane. She saw a momentary flash of disappointment in Lynn’s eyes before she nodded.

  ‘‘I’m impressed,’’ Diane continued. ‘‘That’s a tough one. I only know about it through my human rights work. It’s the poison of choice among men in India who kill their wife because her dowry wasn’t high enough.’’

  Dr. Webber looked at her, speechless for a moment, pondering, perhaps, the self-centeredness of murder ers. She shook her head and looked back at their corpses. ‘‘How’d the perp get them so high?’’ Her gaze darted around the crime scene. ‘‘A ladder, maybe. But it would’ve been hard to get their cooper ation to just climb up and stick their head in a noose, wouldn’t it?’’

  ‘‘The crime scene should show something. . . .’’ Diane began, then stopped.

  Dr. Webber and the sheriff followed her gaze up to where, among the leafy branches, a fourth noose hung.

  Chapter 2

  ‘‘The one that got away? Or is it waiting to be filled?’’ said Dr. Webber, squinting up at the piece of hemp hanging in the tree. ‘‘It’s not exactly a noose, is it? It’s just a rope tied to a limb.’’

  Diane had been studying the rope. It hung from a branch high off the ground like the others. Whoever put it there hadn’t tied the familiar hangman’s knot with tight coils above the loop. The noose was formed by a portion of the rope pulled back through a small loop tied on the end of the rope, creating a slip noose. Were it not for the small leafy branch that stuck its woody fingers through the loop, the noose would have slipped and vanished, leaving only an enigmatic piece of rope.