Scattered Graves, page 3
part #6 of Diane Fallon Forensic Investigation Series
Higher apes don’t have hyoid bones, but Neanderthals did—ones very much like human hyoids—which led to the hypothesis that Neanderthals had the same higher-order speech capability that humans have.
The hyoid bone, the zygomatic arch—tiny clues to human evolution. The pelvis, bones of the hand, shape of the skull, cranial capacity, shape of the spine and the long bones—bigger clues. And then there was context— stone tools, hearths, graves, and grave goods—more big clues. All the tiny clues and big clues together provided an idea of what early ancestors of man were like. These were the things she was incorporating into the exhibit. Diane hoped that the bone fragments she had of this unknown skeleton held as many clues to who the individual was and why he or she was now in bits and pieces.
Something metallic, partly covered by the detritus in the dirt on the small screen, reflected a glint of light. She picked it up and swished it in the water. It was a piece of thick wire, iridescent blue-green in color. She turned it over in her palm and examined it before she took it to the dissecting microscope—one that allowed her to view three-dimensional objects. The microscope confirmed that the mashed piece of metal had been round or oval. Was it from a piece of jewelry? Earring? From a body piercing? She labeled it and bagged it. A tiny clue. Diane looked at the bones on the drying rack again. They were a mixture of fragments from the skull, pieces of rib, sections of long bone. When they dried she would start laying them out in anatomical position on the table. Who knew, maybe she could put Humpty Dumpty back together again—after a fashion—provided it was one individual. So far she hadn’t seen any indication that there was more than one.
She picked up the petrosal and examined it. It should produce a good cast of the ear canal. Determining the sex would be another good clue.
As she put the petrosal back on the drying screen, she noticed something on one of the occipital bones. On the corner of the piece was some beveling. The fragment was not big, and the beveling could be an artifact of the chipper—probably was—but it was something worth looking at, especially if she could find the adjacent bones. There was a possibility it was a gunshot or projectile wound. That would be a big clue.
A half-inch piece of metal, a petrosal, a possible bullet hole—not even a handful of clues, but she had just begun, and who knew what else the sifters would find in the field.
Diane doffed her lab coat and gloves, washed her hands, and was ready to lock up her lab. As she was hanging her coat on its hook, she heard voices.
The wall she stood next to separated her office from the crime lab. She knew that on the crime lab side of the wall was a large walk-in supply closet. The voices seemed to be coming from there. The wall wasn’t thick. There had been no reason to make it soundproof when they constructed the closet as part of the crime lab. Odd. The closet was not a place one usually held conversations.
Though slightly muffled, the voices were loud enough for her to hear some of the words. She stopped and listened when she heard Bryce’s high-pitched speech pattern and another voice that sounded like Curtis Crabtree’s.
‘‘… apply for… job, not beat him up.’’
‘‘I didn’t… wasn’t taking applications…’’
‘‘… you’ve screwed…upnow…’’
‘‘Easy to fix…’’
There was the sound of a door opening.
‘‘What the hell do you want?’’ Bryce’s voice was no longer in hushed tones.
‘‘Oh, sorry.’’ The new baritone voice was David’s. ‘‘I need some evidence envelopes. The four-by-nineinch size. And a resupply of phenolphthalein for my blood test kit—here we go.’’
She heard some rattling of supplies.
‘‘We have more supplies in the cabinets if you can’t find what you’re looking for,’’ David said.
‘‘If you have what you need, go,’’ said Bryce.
‘‘Sure thing,’’ she heard David say, and the door closed again.
Diane smiled. She didn’t have any doubt that David interrupted them on purpose just to make Bryce uncomfortable. She immediately frowned. She hoped David wasn’t getting reckless in his dealings with Bryce. It wasn’t like David to be reckless, but lately he’d been so moody. She let the thought slide.
Diane stood there, reluctant to move, not wanting to be heard near the wall. For several moments they said nothing. Then Curtis spoke.
‘‘I have to go… later.’’
She heard the door open and close—presumably leaving Bryce in the closet by himself. The oddity of it brought another half smile to her lips. Strange. After a moment she heard the door open and close again. After another moment, she stepped back from the wall quietly.
4
Diane was disturbed by Bryce and his employees, but it was nothing she could put her finger on. There was just something not right about the way Bryce was trying to encroach on the DNA lab. David said Bryce was a control freak. It was probably nothing, just his aggressive, slimy personality.
If she was honest, she thought to herself, there was a tiny speck of truth to Bryce’s accusation. She had been angry when the new chief of police, Edgar Peeks, showed up with no warning and introduced Bryce as her replacement as director of the crime lab. But that was three months ago and had nothing to do with Curtis Crabtree coming down to the DNA lab insisting on a job. Diane shook the nagging feelings as she left for home.
Home. That was another change in Diane’s life of late. Her neighbors had asked her to move out of her apartment because, through no fault of her own, too many unsettling and sometimes horrific things had happened there. The neighbors had been awakened by the arrival of the police just one too many times, and they were frightened. Diane understood that. Everyone needs peace in their lives.
She was staying with Frank Duncan temporarily until she found herself a new place. Frank was a detective in the Metro-Atlanta Fraud and Computer Forensics Unit. Atlanta wasn’t far from Rosewood, and Frank drove into the city daily to work. He wanted her to move in with him permanently. She was thinking about it, but she was also thinking that she wanted her own house. Despite Frank’s terrific hospitality, she still felt like a guest. Somehow, coming into someone’s house and using it as her own didn’t seem right to her.
However, for the moment, the arrangement was working out better than she had expected. She had gained a measure of peace in her own life by moving in with Frank. And if the truth be known, no longer being director of the crime lab gave her time—a priceless commodity. She had time to design the new primate exhibit, she had more time to spend with Frank, she was learning to play the piano, and she’d been caving three times this month alone. And she was even considering getting a dog, maybe an Irish wolfhound or a Lab. Life was good. She was thinking about her good life as she turned into the driveway.
Frank’s house was a Queen Anne set back from the road. It was a house much like Frank—traditional, reliable, solid. It had polished hardwood floors, sand-colored walls, and oak and walnut furniture as substantial as the house itself. It always smelled like furniture polish and always shined.
Frank wasn’t there when Diane arrived. He’d left a message on his answering machine saying he wouldn’t be back until the following day. It wasn’t uncommon— Frank traveled a lot in his job—but it was a shame; it was nice when they both got home early. Diane spent the evening watching the Sci Fi channel—that was also nice. Frank wasn’t the science fiction fan she was, and Diane would not subject him to a Star Trek marathon if he was home. Frank called just before Diane got into bed.
‘‘How was your day?’’ she asked as she snuggled into the softness of the down mattress.
‘‘Good. Love putting the white-collar guys away. They never expect it. I’ve been chasing a spate of identity theft complaints. Those are always fun to track down. And I got an Atlanta mortgage embezzler who’s been on the run with a few million of his company’s money. They picked him up in Hawaii.’’
‘‘Wonder why he didn’t go outside of U.S. jurisdiction if he went that far,’’ said Diane.
Frank started laughing. ‘‘He thought he had.’’
‘‘You’re kidding?’’ Diane grinned as much at Frank’s mirth as at the humor of the failed escape. She could just see his eyes crinkle and sparkle as he laughed.
‘‘I kid you not. It made my day. Another good answer for all those kids who ask, ‘Why do I have to learn this? I’ll never use it.’ So, tell me about your day.’’
Diane told him about the progress on the exhibits, but not about the bones found in the farmer’s field. Sliced-up bones weren’t a conversation topic she wanted to have before she went to sleep. They talked for almost an hour. A good end to the day.
The morning brought sunshine and sparkling frost on the ground. It was a great day to be outside and a great day to take the scenic route to work. It was a little longer, but it was her favorite route, especially in the morning when there was little traffic. The narrow road went through a short patch of woods that were beautiful even in winter when most of the trees were bare of leaves. The trees had shades of bark that ranged from dark brown to tan to almost white, interspersed with the greenery of spruce, cedar, and magnolia trees. And you never knew when a doe and her fawn might be grazing along the roadway or dashing for the woods.
As she drove, Diane listened to classical music on the radio. On the hour, the news came on, and she started to change stations but stopped when she heard that the first item of local news was about the bones. She frowned as the anchor described it as the wood-chipper murder and told of the crushed bones of an unknown victim found by Rose County farmer Arlen Wilson and his grandson. Sheriff Canfield explained to a persistent reporter that the bones were only recently found and he didn’t yet know whom they belonged to but that a forensic anthropologist had the bones and it was hoped she would be able to shed light on the identity of the victim. Diane noticed that he was careful not to say victims. Rumors of more than one wood-chipper murder would become a nightmare. The reporter asked if the forensic anthropologist was Diane Fallon of the RiverTrail Museum of Natural History. Canfield said yes. Diane frowned again. The last thing she wanted was the reporter calling her.
The interviewer asked the sheriff about possible DNA, and he went into a lengthy explanation of DNA and why they might not be able to find any in the bones. Diane had to smile, listening to the lecture she had given him just yesterday. He must be having fun.
She was about halfway to the museum and in the deepest part of the wooded area when she saw blue flashes of light behind her and the intermittent siren that meant to pull over. She found a wide place on the side of the road, pulled her SUV onto the shoulder, and waited with her hands on the steering wheel. She looked in her rearview mirror at the approaching officer. She knew him. Not good. It was Harve Delamore, and he was grinning like he’d just caught his biggest fish ever.
Last year Douglas Garnett, the chief of detectives for the city of Rosewood and Diane’s former boss when she was head of the crime scene unit, had put a reprimand in Delamore’s file for overly aggressive behavior with a suspect. Diane had given a sworn statement as a witness to the incident. Diane was not Delamore’s favorite person. He looked different than last time she’d seen him— a little leaner, and he’d shaved his head the way a lot of men do these days when they are going bald. Delamore was in a patrolman’s uniform. It was a summer uniform even though the temperature had been near freezing overnight. The term hot-blooded fit him, she thought as he approached. The uniform meant he had been demoted from his rank of detective for some reason. Probably some additional offense. Harve didn’t strike her as a man who learned very quickly.
Damn, he’s probably going to be in a mood, she thought. Probably write me up for everything he can think of. Well, damn.
Diane rolled down her window as he approached. She decided not to say anything until he spoke, asking for her driver’s license, probably her insurance papers, probably the deed to the museum. She really didn’t have time for this. She knew her brake lights were in working order; she hadn’t been speeding; there had been no stop signs or red lights to run. He just wanted to jerk her around.
She turned her head toward Officer Delamore as he bent down to the open window. Before she realized what was happening, he’d reached through the window and grabbed her arm with one hand and opened the door with the other. He held her tight through the window as the door swung open. Diane reached behind her, feeling for her cell phone in the center console. She got her fingers on it, but he jerked her hard toward the open door and she dropped it.
‘‘Well, if it’s not the bitch who messed up my life.’’ His voice was a snarl and his face was twisted in some kind of weird satisfied rage.
She was pissed herself. ‘‘What the hell are you doing?’’ Diane screamed at him. ‘‘Have you gone nuts?’’ That reprimand was a year ago. What had set him off now? she wondered.
‘‘Shut up, bitch.’’
Harve reached inside the open door and dragged her out of the vehicle. Her cell phone clattered to the pavement. He looked down at it, smirked, and ground his foot onto the top of it.
‘‘Uh-oh, no signal,’’ he said.
Diane loved this road because she was usually the only one on it. Now she prayed for someone to drive by. But no one did. She was alone.
‘‘Harve, think about what you’re doing. This will ruin you,’’ said Diane.
‘‘I told you to shut up, you damn stupid bitch. You’re going to get what’s coming to you.’’
He had her by her left arm, which meant she had one arm and two legs free. She put them to good use. She kicked his shin hard, kneed him in the groin, and rammed the palm of her right hand into his nose with all the strength she could summon. He didn’t see it coming. He was stunned and let go, and she jerked away. She had been lucky. She’d caught him off guard. It wouldn’t happen again. She had to get away from him.
He was blocking access back into her SUV, so she had to run. She sprinted for the woods, thinking maybe it was a mistake even as she did it. On the one hand, someone might drive by and see her if she ran down the road. On the other hand, he would just run her down with his car.
Harve Delamore was a big guy, but he was all show muscle and not much real working muscle. That would be helpful if she were male. But show muscle or not, testosterone in the male gives muscles a spectacular advantage. Harve was stronger by far than she was. But she had stamina, and she could run. Which she did—as fast as she could. Diane could run long distances, and she had another advantage. She knew these woods.
There was one big problem in all that optimism. Harve had a gun. She thought he would be reluctant to shoot her, though; he wanted to hit her. She saw it in his eyes when he held her. He wanted to pound his meaty fist into her face. So maybe he wouldn’t use his gun.
She was in the air, jumping over a fallen tree, when the gunshot roared in her ears. In the same instant, pieces of bark flew off a tree to her right. He was trying to scare her. Or else he was a really bad shot. Right now, either one would do, as long as she could keep running.
It was hard to shoot a moving target in these woods— lots of trees to get in the way. But she had a serious problem. Males run fast for short distances, and she didn’t have enough of a head start. Diane ran faster. She heard the sound of him gaining on her: heavy footfalls, limbs breaking, grunts and curses. She pushed herself to the limit. He was close behind her. His breathing was heavy. He was getting out of breath. Good. She tried a sharp turn to throw him off balance, slow him down. It didn’t work. He knocked her to the ground, then pulled her up by her arm, breathing hard. He had his gun in his hand. He laid the barrel against her temple.
‘‘I’ve got you now, bitch, and there’s no help. This is a dead end for you.’’
Diane kicked and hit at him as he dragged her through the woods. He turned abruptly and hit the side of her head with the barrel of his gun. Diane literally saw stars. Disoriented, she felt herself dragged deeper into the woods, away from the highway. She tried to keep her bearings. She heard rock crunching under foot and felt her pants snagging. She tried to right herself, but he jerked on her arm and she fell again. He was enjoying dragging her over the rough terrain.
She tried to calm her fear, clear her head, think of a plan. She didn’t fight. If he knocked her out, she was done for. If he jerked her arm out of the socket, she was done for. She thought she knew where she was, and that could be either good or bad. Harve came to an abrupt stop. Chances were, he knew where he was too, and apparently he thought it was good for his purposes.
They were at Chulagee Gorge. It was a gouged-out drop of more than five hundred feet formed by a river that had dried up eons ago. Mike, Diane’s geology curator and caving partner, used the cliff face to teach rock climbing to members of the caving club. He said that a half billion years ago, the quartzite rock here was a sandy beach on the coast of Laurentia in the Iapetus Ocean, which sounded to Diane like a place of fantasy or science fiction. She’d liked it.
Mike insisted that if you climb a rock face or explore a cave you should know what it’s made of and where it came from. Sometimes the caving club members’ eyes glazed over as they listened to the petrogenesis of the rocks they were waiting to climb. But one thing Diane remembered from his lectures was that quartzite is very hard. She had climbed parts of the cliff face many times— but always with safety ropes because of the great height. It wasn’t a particularly difficult climb. There were plenty of handholds and footholds in the quartzite and schist formations. But it was nearly impossible if you had never climbed before.
Harve Delamore didn’t strike Diane as a rock climber. Rock climbing, like caving and scuba diving, is a way of life. You have to do it a lot if you do it at all. It’s dangerous to let yourself get out of shape or out of practice. Diane was also betting that, like many bullies, Harve was a coward. She was betting her life on it.
