DF08 - The Night Killer (17 page)

“There are some things I can do,” said Diane. “But I can’t interfere in an ongoing investigation, no matter what I think of the investigation so far. You need to know too that I’ve been forbidden to set foot in Rendell County.”

“What?” said Christine. “By who? The sheriff?”

“Yes,” said Diane.

“Why?” asked Brian. “Can he do that?”

“Because he doesn’t want to be shown up for the ass he is,” said Spence. “Isn’t it obvious?” He took another long swallow of his drink and paced the room.

“What do you need?” asked Brian.

“The autopsy reports, for starters,” said Diane. “The Watsons’ too.”

“I know Kate Watson, their daughter,” said Christine. “She doesn’t like the sheriff any more than we do. Can we ask for the autopsy reports?”

Diane nodded. “If the sheriff balks, you can get a lawyer, or you can ask your parents’ insurance company to request the report.”

“So this means you’ll help find out who killed Mom and Dad?” said Spence.

“I’ll do my best,” said Diane.

Spence finished his drink and sat down. “We appreciate that. Do you think it is a serial killer? It looks like it.”

“I never assume,” said Diane.

“What about that guy you met in the woods?” said Christine. “That was pretty suspicious.”

“It was, and I’m sure the sheriff is trying to find him,” said Diane.

Spence shook his head.

“Travis Conrad has shown more competence than his father,” Diane said.

She didn’t tell them she was helping Travis with the investigation, for fear the information would get back to the sheriff. She might have been able to get the autopsy reports from Travis, but frankly, she wanted the Barre children’s interest in the investigation to shake the sheriff up. There was no reason for him to be so parochial.

“Travis?” said Christine. “I can’t believe he has a job as a deputy.”

“He wouldn’t if his father hadn’t given it to him,” said Spence.

Diane raised her eyebrows.

“We went to school with him,” said Christine. “He was one of the bad boys, if you know what I mean. I wasn’t allowed to speak to him.

“He drank a lot, drove too fast around those country roads, broke into people’s sheds and stole their tools, and was into drugs. You say he’s more competent than the sheriff? I don’t have a lot of respect for the sheriff, but I find that hard to believe.”

“Apparently he’s cleaned up his act quite a bit. I have the impression,” Diane said carefully, “that he wants to show his father up and find the killer.”

“I can believe he’d want to do that. He got a lot of hard whippings from his daddy when he was a little fella,” said Spence.

“His dad was a real believer in not sparing the rod,” said Christine. “Mama and Daddy didn’t spank very much. Daddy not at all.” She smiled and looked over at Spence. “You remember the time Roy Jr. painted that mural on the side of the Glovers’ barn?”

Spence grinned. “What was he, six? He now refers to that as his Jackson Pollock phase.”

“Daddy was supposed to take him out back and give him a whipping with a paddle. Mama came out later and found Daddy sitting on a log, crying his eyes out. Little Roy Jr. was sitting on an overturned bucket, all dry-eyed. Mama said she put her hands on her hips and looked from one to the other. Turns out Daddy hadn’t hit him a lick. Couldn’t stand the thought of it. Mama made the two of them go over and help Mr. Glover repaint the side of his barn.”

Christine’s eyes began to tear up. Spence started to say something just as his cell rang. He flipped it open and answered it. Diane’s stomach clenched when she saw the look on his face.

Spence Barre flipped his phone closed. He was so pale Diane was afraid he was about to faint. He looked over at his sister, who was staring at him with a look of dread, her handkerchief held tight in her hands. For several moments he said nothing.

“That was the highway patrol,” he said finally. He ran a hand down the length of his face and looked from his sister to his brother-in-law, then to Diane. “Roy Jr. has been in an accident on the mountain road.”

Christine sucked in her breath and covered her mouth with the palm of her hand. “Is he . . . ? Where is he? We have to go see him.”

Brian put an arm around his wife’s shoulders.

“They didn’t tell me much. You know how they are. They like to tell things in person,” said Spence. “They only said he was taken to the hospital in Rosewood. I don’t know why here and not Helen.”

The three of them looked at one another for a moment, appearing too stunned to know what to do.

“Rosewood has an especially good trauma center,” said Diane, standing up. “I’ll give you directions.” She fetched paper and pen from an end table drawer and began writing directions to get them from the museum to the hospital.

“We appreciate everything,” said Brian. He stood and took the directions from Diane and looked them over.

“It’s not far,” she said.

Spence and Christine managed to rise from the sofa. They clung to each other for a moment, as if fearing they were the only family left, trying to draw strength from each other.

“You say it’s a good hospital?” Christine said to Diane.

“Yes. I’ve had someone I love in there with a trauma and they did wonders for him,” said Diane.

“If they took him to Rosewood and not to Helen, then he’s alive,” said Spence, wrinkling his brow, trying to work out the logic. “If he had died, they would have just taken him to the hospital in Helen, wouldn’t they?”

“I would think so,” said Diane.
There’s nothing special about our morgue
, she thought to herself.

“That’s good, that’s good,” whispered Christine, as if saying a quiet prayer.

Diane walked with them out of her office, down the hallway. Brian held Christine’s hand. Spence walked with Diane.

“You will help us. Is that what I understood?” said Spence.

“Yes,” said Diane. “I will do all I can.”

“We’re thankful,” Christine said. “I just . . . This is just too much.”

Diane could see she was making an effort not to break down.

“He’ll be all right,” whispered Brian.

“I have a short question,” said Diane, as they walked down the hallway of offices. “The killer apparently took a cigar box containing items that belonged to your great-grandfather. It was among your father’s collection in one of the living room display cabinets. Do you know what was in the box?”

Christine looked at Spence. “Yes, I remember it. Daddy didn’t like us playing with it when we were children, so it was put up, away from little hands. You say the killer took it? It was just rocks and a few marbles. Maybe some doodads from Granddad’s childhood.”

“Yeah,” said Spence. “Nothing in it valuable. Just stuff a kid collects. I think there was a bottle cap and a pocket-knife too. Why would he have taken it?”

“Don’t some serial killers take souvenirs?” said Brian.

“Some do,” said Diane. “But it may also be important for other reasons. I would like to know exactly what was in it,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me now. Just think about it and write down what you remember. And when you can, I would like to talk with you about your parents.”

Christine nodded and Diane walked them through the lobby, hardly noticing the bustle of activity, and outside to their gray Toyota minivan. Brian opened the door for Christine and she climbed into the passenger side. Spence opened the sliding door and got in. Brian walked around to the driver’s side. He had to wait for the people in the car beside him to get out before he could get in. They weren’t in a hurry as they organized their kids and gave instructions to behave and not to wander off. The woman stopped and combed her daughter’s hair, standing where Brian needed to open his door. Diane was about to politely explain that they had an emergency, when the woman’s husband intervened.

“Sharon, move out of the man’s way, for God’s sake. He needs to get in his car. Madison’s hair looks fine.”

The woman looked at Brian as though it were he who had admonished her. Pushing her daughter ahead of her, she moved up on the sidewalk to meet her husband. Brian got in the van, started the engine, and drove away.

Diane watched them a moment, then walked back inside, ignoring the flood of tourists who had just arrived on a tour bus. Christine was right: This was so unfair.

Diane didn’t go to her museum office. Instead, she went to the crime lab to check in with David. Izzy was out working on a break- in. Fortunately, crime was slow in Rosewood lately. With Neva on vacation, the lab was shorthanded.

“Were there any prints on the lipstick?” she asked David as he came out of a carrel with a piece of paper in his hand.

“Yes, indeed. Our girl Tammy Taylor was arrested for shoplifting ten years ago. I e- mailed the mug shot to Frank,” he said, handing the paper to Diane. “Hopefully she hasn’t aged too much.”

Diane looked down at the copy of the mug shot David had printed out. Frank told Diane that if she could come up with a photograph of Tammy, he and Ben would show it at a few free clinics and homeless shelters on their lunch hour. This should make Ben happy. Frank told her that once Ben got something in his head, he wouldn’t let it go until it was solved. Frank said it as if he himself had no such compulsion.

“It still looks like her,” said Diane. “A little younger perhaps, but anyone who has seen her lately would still recognize her. Thanks, David, for running the prints.”

“Sure. How did your meeting go? Must have been short,” he said.

Diane sat down at their debriefing table and looked at the photograph again, wishing there were clues of some kind in the lines of Tammy’s face. David drew up another chair and sat down. She told him about the phone call.

“It’s so sad for them,” she said, looking up.

“Did the highway patrol have any information about what happened?” he asked.

“Not that they would say over the phone,” said Diane.

“I assume they want you to investigate their parents’ deaths,” he said.

“Yes. That’s what I suspected they wanted when they called last night,” she said.

“So when do we start?” said David. He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in the chair.

“You’re assuming I said
yes
,” said Diane.

“Of course,” he said.

“I said I would do what I could. But you don’t have to get involved. I’ve used you enough already,” she said.

David wagged his finger. “It’s hit too close to home,” he said. “This whole thing in Rendell County needs resolving—all of it. You know, the sheriff’s stubbornness is damned dangerous. If there’s a serial killer on the loose—and it looks like there is—what makes him think the guy’s going to stay in Rendell County? We all have a stake in this, and he’d better get his ass on the phone to the GBI, or the FBI, and get some help. If he doesn’t, he needs to be taken to court and removed from office. I know some judges here. I could put a bug in their ear.”

Diane smiled.

“Figuratively,” he added, smiling back.

David was an expert in forensic entomology, as well as every other thing they did at the lab. He unlaced his fingers and set all four legs of his chair on the floor with a loud whack just as the elevator doors opened and Izzy stepped out.

“What the hell was that?” Izzy said. “You having a gunfight in here?” He walked over to the two of them and set his evidence case down on the floor and drew up a chair.

“How’d it go?” asked Diane.

“I was diligently working the break- in at that little jewelry shop on Main and Oglethorpe,” Izzy said. “Lifted lots of prints, even got a few fibers on the door-frame where the perp broke in. I’d packed everything up when the owner came and told me and the detective that it was all a big mistake, and he’s sorry, and he would pay any fines for making said mistake. Detective Hanks was pissed. I wasn’t all that happy.”

“What do you think changed his mind?” asked David.

“I think he discovered that his pissant son was the thief,” said Izzy. “So what’s cooking here?” he asked.

Just as he spoke, Diane’s phone rang. She was hoping it was the Barres, but it was Travis.

“Slick and his girlfriend ain’t at home,” he said. “He got a friend to house-sit the dogs. Said he’s coming back tomorrow. We’ll see. The house sitter did say the old lady was with them and she seemed fine,” Travis added.

“Thanks for looking,” said Diane. She told him that Tammy Taylor was in the system.

“I’m not surprised. What’d she do?”

“Shoplifting,” said Diane.

“I’d of expected more than that,” he said. “I suppose that’s just what she got caught at.”

Diane told him about Roy Jr. Barre’s accident. “I don’t have any details.”

“Oh, God, no. Those poor people. Roy Jr. was supposed to come back and go through his parents’ house again with me. I don’t imagine Spence or Christine will feel like it for a while. I’m just real sorry for their trouble.”

Diane heard another call coming in on her phone, so she told Travis she’d be in touch and switched to the other call. It was Brian McEarnest, Christine’s husband.

“Roy Jr.’s in critical condition,” Brian said. “He’s got head injuries, broken bones, and some internal injuries. The doctors couldn’t tell us much. He’s in intensive care. At least he’s alive, and we’re real thankful for that.” Brian paused a beat. “The patrolman told us he was run off the road by another car.”

“This certainly sheds a little different light on things,” said Izzy.

David shook his head. Diane imagined that he had already suspected something was not right. His paranoid mind railed at coincidences as tragic as what was happening to the Barre family.

“At least the family can deal with White County authorities and not Sheriff Conrad,” said David.