Dust to Dust (12 page)

David ran down the current cases, which were fortunately few. Fewer cases meant less mayhem and murder was going on.

“We have a collection of fibers from Marcella Payden’s place. Mostly collected outside from the second event, the one you were involved in. The fibers are dyed black wool, which we suspect came from the ski masks. There are also several Manila hemp fibers in association with the wool, which may have come from a rope. That may mean the masks and rope were stored together, since there was no report of a rope in connection with the fracas.” David smiled at Diane. “We also have quite a collection of maroon-colored sequins.”

“I’ll bet you do,” said Diane.

“We have several boot prints that are noteworthy,” said David. “A soft-toe work boot from Cherokee, size eleven—about thirty dollars and available at discount stores; Garmont men’s hiking boot, size ten—about two hundred dollars; and an Oliver steel toe safety boot, size ten and a half—about a hundred and fifty dollars. All have wear patterns that will allow us to identify them if we find the boots themselves. Notice the differences in price.”

“I did,” said Diane.

“Ray-Ray Dildy had the cheap boots,” said David. “It looks like his partners had a little more money to spend on footwear.”

“Good evidence,” said Diane. “I imagine Hanks was pleased.”

“He was . . . with the boot prints,” said David.

Diane raised her eyebrows. “Oh?” she said.

“The description Daughtry and Hanks gave of the events doesn’t fit with the findings on the dead guy.”

Diane closed her eyes a moment. “I don’t like this,” she said. “What doesn’t match?”

“Well, first of all, it was Officer Daughtry’s gun that killed Ray-Ray Dildy,” said David. “I don’t know if you knew that.”

“I feared it might be, but—is there a problem?” asked Diane.

“Daughtry and Hanks both stated that Daughtry had just stepped, or rather, limped off the porch when Daughtry fired his gun,” said David.

“And?” said Diane.

David steepled his hands in front of his face, a gesture he sometimes made when he was trying to explain a point.

“Dildy was found almost at the edge of the woods, a good forty feet from the porch, and there was gunpowder residue around the entry wound on Dildy’s clothing,” said David.

“I see,” said Diane.

“There are two explanations at the moment. Dildy was closer to Officer Daughtry when he was shot than Daughtry and Hanks remembered. And Dildy survived long enough to walk or stumble forty feet across the yard.”

“Did Lynn think that was possible?” asked Diane.

Lynn Webber was the medical examiner for Rosewood and a couple of the surrounding counties. Budget shortfalls had led to a consolidation of medical examiners’ offices in the area. With Diane’s recommendation, Lynn Webber had been brought in from the neighboring county to serve as the multicounty ME. In the process, she had dislodged Rosewood’s ME, who had been tainted by association with the corrupt leadership of the City of Rosewood’s previous administration. It was one small win for the good guys. Diane and Lynn worked well in collaboration when death and crime brought them together.

“She said he could have lived long enough to get a few feet ,” said David. “She wasn’t sure about forty feet.”

“You think Daughtry ran him down and shot him?” said Diane. “His leg was injured, but he was pumped full of adrenaline.”

David shook his head. “No blood trail to the body, and Daughtry was bleeding freely from his wound. We do have a trail that more or less matches his and Hanks’ tale, but with a small detour into one of the little rock gardens, or whatever those rock-bordered spaces are that are all around the yard,” said David. “What I think is, Daughtry lost his gun for a time, most likely when he fell through the floor of the porch. One of the other perps picked it up, shot Dildy, and threw the gun down. I think Daughtry then retrieved it, and isn’t admitting that he ever lost it. The chief of police is pretty strict about knowing a gun’s whereabouts at all times. He doesn’t like it when an officer loses track of his gun, even for a few minutes.”

“What does Daughtry say?” asked Diane.

“Don’t know. Don’t want to know. I just deliver evidence, sometimes along with scenarios when appropriate. I explained things to Hanks. He tried to argue with me about what the evidence says and didn’t like it when I stuck to my analysis. But it’s his problem now.”

“Naturally, he’s going to try and protect his own,” said Diane.

“We’re in the same tribe,” said David. He rubbed his balding crown down to the dark fringe around his head where his hair was making its last stand.

“We are on the same side, but that’s a little different from being family,” said Diane. “Your obligation is over now that you’ve told Hanks, so don’t worry about it. My sense is, he may not like it, but he won’t ignore it. Besides, that’s better than having shot a fleeing perp in the back at forty feet. So, anything else I should know about?”

“That covers it as far as the evidence goes. We didn’t get any fingerprints other than exemplars, and Jin tells me that all the blood belongs to Dr. Payden.”

“How did you get Marcella’s fingerprints? Did you take them at the hospital?” asked Diane.

“Didn’t have to,” said David. “She’s on file.” He grinned. “Dr. Payden has a record.”

“What?” said Diane. “For what?”

“Seems that when she was a student many years ago, she protested a construction project that was about to start building on top of a Native American prehistoric site. Archaeologists were trying to get an injunction so they could excavate the site and save the remains from destruction, but the construction contractor was hell-bent on leveling the place before the court order could be issued. She sneaked into the construction site in the dead of night, revved up one of their heavy front-end loaders, and ran over all their smaller equipment, shed and all,” said David, still grinning from ear to ear. “She got community service and a fine.”

Diane shook her head and smiled. “Who knew? She seems so harmless. We all did things in our youth. Where are Izzy and Neva?” she asked.

“Izzy’s out on his own, working a break-in. I’m sending him out by himself on some of the smaller things. He’s doing well, by the way,” said David. “Neva is in the museum at Document Analysis. She’s curious about the handwriting on the desk.”

Diane looked over at Jin. “What are you doing up here?” she asked.

“Visiting. You know, you always say that when I visit you guys up here. Like I’m never supposed to take a break.”

Diane looked at Jin a moment. “Touchy today?”

“His two new employees—the ones he went through such a long process of finding—are driving him crazy,” said David. “They’re as obsessive-compulsive as he is.”

“Being detail oriented is not OC,” said Jin. “It’s simply doing a good job. There’s a reason that, as young as we are, we are one of the most reliable labs in the country. You have to admit, the DNA lab pays for itself many times over.”

“I admit all of that,” said Diane. She stood up. “I’m taking a kit out to do some private work. Call if you need anything.”

“I can go with you,” said Jin. “You might need help.”

“It’s a freebie,” said Diane.

“I do pro bono,” said Jin.

“Why would you want to go?” asked Diane.

“My new employees are driving me nuts,” he said.

They rode toward Gainesville with Ross Kingsley driving, Diane in the passenger seat, and Jin in the backseat talking a blue streak about his new lab technicians.

“I thought you liked Elvis,” said Diane.

“I do,” said Jin, “but I don’t come to work dressed like him, and I can’t recite all of his songs in chronological order.”

“But your technicians are doing a good job?” asked Kingsley.

“Oh yes,” said Jin, “they are great. I wouldn’t trade them in or anything. I just need a little break from them once in a while.”

“Both are quirky?” asked Kingsley.

“Well, they are twins,” said Jin. “And I have to say, they work well together. Very efficient. Very low error rate—amazingly low.”

They drove into the working-class neighborhood Stacy Dance had lived and died in. Many of the houses were empty, with foreclosure signs in the yards. It was a neighborhood that had seen better days. At the same time, many of the occupied homes were neatly kept, if a little worn around the edges. The neighborhood spoke of hard times and pride.

Harmon Dance’s house, the home of Stacy and Ryan, was backed up against a small copse of trees on a corner lot. The yard of the empty house next door was overgrown and the curtainless windows reminded Diane of dead eyes. She felt a chill.

Diane saw the second-story garage apartment right away. The garage sat a few feet away from the main house, with a dogtrot between the structures. A steep stairway on the side away from the house led up to the apartment. It was a short distance, maybe thirty feet, from the stairs to the road.

“He’s expecting us,” said Ross as he drove up the short drive and stopped in front of the closed garage.

They got out of the car and looked a moment at the single-story home. It was a white house in need of paint. On one end was a porch with square wooden columns and a swing. Two mailboxes attached to the side of the house next to the door were numbered 118 and 118½, one for Mr. Dance and one for his daughter.

“I’m going to start a ground survey of the property outside,” said Jin. “I’m wondering. You think we can go into that empty house?”

“We’ll talk about that later,” said Diane.

“Sure, Boss,” said Jin. With the carrying case containing his evidence bags slung over his shoulder, he left them on the porch and started a perimeter search of the area.

Diane missed having Jin along with her doing crime scene work. Since his focus was now on the DNA lab, it had been a while.

Kingsley knocked on the front door of the house. After only a few seconds, the door opened and Harmon Dance appeared. He stood in the threshold for a moment, nodded at Kingsley, and looked at Diane.

Harmon Dance had a rugged, deeply lined face. Creases around his mouth gave him a perpetual frown. Diane wondered whether he would ever smile again.

“Hello, Mr. Dance,” said Kingsley. “This is Dr. Diane Fallon, the forensic specialist I told you about.”

Dance nodded. “Thanks for coming.” He held the door open for them to enter, stopped, and looked beyond the two of them. “Not now,” he said under his breath.

Diane followed his gaze. A woman was walking with determination across the street toward them, her arms swinging in her hurry to get across ahead of an approaching car. She was middle-aged, portly, and had thinning, frizzy brown hair. Her jaw was set in a determined clinch.

“What is it, Mrs. Pate?” Dance said.

Mrs. Pate stopped at the foot of the steps with her hands on her hips and glared at the three of them. The skirt of her blue flowered housedress moved gently in the light breeze; her square-lens frameless glasses slipped on her nose.

“You gonna rent your girl’s apartment to that China-man?” she said. She nodded her head toward where Jin had walked into the woods.

“How is that your business?” Dance said, his own face settling deeper into granite.

“I won’t have it. Things are bad enough. Who are these people?” She looked as if she also disapproved of Diane and Ross standing on the porch. You real estate people? I want you to know this is a nice neighborhood, or it used to be before people started losing their homes. She glanced over at the empty house.

Diane saw that Kingsley was holding back a laugh. For herself, Diane felt a little irritated at the woman’s racism. Diane had to dig deep to find her compassion. The woman was probably scared. She was getting older and her neighborhood was changing . . . and there had been an untimely death just across the street. Trying to have some control in what must have felt like an out-of-control world probably bedeviled the poor woman and a belligerent demeanor was her only shield against it. But, then again, Diane was probably overanalyzing.

“These are not real estate people and I’m not renting out Stacy’s apartment. You can go back home now, Mrs. Pate.”

As irritating as Mrs. Pate was, she was a gem for investigators—a person who was always on the lookout.

“Mrs. Pate,” said Diane, “I’m Diane Fallon. May I ask you a few questions about the day Stacy died?”

The woman suddenly looked startled, as if a loud noise had gone off beside her. Her paranoia had focused on the possibility of new neighbors, not an investigation.

“What kind of questions?” she said, her hands suddenly clasped against her stomach.

“Where I live, in Rosewood, we have a Neighborhood Watch. Do you have one here?” asked Diane. She wanted to start out by making sure Mrs. Pate knew she was going to be judged well on her nosiness.

“Police ain’t much good here,” she said. “No use getting them to put up signs. We have to keep an eye out ourselves.”

“Did you see any suspicious people here that day?” said Diane.

“You people here to investigate her death?” Mrs. Pate darted a look at Mr. Dance. “I thought it was something else that killed her.”

“Did you see anything that made you uneasy?” asked Diane.

“That was a month ago. . . .”

“Mrs. Pate,” said Harmon Dance, his voice raspy, “Stacy was good to you. She was good to everybody here in the neighborhood.”

“Yes, she was,” said Mrs. Pate. “You think somebody kilt her?”

“We’re looking into the possibility,” said Kingsley.

The woman was quiet for several moments. Diane thought she was trying to remember. Mrs. Pate scratched the back of her hand and put a palm on her cheek.

“Not that day, but one or two days before, there was a car, an SUV kind of car. I noticed it ’cause it circled the block a couple of times”—she gestured with her hand, moving it in a circle—“and slowed down here when it went by. It stopped for a time—maybe a few minutes—on the cross street there above your house,” she said, nodding to Dance. “The windows were dark and I couldn’t see inside. It was a black car. No good comes from a black car with dark windows like that.”