Free Dead Guilty by Beverly Connor Page A

everyday scenes painted by Vermeer were his fa
vorite. He could look at them for hours.
She had adopted Gregory’s love of looking at beau
tiful art when she needed a break from the grim reali
ties of human rights violations. She understood what
David meant about the museum. It was a refuge for
her too.
‘‘What’s
that
new
medical
examiner
in
the
next
county like?’’
‘‘Dr. Lynn Webber. Nice. Hospitable.’’
‘‘And that means?’’
‘‘Just what I said. Seems pretty competent.’’
‘‘You don’t like her?’’
‘‘I didn’t say that.’’
‘‘You didn’t have to. I was listening to your ringing
endorsement.’’
‘‘I got the impression that she kind of likes to be
the star.’’ Diane hesitated a moment. ‘‘I think she’s
going to get the time of death wrong. She doesn’t have
much experience with hangings.’’
‘‘And for that you don’t like her?’’
‘‘I didn’t say I don’t like her. Just that she reminds
me a little of Leah.’’
‘‘A cherry bomb waiting to go off?’’
Diane made a face. They had worked with Leah for
a while in South America. She was a bit of a prima
donna, albeit a competent one.
‘‘I
shouldn’t
have
said
anything.
She’s
been
very
gracious. Even wants me to take her caving.’’
‘‘You going to take her?’’
‘‘I thought I’d ask Mike about some easy caves.’’
‘‘Mike?
Mike
Seger?
I
thought
you’re
dating
Frank Duncan.’’
Diane
was
taken
aback.
‘‘I’m
not
dating
Mike.
We’re
just
talking
about
going
caving.
He’s
an
employee.’’
‘‘Don’t you guys have to take your clothes off to
cross a body of water in a cave—to keep the water
clean?’’
‘‘You can leave your underwear on.’’
‘‘So, do you wear Victoria’s Secret or those cotton
jobs?’’
‘‘I think I’d better go home. See you tomorrow.’’
    It
was well after ten o’clock before Diane got home.
She was tired and couldn’t wait for a shower. After
letting the water run over her for a long while, she
ran a warm bath, put a capful of lemon juice in the
water and just lay and soaked with her head resting
on
a folded
towel
on the
back of
the
tub. She
was
tempted
to
stay
the
night
there,
just
soaking
in
the
water, letting the smell of death become overwhelmed
with clean pure water. She would have stayed if her
telephone had remained quiet.
    Diane
followed the directions to a small house in a
clump
of
trees
about
a
half
mile
from
the
Bartram
University campus. The house, a bungalow with white
wood siding and fieldstone columns and steps, looked
like it might have been built in the late 1920s.
    She
parked
her
car
on
the
side
of
the
road
and
walked across the yard. She looked briefly up at the
second-floor gabled window and leaning rock chimney.
It looked like housing rented to students. Maintained
enough to keep the roof up, but not enough to rent
to anyone looking for a family home.
    She
showed her badge to the officer guarding the
door, slipped covers over her shoes and went in.
A girl was sitting on a futon sofa in the living room,
sobbing. The room was in disarray, drawers pulled out
of a desk, their contents emptied onto the floor, couch
pillows scattered about, chairs overturned.
Douglas Garnett, chief of detectives of Rosewood,
and Whit Abercrombie, county coroner, were standing
at the entrance to a room off the living room. Whit
was Lynn Webber’s counterpart, but he wasn’t a medi
cal examiner. He was a taxidermist with a master’s in
biology. They nodded to Diane.
Chief Garnett was a large, lanky man in his midfor
ties with a full head of salt-and-pepper well-kept hair.
He
had
a
deep
crease
between
his
abundant
blackand-gray eyebrows.
‘‘In here,’’ he said.
The body was on its knees, leaning forward against
a rope around the neck and tied to the clothes rod in
the closet. The closet door stood open, and the fulllength mirror showed a side image of the gruesome
scene. Diane looked at the purple swollen face