Free Dead Guilty by Beverly Connor Page A

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 with its dead stare and protruding tongue. Even with the distortion of death, she recognized the face.
‘‘Oh, my God,’’ she whispered.

Chapter 9
    ‘‘You know this kid?’’ Garnett asked.
‘‘I know who he is.’’ Diane shivered—not from the
gruesome scene—the room was cold. She tore her
gaze away from the dead face and looked at Chief
Garnett.
‘‘It’s Chris Edwards. He’s one of the two men—the
timber cruisers—who discovered the bodies hanging
in the