Dead Guilty (27 page)

Diane
didn’t realize she had shot out of bed until she
was halfway out her bedroom door. She made it to
the front door and grabbed at the safety latch. Too
slow. He grabbed her from behind and held her in a
tight grip. She got out half a scream before a hand
clamped over her mouth.

Diane
kicked, but with bare feet she did little dam
age.
Dammit, I’m stronger than this.
She wrenched her
body around, throwing them both to the floor. She hit
her head on the hard floor, stunning her for a second,
but her body was on automatic. She scrambled to her
feet and raced for the bedroom, intending to lock her
self in and call 911. But he was too fast. Before she
could close the door, he hit it with enough force to
knock her backward. She fell to the floor and rolled
under the bed.

She
saw the shadow of him on his knees grabbing
for
her,
sliding
under
the
bed
after
her.
She
rolled
out,
got
to
her
feet,
grabbed
the
radio
on
her
nightstand
and
brought
it
down
on
his
head
as
he
crawled out from under the bed.

His
struggle to rise was hampered by still being half
under the bed. She hit him again, harder, dropped the
radio and ran. The safety was unlatched from her first
attempt at escape so all she had to do was turn the
locks and bolt from her apartment. As she ran down
the stairs, she hoped the police hadn’t decided they
had to go somewhere else. She ran down the walk and
into the street, each step hurting her bare feet. Half
way across the street the police saw her.

‘‘What
is it?’’ they shouted.
‘‘He’s in my apartment.’’
‘‘Stay here.’’ They jumped from the car and Diane

Diane
wore a fleece short-sleeved nightshirt that
came
halfway
between
her
knees
and
thighs.
The
last place she wanted to be was in the back of an
unmarked
police
car
dressed
in
sleepwear.
Damn
him.

A
gunshot echoed through the air. Oh, God. She
put a hand on the door and started to open it, then
stopped.
She
was
still
undecided
on
whether
to
get
out. One of the policemen came running.

‘‘We
got him. An ambulance is coming, but I’m not
sure he’ll make it.’’
Diane felt sick all over again. ‘‘Can he talk?’’
‘‘He’s in and out.’’
‘‘I need to ask him some questions.’’
‘‘I don’t know.’’
‘‘In case he dies, I need to ask him some questions.’’
‘‘Okay. I suppose it’s all right. You are a member
of the department, after all.’’
Diane thought he’d like to add
a rather troublesome
member
. She ran back up to her apartment, where the
other policeman had a towel on the intruder’s chest.
Diane knelt down by his side. ‘‘Can you hear me?’’
‘‘Just wanted talk. Not a murderer. Exec . . .’’ His
breathing was labored and he started to cough. ‘‘Can’t
trust the police.’’ He closed his eyes and lapsed into
unconsciousness.
He was still alive but unconscious when the ambu
lance came and took him to the hospital. Diane sat
on
her
couch
in
a
pair
of
jeans
and
the
nightshirt,
waiting for the police to ask her questions. When she
came back to her apartment, she’d passed her landlady
and
several
of
her
neighbors,
including
the
Odells
across the hall. She wondered if it was time to look
for another place to live before she was asked to leave.
She was ministering to cuts on her feet when Garnett arrived. ‘‘You need medical?’’ he asked.
‘‘Just a few cuts on the soles of my feet. How’s the
officer who shot . . .’’ She let the question trail off.
‘‘He’s
all
right.
A
shooting’s
always
hard.
He
thought the guy was drawing a gun. It turned out it
was his cell phone. Can you tell me what happened?’’
Diane told him about going to bed and hearing the
voice
just
as
she
was
about
to
fall
asleep.
She
told
about the struggle as best she remembered and about
hitting him in the head with the radio.
‘‘I talked to him after he was shot. He said he just
wanted to talk, that he wasn’t a murderer.’’
Garnett shook his head. ‘‘Think he’s our guy?’’
‘‘I don’t know. He may be just a stalker.’’
‘‘You can’t come in here.’’ The voice was from a
policeman outside her door.
‘‘Tell Dr. Fallon that Frank Duncan is here.’’
Diane recognized the calm voice even through the
door.
‘‘Ask them to let him in,’’ she said.
Garnett obliged, and Frank came in and sat down
beside Diane, putting an arm around her shoulder.
‘‘What on earth happened?’’
Garnett explained while Diane put a couple more
Band-Aids on her feet.
‘‘Is
he
the
guy
who
attacked
you
last
night?’’
asked Frank.
‘‘I don’t know,’’ said Diane. ‘‘How did you know
something happened?’’
‘‘Izzy called. I think he’s trying to make up for being
a horse’s ass. Get some clothes and come spend the
night at my house.’’
Diane nodded. That sounded safe. She was sure her
neighbors would feel safer if she were gone. Her new
est neighbors must think this kind of thing happened
to her every night.
As
she
left,
Veda
Odell,
the
neighbor
across
the
hall,
stuck
her
head
out.
‘‘Marvin
says
he’d
rather
have a load of cats living next door than you.’’
‘‘Mrs. Odell,’’ said Diane. ‘‘I can’t say as I blame
him.’’

Diane
called
Garnett
the
next
morning
from
the
crime lab the minute she arrived. ‘‘What’s his status?’’
‘‘Critical. He seems to be hanging in there. Hasn’t
been conscious for more than a few minutes at a time.
Won’t talk when he is.’’
‘‘Do you know who he is?’’
‘‘He had no identification on him. We found what
we believe is his vehicle. Stolen plates, no registration.
And like I said, he isn’t talking. We’re sending you a
copy of his fingerprints.’’
‘‘Here they are now.’’
David stood in front of her with an envelope in his
hand. David, Jin and Neva had been hanging around
her desk as if she might disappear if they looked away
for a moment. Jin was stretched out on the sofa. Neva
perched on the edge of one of the chairs.
‘‘These are fingerprints of the guy who came into
my apartment last night. Check them against all our
crime scene prints and every fingerprint database we
have access to. We need a match if there’s one out
there.’’
‘‘I’ll
get
on
it,’’
said
David.
‘‘I’ve
just
installed
a
new
identification
algorithm.
I’m
anxious
to
try
it
out.’’
‘‘Jin. Find out how the GBI is doing with the shed
hair project.’’ She took a key off her key chain. ‘‘Go
to my apartment and get some of his blood off my
floor or on the towel they used to cover the wound,
and take it with you to Atlanta. See if we can match
it.’’
‘‘Neva.’’ Diane picked up a piece of paper from her
desk. ‘‘This report from the bone samples came back
yesterday. All of our victims grew up in the northeast
ern United States. Sheriff Braden isn’t having any luck
with missing persons. I want you to scan your drawings
and save them as graphic files, JPEG, GIF, whatever
works
best
on
the
Internet.
I
want
you
to
locate
a
professional
list
serve,
discussion
board
or
whatever
it’s
called for
plastic
surgeons. Post
the drawings
of
Blue
and
Green
Doe,
and
see
if
anyone
recognizes
either of them. Mention where they grew up, Green’s
heart
condition
and
Blue’s
tattoo
of
a
butterfly
on
her ankle.’’
‘‘I could do the same thing with the tattoos,’’ said
Neva.
‘‘Look
for
a
discussion
board
about
tattoos.
Might get something.’’
‘‘Good
idea.
Okay,
guys,
you
have
your
assign
ments.’’ Diane stood up. ‘‘I’m going to be working in
the museum if you need me.’’
‘‘You seem hyper today,’’ said David.
‘‘Hand-to-hand combat does that to you.’’
‘‘You weren’t hurt, were you?’’ he asked.
‘‘I’m fine. When I finally got to a safe bed, I got a
good night’s sleep.’’

‘‘You’ve
had
some
reporters
calling,’’
said
Andie,
eying Diane as she came through the office.
‘‘What did you tell them?’’
‘‘That I didn’t know what the heck they were talk
ing about. What the heck were they talking about?’’
Diane described the events of the previous evening,
trying to make it sound casual, but failing miserably.
‘‘He’s in critical condition. Have no idea who he is.’’
Andie stared at her with her mouth open. ‘‘Is that
the guy who sent the flowers?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘How is it that you attract all these weirdos?’’
‘‘I have no idea. I’m contemplating hiring someone
to steal that interview the TV station has on file so
they can’t play the damn thing again. I thought I was
just giving generic answers, but they certainly seemed
to set this guy off.’’
‘‘He was in your bedroom all the while?’’
‘‘Apparently so.’’
‘‘That’s creepy, not to mention scary.’’
‘‘I’m
going
to
get
some
work
done.
I
want
only
museum business calls. Send all reporters to the police
for information.’’
‘‘Dr.
F.’’
Korey
stood
in
the
doorway.
‘‘I’ve
got
something you need to see.’’
‘‘What’s that?’’
‘‘It’s up in the conservation room.’’
Diane nodded. ‘‘Sure.’’
She walked with Korey to the conservation lab lo
cated on the second floor.
‘‘How
did
our
mummy
fare
on
his
outing?’’
she
asked.
‘‘He did fine. When we got him back, I went back
in with the endoscope and took a sample of the tumor.
That ought to be interesting.’’
Diane quickened her pace.
‘‘You have the amulets up there?’’
‘‘Sure do. Great stuff. You haven’t seen them?’’
‘‘No, and I would like to.’’
Korey grinned. ‘‘You’re going to like this, then.’’
Mike Seger was in the conservation room looking
at the amulets when Diane arrived.
‘‘You tell her what you found?’’
‘‘Not yet. She wanted to see the amulets first.’’
‘‘This sounds mysterious.’’ Diane stopped at a table
where twenty-one Egyptian artifacts were laid out on
a piece of batting. ‘‘These are absolutely lovely.’’
They
were
small.
The
largest
piece
was
a
scarab
about four inches long. Each piece had a card next
to
it
saying
what
it
was
and
what
materials
it
was
made from.
The scarab was alabaster and probably had been
over his heart. Several small fish figurines made of
alabaster and lapis lazuli lay
in two rows. An in
scribed cylinder of sandstone had the name Senusret
III written on it, according to the card. There was
another
row
figure
made
SHABTIS
.
of
several
limestone
figurines
and
a
of
black
steatite
that
was
labeled
‘‘That’s a Get Out of Work Free card for the after
life,’’ said Korey, as Diane picked up the shabtis and
turned it over in her hand. ‘‘According to Jonas, the
writing on the back is a spell to let the person send
the
shabtis
in
his
place
if
he
was
ever
asked
to
do
work. It seems that’s what the rich folk did in life too.
When
there
was
mandatory
work
to
be
done,
they
could send in a sub. The work they were opting out
of
was
the
hard
labor
variety.
Seems
that
ancient
Egypt had a big public works program. Very useful
when the Nile flooded.’’
Two
figures
lying
next

crushed
quartz and alkali and makes a glaze when it’s
fired,’’ said Korey. ‘‘She says a lot of their jewelry was
made that way.’’

‘‘These
are wonderful,’’ said Diane. ‘‘They’ll make
an incredible exhibit.’’
‘‘The designers are already at it. I’ve just about had
to run them out of here to get any work done. Can’t
blame them, though. This is really fine stuff.’’
‘‘Now, what did you ask me up here for?’’
‘‘The lawyer for Raymond Waller called and asked
us if we could make the arrangement to send the base
ball
collection
to
the
Negro
Leagues
Baseball
Mu
seum. I told him sure, we interact with museums all
the time.’’
‘‘Certainly, we can handle it. Is there a problem?’’
‘‘I
think
you
need
to
call
the
lawyer
and
talk
to
him. I mean, in order to make sure what’s supposed
to go the museum and what’s supposed to go to his
heirs.’’
‘‘I’m not following,’’ said Diane.
‘‘You will.’’ Korey and Mike led her to the climatecontrolled vault in the rear of the lab, where he stored
the baseball collection.

The
vault was cool. Diane shivered and rubbed her
hands over her bare forearms. It had rows of shelves
filled with items that had to be stored in a stable envi
ronment,
always
kept
at
the
same
temperature
and
humidity. Some items never left the vault until Korey
was sure they would not deteriorate outside. Some of
the objects couldn’t stand the normal museum envi
ronment and had been in the vault since the museum
opened. The mummy was there, lying on a table, with
the plastic wrapping removed.

‘‘Alicia’s
working on the wrappings that came with
him,’’ said Korey, with a nod of his head toward an
other table holding the linen mummy wrappings. ‘‘It’s
in
pretty
bad
shape,
but
we’d
like
to
use
it
to
re
wrap him.’’