Dust to Dust (17 page)

“I didn’t think shed hair had DNA,” said Jonas.

“It has such a small amount that it gets destroyed using traditional methods of extracting DNA. There’s a method in which processing takes place on the slide that can save what little DNA exists. It would be a long shot anyway, but if bonfires get that hot, there would be no place cool enough for DNA to survive,” said Diane.

“Might be worth a try anyway,” said Jonas. “You know, in case it does work.”

“I’ll put it to them and let Jin and his crew make the decision,” said Diane.

“How are the Elvi working out?” asked Jonas, grinning broadly.

“Their work is very good.” Diane smiled back.

“I think they are a hoot. I’ve talked with them. They aren’t nearly as far-out as they put on.”

“I sort of suspected that,” said Diane. “You know the thing about the shirts, don’t you?”

“Color wavelength,” said Jonas. “They’re just showing off—making everything a puzzle. They’re kids really. Of course, most of the people around here are kids to me. You’re a kid to me.”

Diane laughed.

“Tell me, can we find out how old these pottery sherds are? How did Marcella know they are modern?”

“Context, for one. She found them in a pit mixed with bottles and cans. The cans were pretty well rusted out. The bottles were dated to the fifties,” said Jonas.

“Context? Is that it?” asked Diane. “Couldn’t this be much older and have gotten mixed in somehow?”

“No evidence of any mechanism for strata getting mixed. Remember, the pottery sherds she found were of pots she could put back together. All the pieces were there. They were probably broken in situ. Also, we pretty well know all the prehistoric ceramics. Even something this unusual in Georgia would have been known long before now.”

“Really, nothing left to discover?” said Diane.

“I didn’t say there is nothing left to discover, but we’re not going to find any lost civilization of bone-tempered face-pot people. It’s like mounds,” said Jonas. “People are always telling me they have an Indian mound in their field, and I tell them no, they don’t. We know where all of them are. What I’m trying to say is that we know an awful lot about the prehistory of Georgia. Yes, we still have questions, but none so profound as lost civilizations of mad potters.”

Diane smiled. “That’s what Hanks called this unknown artist—a mad potter.”

“He did, did he? Then I guess he isn’t completely off his rocker,” said Jonas.

“So you think these pieces date from the fifties?” said Diane.

“I think so. I didn’t help excavate, and she hasn’t said a lot about them. I didn’t know they were bone tempered, for instance. She just mentioned to me the context she found them in.”

Diane used the phone on the desk to call David and asked him to come down and photograph the sherds and the face when he had free time. She briefly explained to him what she had discovered.

“I need some high-contrast pictures,” said Diane. “I need to see the topography of the sherds.”

“Sure thing,” he said. “Spooky case.”

“No kidding,” said Diane. “If you could hook up Marcella’s computer, that would be helpful too. The one we found in the house.”

She hung up the phone and turned to Jonas. “I appreciate your help in this.”

“We should all get a chance to work on the dark side. Lawrence Michaels is just all tickled to have been asked to lecture on the other side.” Jonas laughed.

“I need to give everyone in the museum a tour of the crime lab so they won’t think it is so mysterious.”

“It won’t help. What you do there is mysterious by definition,” said Jonas.

Diane shook her head and sighed. “I’m going up to call Hanks. I need to keep him apprised of the latest developments. He’s going to love this one.”

Diane left Jonas working in Marcella’s office. She didn’t get up to her own office as quickly as she would have liked. Too many people stopped her to ask questions. Docents stopped her to introduce her to the group they were giving a tour to. She happened across one of the curators, who wanted to know the status of a requisition. Diane did eventually make it to her office, but not to her phone. Ross Kingsley was waiting for her.

“I thought we could go interview some of the people Stacy Dance talked with during her investigation,” he said.

“Sure,” said Diane. She could call Hanks on the way.

She turned to Andie, who sat behind her desk putting together budget reports for the upcoming board meeting in a few days.

“When is Kendel going to Australia?” Diane asked.

“Tomorrow. She got the call from the museum today. She was very excited. She said they have a collection of really neat dinosaur species we don’t have.”

“Tell her I’ll call her tonight,” said Diane. “I’m going back to Gainesville. Call my cell if you need anything.”

They drove back to Gainesville in Ross’ silver Prius. Diane’s mind was not on Kingsley’s case, but Marcella’s. She had tried to call Hanks, but he hadn’t answered his cell. She left a message telling him she would call back.

“I interviewed Stacy’s boyfriend and her band members,” said Kingsley, when he got on the interstate.

“What kind of band did she have?”

“Rock . . . and a little bit of everything. They seemed to be trying to find themselves.”

“How did it go?” she asked.

Kingsley changed lanes a little too abruptly for Diane and she had to hold on to the handle at the ceiling to keep from leaning hard against the door.

“There is a problem establishing a solid alibi for any of them, since the ME gave only a ballpark time of death. Doppelmeyer decided Stacy did this to herself, and he just didn’t do a proper autopsy. I don’t suppose your friend Lynn can determine the time of death,” he said.

“No, not now,” said Diane.

“Besides Stacy, there were four members of her band, including the boyfriend. A female drummer, the boyfriend, who is the keyboardist, and two singers—a female and a male, who also plays the guitar. Stacy was a third singer. All had alibis of sorts. Which means the alibis aren’t solid by any means.”

Kingsley had a turnoff coming and he eased over into the right lane. This time Diane didn’t have to hold on to the handle.

“I couldn’t find any motive for any of them. I spoke with the father again and he said they had all been friends since high school. Two of them were students at the community college with her. If they are involved, we need something to come out in the evidence, because I couldn’t detect anything.”

“Who found her?” asked Diane.

“They were thinking about inviting another member into the band, a girl who they said is really good on the guitar. She’s the drummer’s cousin. The cousin and the drummer came together to talk to Stacy about it, and found her. That’s another discrepancy. The police report said the cousin was the one who found her. The father and the others said it was the two of them,” said Kingsley. He shook his head and took the off-ramp. “Perhaps I should go practice psychology. I’m not really cut out for investigation.”

“What do your psychologist’s sensibilities say about them?” asked Diane.

“That they are telling the truth. I’ve checked all their backgrounds. None have any known involvement in drugs. But I’ve been fooled before. They practiced in the garage, so Stacy’s father saw them frequently. He doesn’t remember them ever arguing about anything serious. At most, a disagreement about what songs to sing at an event.”

“You think her death has something to do with her brother’s case, don’t you?” said Diane.

Diane didn’t like being a passenger. She’d rather be driving. There was a kind of helplessness about being a passenger.

“Yes. You think I’m making the same mistake as Doppelmeyer? I’ve made up my mind and I’m dismissing all other possibilities?”

“No, not really,” said Diane.

“But just a little?” he asked.

“No, but I do think the temptation to go in that direction is very strong. We just have to keep an open mind and follow the evidence. Were there any jealousies? Sometimes people don’t need a really big motive for murder. Small, petty ones will do.”

“I asked about that. I interviewed each one separately. From what I can tell, Stacy and the boyfriend seemed pretty solid. I didn’t see any jealousies about who gets to solo, or who gets top billing. Stacy wasn’t even the lead singer; the other girl was.”

“Did they have a lot of gigs? Did they make money?” asked Diane.

“Not really. They mostly played at school dances, bar mitzvahs, weddings, county festivals, that sort of thing. They’ve never played a club. The boyfriend said they were discussing doing a CD. These days you can apparently make them yourself. Don’t know about distribution, though. He seemed to think they could sell enough from their Web site to get a following. What struck me about all of them is that they were having fun. They didn’t see themselves as struggling musicians; they saw themselves as already having made it and were just looking to make it bigger. Stacy’s death is a blow to them. Their grief seems genuine.”

“Have you seen the Web site?” asked Diane.

“Yes. Nothing stands out. It introduces them, has a sample of their music, has a short video. It has a nice memorial for Stacy. Which, I should add, tells the world that she was murdered, not that she died by accident.”

“Did any of them know anything about the investigation she was doing?”

“That was an odd thing, at least to me. No, they didn’t. They said Stacy kept the business about her brother private. She didn’t even confide to her boyfriend about the investigation. Her friends thought she needed a place where concerns about her brother and his problems didn’t exist—and that was with them and the band. I think we’re here,” he said, turning onto a road that introduced itself as Georgia Heritage Estates.

The neighborhood Ellie Rose Carruthers had lived in was quite different from the one Stacy Dance and her brother, Ryan, grew up in. This place was far from the industrial district. It was an upper-middle-class neighborhood of doctors, lawyers, and upwardly mobile professionals. The yards were neatly manicured. There was no house that needed a coat of paint. One thing for sure, Ryan’s car would have certainly stood out in a neighborhood filled with the higher-end cars she saw parked in the garages and driveways. Kingsley drove to a large two-story brick house and parked in the drive.

“The house across from this one belongs to the family of Ellie Rose Carruthers,” he said. “This is Kathy Nicholson. She was the main witness who put Ryan in this neighborhood. Stacy came to see her three days before she died. Kathy Nicholson’s husband died five years ago. He owned three hardware stores around Gainesville, and she lives alone,” he said.

“Does she know we are coming?” asked Diane.

“No. This is a surprise,” he said.

“Oh,” said Diane.

They walked up to the house and knocked on the large, ornate oak door. Diane could hear footfalls almost immediately. The door was opened by a woman, slightly heavyset, dressed in brown slacks with a brown and cream striped blouse with a soft satin sheen to it. Her hair was ash brown with blond highlights and cut in a short, modern style. Kathy Nicholson had smooth skin, pretty features, and dark brown eyes. Right now she wore a cautiously pleasant look on her face. Diane saw her eyes dart to the car, then to the two of them—Kingsley in his casual sport coat and slacks, Diane in her Ann Taylor camel-colored jacket and pants. Kathy Nicholson seemed to relax. Diane knew it would be only for a moment.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

Kingsley took out his private investigator’s license and gave it to her. None of the flash-it-in-front-of-her-in-hopes-she-doesn’t-look routine.

“Mrs. Nicholson, I’m Dr. Ross Kingsley and this is my associate, Dr. Diane Fallon. May we speak with you? We can talk over at that lovely table you have in your side yard if you like,” he said.

“Doctors. I hadn’t realized that private investigators have such high standards, or are times just hard?” She smiled at the two of them, but it didn’t show in her eyes.

“It’s the firm I work for,” said Kingsley, grinning at her. “They like educated investigators. My doctorate is in psychology. I was previously a profiler for the FBI.”

Kingsley was really rubbing the education in a bit, thought Diane.

“And what about you?” she asked Diane. “What’s your doctorate in?”

“Forensic anthropology,” said Diane.

“That’s about bones, isn’t it?” she said. Diane nodded. “What do you want?”

She was suspicious now, Diane could see. Probably thinking about the visit she had about five weeks ago from Stacy Dance. Too many people coming around doing detective work—about one of the worst things to happen in her nice, pretty neighborhood.

“It’s about Stacy Dance,” Kingsley said.

The woman’s smile disappeared. “I told that young woman what I saw. I’m sorry it was her brother. I know she was just a girl at the time and I understand that she believes him to be innocent. I told her if it were my brother, I probably would too, but I saw what I saw. I’m not going to help you get that monster out of jail.” She handed Ross back his ID and started to close the door.

“Stacy was murdered,” said Kingsley before she got the door completely closed.

The woman stopped and stared at him through the six-inch opening in the door.

“Murdered?” she whispered. “I don’t want anything to do with this.”

“We just want a few minutes of your time to ask you about Stacy,” said Kingsley. “Her father is our client. His daughter is dead; his son is in prison. I would like to find out what happened so he can have some measure of peace.”

She relented. Diane could see it in her eyes first, the softening around the corners. Kathy Nicholson stole a glance across the street, then opened her door.

“Come inside. It’s too cold to be outside,” she said.