Beverly Connor - Dust to Dust

“Great. I thought we would. Marcella loves research. How is she?” he asked.

“She seems much better,” said Diane.

“Good. Jin loaned me Hector and Scott. So, okay, what’s the deal? Hector’s the older twin, right? And there is something about his shirt?” said David.

“The color is a longer wavelength than Scott’s,” said Diane.

“Yeah, that’s it. God, I hope this isn’t a mistake,” he said.

“They’ll do fine,” she said.

“They have improved the research design. We are going to collect samples using a smaller grid system-collect more samples-to determine the least number of samples needed for accurate results.”

“They enjoy research,” said Diane. “You shouldn’t have any problems.”

“Oh, and I’ve lined up some archaeology students to excavate, in case we find anything,” said David.

“Just remember, if you locate anything, you have to call the coroner before you take anything out of the ground,” said Diane.

“I’ve informed Whit, so he knows we might call,” said David.

“Then you are good to go,” said Diane. “Keep me informed.”

She hung up the phone. They were all staring at her, the three women and Kingsley. She supposed at this end it was a strange conversation.

“Now,” said Diane, “what can I do for you?”

“You can recant what you said to the newspaper,” said Marsha Carruthers. “You aren’t getting that trash out of jail. He killed my daughter.” She leaned forward and repeated her plea. “He killed my daughter.”

Diane guessed that Marsha’s other daughter hadn’t confided in her, or she would have mentioned it first thing. She hoped Samantha didn’t wait too long. Diane didn’t want the police to be the ones to tell the Carruthers it was their daughter who found Stacy’s body.

“You told me you were not interested in getting that monster out of jail,” said Kathy Nicholson. “But it’s obvious you lied.”

She pulled the newspaper article from her purse and tossed it on the table. It was the one Diane had already read.

“Neither I nor Dr. Kingsley had anything to do with the article in the paper,” said Diane. “And we are not trying to get Ryan Dance out of jail.”

“Then where did the newspaper get this information?” asked Wendy Walters.

“I’ve not talked with the reporter. I don’t know her,” said Diane.

“You told me you worked for… or are the director of”-Kathy pulled Diane’s card out of her purse and read from it-“the Aidan Kavanagh Forensic Anthropology Lab. But it turns out you’re a museum director.” She tossed the card on her desk with the article. “Why would you deceive us in this way?”

“How is it you’re qualified to say anything about how that woman died?” said Wendy. “People are going to believe what they read in the newspaper and there is going to be a call for the Dance boy’s release, and the police are going to be chasing a wild goose, because…” She threw up her hands. “This is just stupid. Are the two of you scam artists? Is messing with people’s lives how you get your kicks?”

“I am director of this museum. I’m also director of the Aidan Kavanagh Forensic Anthropology Lab, which is part of this museum. And I’m director of the Rosewood Crime Lab,” said Diane.

They stared at her for a moment. Wendy spoke first. “What does Rosewood have to do with any of this? It’s Gainesville’s jurisdiction.”

“I wasn’t representing Rosewood when I spoke with you or when I investigated the scene of Stacy Dance’s death,” said Diane.

“Then you were using your employer’s time and facilities for personal gain,” said Wendy.

“No, I was not,” said Diane. “First, my work was pro bono; second, I didn’t use Rosewood’s facilities or their time… even though I could have. You see, our crime lab does forensic analysis for jurisdictions all around the world, not just Rosewood. I’m still not understanding why you are here and what you hope to have me do.”

“Is it true you said that woman was murdered?” said Marsha.

“Stacy Dance,” said Diane. “Yes, she was murdered.”

“We discovered that our medical examiner said she died by accident in a rather perverted and disgusting fashion,” said Marsha. “What we want you to do is to recant what is in the paper. Our police aren’t stupid. Neither is our ME. You have no business contradicting them. All it’s done is get people to wondering about Ryan Dance. People have called me. People are saying we are rich and we have railroaded some poor boy.” She stopped and her lips quivered. “And my baby did not die in the same disgraceful way that woman did.”

“I know the circumstances of your daughter’s death and those of Stacy’s death are quite different,” said Diane. “Neither of us is responsible for the reporter saying they were similar. But we do know how Stacy died, and she did not die by her own hand. She was killed somewhere else. Her body was staged in that embarrassing way. It was not her doing.”

“It’s your word against our law enforcement people,” said Marsha. “They are good at what they do. They would not have said it was an accident if there was any evidence it was murder.”

“My husband knows two members of the museum board,” said Wendy. “Thomas Barclay and Madge Stewart. He is going to call them and tell them what you’ve been doing.”

“That’s fine,” said Diane. “Call away. I can’t change my findings. But you need to stop and look at the situation. You seem to be under the impression that it’s easy to get someone out of prison. It isn’t. Nothing in what we have discovered can in any way be used to get Ryan Dance’s sentence overturned, or even reviewed, for that matter. And, certainly, the inaccurate reporting in a newspaper can’t do anything for him.”

“And,” added Kingsley, “it is out of our hands. As you point out, the matter falls under the jurisdiction of the Gainesville police. It’s their investigation now.”

The three of them sat for a moment looking at one another, as if groping for something else to say. Finally they stood up. Marsha Carruthers leaned her hand on Diane’s desk.

“I won’t forget this. Ever. I won’t forget.”

Diane wanted to tell her to spend her energies on her living daughter. She wanted to tell her to do something to keep the good memories of Ellie Rose. She wanted to tell her she was so sorry that this terrible thing happened to her and her family. She didn’t say any of those things. Instead she stood up, and she and Kingsley escorted them out of her office.

As Diane watched them go down the hallway toward the lobby, she wondered whether they would have been such good friends had the tragedy of Ellie Rose not bonded them together. Diane and Kingsley walked back into her office to debrief.

“Something was off. Something happened that they didn’t mention,” said Diane as she sat back down at her desk. “Or was this not strange to you?”

“I got the same impression. It was probably the article. If the Carruthers family have been getting crank calls, it would put them on edge. You know how disturbing such things can be. Especially if you are being called a criminal, and the man who killed your daughter is characterized as an innocent victim,” said Kingsley. “I think Marsha is afraid of everything being in the news again, bringing back the intensity of those raw emotions. She is afraid of reliving the nightmare of her daughter’s death again every day and is fighting those who would revive it.”

“It looks to me as if she already relives it every day,” said Diane.

“Privately,” said Kingsley. “Not publicly. That’s what she dreads. Funny, I was watching them. Marsha and Wendy were inside themselves, completely absorbed. I doubt they could even give a general description of what your office looks like. Kathy Nicholson was the only one of them interested in the things around her-your assistant’s office, your office. While we were getting the chairs, she was looking at your Escher prints, your photographs, the fountain. I got the impression Kathy hadn’t wanted to come. I think she would like to break her bond with the other two.”