Beverly Connor - One Grave Too Many

“Do you know who was on duty last night?”

“Leonard and that new kid, the skinny one with the red hair.”

“Bernie,” said Korey. “He’s the one scared of the skeletons in the primate room.”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

Oh, great, thought Diane.

Diane examined the lock on the second-floor lab door. It indeed had tool marks all over the brass plating. However, any tool the size of a screwdriver or larger would have gotten them into the room. Her guess was that they got in with a key.

Inside she was greeted by a sullen group of Korey’s assistants, who stood in the middle of the room with their arms folded, angry that someone had violated their space and was now keeping them from their work. The room was in disarray-mostly open drawers and cabinets, supplies pulled out and dumped on the floor, equipment moved. A box of latex gloves lay with its contents scattered across the floor, along with packages of photographic paper, pens, exhibit forms. It looked to be mostly a mess, with no real destruction.

“Any damage?” she asked.

“I haven’t tested all the equipment, but I think it’s all right,” said Korey.

“What about the vault?” Diane walked to the back of the room to the environmentally-controlled storage vault. Someone had pried at the handle, marked up the door jam, but it appeared that they were unsuccessful in gaining entry. Only she and Korey had a key to the vault.

“Someone was looking for something.” Diane glanced around the room.

“It doesn’t look like they found it. I checked the vault,” said Korey. “They didn’t get in.”

As she walked around the room looking at what the intruder had done, her gaze stopped on one of the worktables. A handprint was visible on its polished surface-or rather the terminal and intermediate phalanges of four fingers, as if someone had gripped the tabletop and squatted down to pull out the drawer.

“Does this belong to any of you?”

They all came over to look, but all shook their heads.

“I doubt it,” said one of the assistants. “The last thing we all do is clean the surfaces before we leave.”

Korey nodded in agreement.

“Don’t we have a fingerprint kit in the security office? Would you mind getting it for me?”

The security guard nodded and left. Diane turned to Korey.

“I wonder what they were after.”

“I’ve no idea. Most of the really valuable stuff is in the exhibits.”

“Was anyone working late last night?”

“Barbara and I were here until nine. Nothing strange happened, no strangers hanging around.”

“How about people who weren’t strangers?”

“No. It was pretty quiet. Bernie came in and looked around on his rounds, but that’s all. That was a little after eight, I guess.”

Chanell Napier came back with a black carrying case about the size of a small suitcase. “I called the police while I was down there.”

“Good.” Diane set the case on a stool, opened it, and began searching through the materials for the things she needed.

“Shouldn’t the police be doing that?” asked one of Korey’s assistants.

“They won’t,” answered another assistant, before Diane could say anything. “My dad’s house was robbed a year ago. They took the television, Mom’s jewelry, and my brother’s computer. The police told them they probably wouldn’t get any of their stuff back. They didn’t even look for fingerprints or canvas the neighborhood.”

“I thought they always tested for fingerprints,” said the first assistant.

“No. And Dad was really pissed. When this fracas with the city council and the mayor started, he wrote letters to the editor about how sloppy the police were. If they won’t take fingerprints for a burglary, they sure won’t when nothing was stolen.”

As they spoke with each other, Diane examined the print on the table, determining which of the various methods of obtaining a good impression would be best. She closed the case and asked Korey to bring her a camera.

“You’re not going to take it after all?” The guard sounded disappointed.

“I think the best method will be to photograph it and enhance the photo. Check the trash for any latex gloves that might have been thrown away. Whoever made this had on gloves.”

“Then you can’t get a print anyway,” said an assistant.

“For any of you contemplating a life of crime,” said Diane, taking the camera and tripod Korey handed her, “I’ll tell you a little secret. Surgical gloves fit like a second skin. Fingerprints can show through them.”

Diane mounted the camera on the tripod Korey set up, set it for greatest depth of field and took several shots. “Korey, can you get that light and shine it under this ledge? If I’m not mistaken, there should be a thumbprint.”

She and Korey looked under the edge of the table, but saw nothing.

“Nothing visible,” said Diane. “You have a UV light, don’t you?”

“Yeah, for detecting microorganisms,” answered Korey.

“There’s one in the fingerprint kit,” said the security guard. “In the leather pouch.” She pulled out the pouch and retrieved the light. “Battery operated.” Diane looked at her. “I went through the kit.”

Diane laughed as she reached for the orange goggles. “Okay, you guys without goggles step back.” She turned on the light and looked under the table. There it was: a large thumbprint-faint, but she could enhance it.

“We don’t have any of that superglue stuff,” said Chanell.

“Cyanoacrylate. I guess we’re going to have to make sure we have a better supplied security office.” Diane grinned at her. “I’ll use powder. I think that should do.”

“Were you a crime-scene expert in another life?” asked one of Korey’s assistants.

“Forensic anthropologist,” Korey answered for her.

“Cool.”

“Where I worked, it was a good idea to learn everything,” Diane said.

She chose a magnetic powder and brush from the case. Holding a piece of paper under the table edge to catch the powder that fell, she dusted the print and removed the excess with a magnet. It was faint, but usable. Diane lifted it with tape, which she placed on a backing card.

Just as she finished, the door to the conservation lab opened and Andie came in with two policemen and another man in a gray suit, matching hair and a sour expression.

The mayor, Diane thought. She wondered why a little break-in at the museum rated the mayor’s assistance.

One of the policemen was Izzy Wallace, whom she’d met the evening before. The other one she had caught a glimpse of on the porch when he came with Izzy to the Boone house.

Diane had an uneasy feeling in her gut, but didn’t know why. Something about Izzy’s demeanor the previous evening and the mayor’s expression now.

“Will you develop this, Korey?” Diane handed him the camera and slipped the fingerprint card in the pocket of her blazer. “Chanell, take the fingerprint kit back to the office, please.”

“Sure, Dr. Fallon.”

Diane washed her hands at the sink and turned to greet the police. “Thanks for coming.” She held out her hand.

“Nice to see you again,” said Izzy, giving her hand a firm shake.

“How’s your guest?” asked Diane.

“Not a happy camper, but at least he’s tucked away safe and sound.”

Izzy was courteous, but not friendly. She turned to the mayor.

“Mayor Sutton, nice of you to come visit the museum,” she said, taking his offered hand. His handshake was a little too hard to be polite. He’d have to work on it if he wanted to campaign for governor.

“I thought it would be a good time to meet you,” the mayor said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be at your. . event the other evening. Pressing matters. But perhaps we can talk now, privately.”