examined the knots in the rope that bound and strangled Chris Edwards. Of particular interest was the knot tied in the middle of the rope between the clothes bar and Chris Edwards.
‘‘Get good photographs of the knots.’’
‘‘Of course,’’ said David.
‘‘What about the knots?’’ Garnett stepped up be
hind her.
Diane wondered if he had decided to take the lead in the investigation. Janice Warrick hadn’t yet been replaced, and Garnett had stated to the press when he accepted the appointment as chief that he was going to take a hands-on approach.
She handed him a pair of latex gloves and covers for his shoes. He looked at them quizzically for a moment before he slipped them on.
‘‘The rope and knots are different from the ones used with the other victims,’’ said Diane.
‘‘That’s significant?’’
‘‘It is indeed.’’
‘‘Diane is an expert in knots,’’ offered David, snap ping another photograph. ‘‘In that she has had to hang from them herself on many occasions.’’
David was good at keeping conversational tones, treating people like Garnett as if he was one of the team and not an adversary—which was the way Diane saw him.
‘‘Uh, you’ll have to explain that,’’ said Garnett. He gave Diane a sidelong glance.
‘‘I’m a caver,’’ she said. ‘‘I work on rope a lot.’’ Diane sniffed the corpse’s hair. ‘‘Shampoo. He’d just come out of the shower. I take it Miss Beck found the body. Why so late?’’
‘‘She just got off work,’’ said Garnett.
Diane studied the body. Chris Edwards was clad only in briefs, and there were bruises on his face, ab domen and arms. Despite the discoloration of his face resulting from the strangulation, bruises were still evi dent on his right temple and the right side of his jaw, as well as his arms. Dried blood was caked on his nose, down around his mouth and in his hair. He had put up a fight.
‘‘He looks like he was kicked.’’ Garnett pointed out the bruising on his side.
‘‘It looks like it,’’ Diane agreed. ‘‘Who’s going to get the body?’’
‘‘Rankin. He’s our medical examiner. You thinking maybe he should go to Webber because of the connec tion to the other victims?’’
Yes, she wanted Webber to do it. If the cases were related, it would be better if one examiner did them all.
‘‘I think it would be a good idea.’’ When the words were out of her mouth, she wondered if she sounded too curt.
Garnett thought for a moment. ‘‘Webber would make sense, especially if this turns out to be truly connected to the others. However, we don’t need to offend Rankin.’’
Diane could see that Garnett was going to make a political decision, and started to say something, but Whit beat her to it.
‘‘We’ll send them to Dr. Webber.’’
Garnett looked sharply at Whit Abercrombie, as if forgetting for a moment that it was Whit who had the power to make that decision. Whit’s black eyes spar kled as he returned Garnett’s gaze, and his teeth gleamed against the border of his short black beard.
‘‘I’ll talk to Rankin,’’ Whit said. ‘‘I’m sure he won’t mind.’’
Garnett nodded. ‘‘If you have everything under con trol here, I need to see about finding Mr. Mayberry.’’
Diane was glad to see him go. He might be the lead detective, but his presence was like a guest who ar rived uninvited for a dinner party and you didn’t quite know where to put him.
‘‘How did you get mixed up with the Rosewood police?’’ Whit asked when Chief Garnett was safely away. ‘‘Last time I heard, you weren’t on their Christ mas card list.’’
Diane explained the complicated scenario.
‘‘So you got blackmailed into it, and Rosewood got free space for a crime lab.’’
‘‘That’s about the size of it. I have to admit, I rather like it. But I can’t tell the mayor or the chief of detec tives that.’’
Whit laughed. ‘‘I understand. It’s like, ‘Please, Brer Fox, don’t throw me in that briar patch.’ ’’
‘‘Thanks for making the call on Lynn Webber.’’
‘‘It makes sense,’’ said Whit. ‘‘Rankin won’t mind. He’s not as political as the people around him.’’
Lynn Webber arrived with the medical technicians to transport Chris Edwards’ body to the morgue. Diane asked the technicians to wait on the porch while Lynn examined the body and Diane and Jin finished processing a path to the door.
One of the technicians, a white man about twentyfive with brown receding hair and dark blue eyes, asked if it was all right to sit down on one of the porch chairs.
‘‘It’s been dusted,’’ Jin yelled from the living room. ‘‘Might get powder on you.’’
The other, a black man of about thirty, told him he’d best remain standing. ‘‘No telling what you might sit on at a crime scene.’’ The two of them talked to each other about football while they waited.
Lynn twisted the neck and jaw of the corpse, and then moved his arms as far as the rope would allow. ‘‘Whit tells me I have you to thank for this.’’
‘‘I hope you don’t mind. They may be related.’’
