anything valuable.’’
Diane gave Garnett copies of the newest reports on the Chris Edwards scene and gave the sheriff the photographs of the Cobber’s Wood skeletons.
‘‘I’ll send you information as it comes in,’’ she said. ‘‘For the sheriff’s case, identifying the victims is the key to the solution. If the crimes are related, then that may shed light on the others.’’
‘‘If not, it’ll have to be the old-fashioned way of interviewing everyone the vics knew,’’ said Garnett. ‘‘I’ve got detectives doing that right now. So far, it looks like Edwards and Mayberry didn’t have an enemy in the world. They were just two recent gradu ates from the forestry department working as timber cruisers. Raymond Waller didn’t have any enemies ei ther. He went to work every day and never got into any trouble. The worst we could find out about him is that he may have given a funeral home or two a heads-up on deaths that came through the morgue.’’
Garnett turned to Diane. ‘‘Do you think it was the killer who called you?’’
‘‘I don’t know. Every time the news shows that in terview with me the day we opened the crime lab, I get all kinds of mail and phone calls from people who don’t like it. It could very well be one of those people with some strange take on justice. However, the flow ers bother me.’’
‘‘Flowers?’’ asked the sheriff.
Diane explained to him about the flowers, the Email and the phone call.
‘‘This changes things a bit. You say you occasionally have this problem from people who see the interview?’’
‘‘None have ever sent flowers before.’’
‘‘The guy who called from the motel on 441 says he sent the flowers, and he also E-mailed you from inside the museum.’’
‘‘I don’t know if the E-mail was the same guy—but the themes of justice and guilt seem to be similar. So it wouldn’t be a stretch thinking it’s the same person.’’
‘‘Then if we watch you, we’re likely to catch the killer,’’ said the sheriff.
‘‘For which crime?’’ asked Garnett.
‘‘Who knows?’’ began the sheriff.
He was interrupted by a detective who stuck his head in the door.
‘‘Chief, we got an emergency call from Dr. Lynn Webber.’’
Chapter 24
Garnett and the sheriff dashed out the door. Diane wanted to go with them, but there was no reason for her presence. She stood in Garnett’s office a moment with a chill in the pit of her stomach. What was going on? She was beginning to feel responsible for not solv ing the murders. Maybe there was something she and her team had missed.
As she started out the door, Janice Warrick ap peared suddenly, blocking her exit. She had on her blue police uniform, her light brown hair pulled back into the same French twist she wore when she was a detective.
‘‘I know you think I blame you,’’ Warrick said, ‘‘and maybe I do a little, but Neva tells me you treat her fairly and take up for her with him.’’ She nodded toward Garnett’s office.
‘‘I try to treat all my employees fairly. Neva does a good job.’’
Janice Warrick stood for a moment, still in front of Diane, hesitating. ‘‘There’s something that’s been bothering me. I’m not usually a cruel person, but I said something cruel to you that had to do with your daughter being adopted—about your picking up strays. It’s weighed on me.’’ She hesitated a moment and Diane thought she might actually get teary. ‘‘I’m sorry about that. I was sorry as soon as I said it.’’ She turned abruptly and walked off before Diane could respond.
Diane left Garnett’s office and wove her way through the squad room. She stopped at the whiteboard a mo ment, looking for anything they might have thought of that she and her team hadn’t. But there was noth ing, no pattern or startling revelation jumping out at her.
On the steps outside the police station, she ran into Kacie Beck. Her blond hair hung in limp sections, and she pushed a lock of it out of her eyes when she saw Diane. Her blue eyes looked bluer, set in her blood shot sclera. She looked at Diane a moment, as if not remembering where she had seen her.
‘‘I was at the crime scene,’’ offered Diane.
‘‘I didn’t kill Chris. If you think I did, you’re letting the real murderer get away.’’
‘‘I don’t think anything. I just worked the crime scene. Can I ask you some questions?’’
‘‘I’ve told the police everything I know. I’m tired and I want to go home.’’
‘‘I can see you need some peace. I just have a few questions.’’
Kacie looked around. ‘‘Shit, I don’t have my car.’’ She dug in her purse and brought out her phone and scowled at the display. ‘‘They let the damn thing run down. The least they could do was turn it off for me.’’
‘‘Let me take you home.’’
‘‘Why not? But you aren’t going to get me to admit to anything I didn’t do.’’
Diane led her to her car, and Kacie got in on the passenger’s side and sat slumped in the corner. She looked even smaller than she did sitting on Chris Ed wards’ couch at the crime scene.
‘‘Buckle your seat belt,’’ said Diane.
‘‘What does it matter? It would at least end it if I went through the windshield.’’
‘‘Maybe not. You might just end up scarred and brain damaged. Besides, if we’re involved in an acci dent, you might flop around inside the car and hurt me.’’
