“You didn’t answer my question about how you found her in the first place. I need you to back up and tell me what you were doing alone in these woods at the crack of dawn.”
Faye, who considered herself even-tempered in the extreme, wasn’t quite able to keep the edge from her voice as she said, “I could answer your questions if you stopped interrupting me.”
This was his cue to apologize. He did not. He gestured at the parkland around them—trees, creek, wildflowers, tall grass. “Why were you out here before sunup?”
“I’m doing a cultural resources survey. For the state.”
He looked at her blankly, so she tried again.
“I’m an archaeologist with a state contract.”
Faye looked around her and realized that she had nothing to prove she was who she said she was. No identification, because her purse was locked in the trunk of her car. No proof that she was a respected professional who was currently in the employ of Tennessee’s state government. No piece of paper stating that she held a doctorate. No tools to support her statement that she had arrived early to prepare for her crew’s arrival. Nothing, not even the trowel she’d left at the bottom of the bluff when she heard the moaning of a woman buried alive.
When she realized that she had nothing but the clothes on her back and her brown skin, she stopped being irritated and began being afraid. It became imperative that she convince this man that she was no threat to him or to anybody else.
“I have the state contract in my car that will explain everything. It’s got contact information for their archaeologist. Ordinarily, he’d be on-site, but we’re just getting started. He’ll be here Monday.”
And then, despite him saying, more than once, “This isn’t necessary,” she led him down to the creek. On its bank, she bent down to retrieve her trowel, then she pointed out the first load of equipment that she’d brought with her from the car, intending to go back and fetch the rest.
He tried to tell her that he was satisfied with her story, but he ended up saying it to her back, because she wasn’t finished. Trowel in hand, she strode across the creek. He followed.
When they reached her car, she reached deep into her right pants pocket to retrieve her car keys. A small object, hard and metal, brushed her hand and it scared her. The object was nothing new. She’d owned it since her teens, when her grandmother gave it to her. And it wasn’t particularly scary, despite its sharp blade. It was just a pocketknife that she carried because it was handy to have while working in the field. When faced with a law officer who seemed to dislike her for no reason, she felt the urge to shove the knife down further in her pocket, where he could never see it, so she did just that.
Easing her keys out of pocket, she left the hidden pocketknife right where it was, and she unlocked her trunk. In it were an array of digging tools that supported her claim to be an archaeologist. Unfortunately, they also would have been useful to anyone needing to bury an assault victim, so they scared her as much as the pocketknife did.
Reaching past them into the far right corner of the trunk, she pulled out a bankers’ box full of files. “See? Here’s my contract for a cultural resources survey to be done in this part of the park. And here’s my correspondence with the state’s contracting agent, including the project schedule.”
He wasn’t looking at the contract, so she took it out of its folder and thrust it under his nose. There were still traces of crusted dirt and blood on the hand holding the folder, and her forearms weren’t any better. The alcohol wipes the paramedics had given her hadn’t done much more than spread the filth around. She did think she’d gotten her face pretty clean, because she’d spent a lot of time scrubbing it. God bless the man who had reached in the ambulance’s glove compartment and pulled out an undershirt, still in its package, which she guessed he kept there for occasions like this. It didn’t fit well, but it allowed her to shed her own dirty shirt, so she was grateful.
She knew there was still wet dirt in her short, straight black hair. Her fingertips were abraded and raw, and there was more mud under them. The too-big undershirt gapped at the armholes, so she instinctively held both arms crossed across her breasts in protection. Faye knew that her body was covered decently, although just barely, but Detective McDaniel stirred up every defense she had. His smooth, bland face gave her no sense that he felt any compassion for her, a witness who was literally smeared with bloody horror.
She was so rattled that she’d begun babbling. “Look here,” she pointed to the project calendar. “My crew is due to arrive at nine. Doesn’t it make sense that I might want to get here early this morning, so that I can be ready for them?”
“It’s what I would do.”
There was a shred of grace to his “It’s what I would do.” It broke a barrier between them. It suggested that they were conscientious people who thought alike. It made her bold enough to ask the question that fully occupied her mind.
“Am I a suspect?” A warm breeze stroked her shoulder, and she crossed her arms tighter.
“There is no reason to suspect you at this juncture. Killers around these parts don’t generally bury people alive, then dig them up and call 911. And then do CPR. I won’t say that’s never ever happened anywhere, but our killings in south Memphis aren’t usually that complicated. Besides, you showed me your work truck full of tools and your file box full of contracts saying that the state hired you to be here. You’re no suspect. I thank
