“We need to talk,” said Diane. Not a good opening, but she wasn’t feeling diplomatic.
“
“Don’t break the seal on the evidence bags… ”
“Listen, you can’t tell me how to run my investigation. I need to see what they’re finding.”
Diane’s flush was now a full-fledged burn. “They’re recovering what’s left of the human victims of this fire, and they’re doing it by strict protocol. We have serious chain of custody and contamination concerns here. This is not the time or place to examine sensitive evidence.”
“People want answers fast. The slow way you and your people work won’t do.”
“Forensic analysis and identification of human remains is an exacting process with the most profound legal and personal consequences. It takes the time that it takes. And my people are the best in the business.”
McNair gave her a dismissive snort and a snide smirk. Diane had an almost irresistible urge to hit him right in the middle of his smirky mouth.
“What do you propose we do?” she said. “Give a hasty identification of someone’s child on the basis of a nose ring or a belly piercing?”
McNair glared at her. She fully expected him to yell at her or say something like, “You’re not my boss,” but he was silent for several beats.
“Why don’t we compromise on this?” she said. “Why don’t you set up an examination table inside the morgue tent where chain of custody can be maintained and the dangers of evidence contamination can be controlled?”
“That’s probably a good idea,” he said.
Diane thought she would fall over. He had admitted she had a good idea? Maybe he was trying to make nice after all. She glanced over to the end of the road where there seemed to always be a crowd.
“Is that mostly journalists, onlookers, or loved ones?” she asked.
He shrugged. “All of the above, and they’re all looking at us. They want to know exactly what happened-and they want to know yesterday.”
He walked past her to the site and immediately got on his cell phone. Maybe he was taking her advice, she thought. She hated adding another table to the already crowded morgue tent, but it was better than fighting over the evidence.
Diane walked to the hospitality tent. The sleet was turning into snow. The weather hadn’t chased away the onlookers. Inside the tent was warm, mainly due to the number of people in it. Several men and women were gathered around the police intake desk, all trying to talk at once. More people stood by the long table of refreshments, drinking coffee and eating cookies. Brewster Pilgrim sat by himself in the corner, sipping from a Styrofoam cup. He nodded when he saw Diane.
She worked her way around to the table where the coffee was being served. A slender woman with short brown hair sprinkled with gray and wearing an apron handed her a cup of coffee and a napkin. Behind the table were Diane’s neighbors Leslie and Shane. Leslie was putting out a fresh box of doughnuts, and her husband was pouring coffee. They looked up and smiled when they saw Diane.
“Aunt Jere,” Leslie said to the woman. “This is my neighbor, Diane Fallon. Diane, this is my aunt, Jere Bowden.”
Diane smiled and nodded. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. “Leslie and Shane are the ones who warned me of the danger from the explosion.”
“Well, we’ve always taught our children to care about others.” Mrs. Bowden smiled and handed Diane a chocolate-covered doughnut.
“Were you able to get hold of the guy who lives in the basement?” asked Leslie. “Who is he?”
“A professor of history. Thin man, looks like he wears Goodwill clothes,” said Diane.
“We thought he was a homeless guy the landlady fed. I’ve seen her give him bags of food.”
“That’s old bread from her nephew’s bakery. Keith, that’s his name, likes to feed the ducks in the park.”
“Oh!” Leslie’s face suddenly registered uncertainty. “Sometimes I leave a sack with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an apple along with her sacks.”
Diane smiled and Leslie’s husband laughed.
“He must be mystified as to why the landlady sometimes packs a lunch for the ducks,” he said.
Leslie grinned and looked embarrassed. Her aunt put an arm around her shoulder.
“He probably just thinks the landlady is looking out after him,” she said.
“That is a very kind thing to do,” said Diane.
Leslie’s smile faded. “Diane is identifying some of the-you know.”
“Oh… you do need a break, dear,” said Mrs. Bowden. “Why don’t you find a quiet corner to sit awhile and rest? Maybe with Dr. Pilgrim over there. We’ll bring you some fresh coffee when you want it.”
“We have hot chocolate, too,” said Leslie. “And marshmallows.”
“That would be nice,” said Diane.
“We’ll bring you some when you finish your coffee,” said her aunt.
Diane took a sip of coffee just as someone carrying a tray containing extra cups and paper plates came into the tent, almost running into her.
“Sorry, oh, Dr. Fallon…”
It was Juliet Price, one of Diane’s museum employees. Juliet stopped abruptly, almost spilling her load of supplies. Her blond hair came loose from its clip and fell in her face. She looked wide-eyed at Diane as if she’d been caught at something.
“I… I took vacation time to help in the tent… ”
“That’s very good of you, Dr. Price,” said Diane. “I appreciate what you’re doing here. It’s a big help.” Diane used Juliet’s title, hoping to make her feel less like a kid playing hooky from school.
Juliet was extremely, pathologically, shy. She was actually underemployed at the museum, working below her qualifications, but her job allowed her to work by herself, and Juliet preferred working alone. She had even turned down a promotion when Diane offered her the more responsible position of collection manager. From the look of fear that had been on Juliet’s face at the prospect of the new job duties, Diane might just as well have told her the police were coming to arrest her.
Working in the hospitality tent with all its face-to-face interaction was a bold step of courage for Juliet. As she carried her tray of supplies to the table she nodded, and Diane thought she saw a wisp of a smile from her.
As Diane started in Brewster Pilgrim’s direction with her steaming cup of coffee, someone laid a hand on her arm.
“Did I hear someone say you are identifying the… the students in the house?” The woman looked at Diane with wide blue, red-rimmed eyes. Her honey blond hair was limp and simply combed back. She wore a running suit that Diane knew to be expensive and running shoes that cost at least two hundred dollars. A mother of one of the students, Diane knew immediately.
“Yes.” Diane gave her a weak smile. She wished she could say, “No, I have nothing to do with this”-especially when looking into a parent’s sad eyes.
The woman thrust a folder into Diane’s hands. “These are pictures of my daughter. Please tell me if you’ve seen her.” She opened the folder and all but shoved it into Diane’s face.
“The police have a place set up over there”-Diane gestured toward the intake desk-“to bring pictures and…” She trailed off, not wanting to say samples of DNA. Nor did she want to say the truth-that no one was recognizable.
Diane unconsciously backed up as she looked down at the picture of a beautiful young woman of fair complexion and long blond hair with a gentle wave held back from her face with a blue clip. An electric shock rippled through her and she tried not to let her face reveal anything. After all, there was no way to visually identify a person by a lock of hair… but it looked so much like the lock that had been on her table. Diane stepped back half a step. She was now up against the table.
“They won’t tell me anything… please…”
The woman flipped through the pictures of her daughter, showing them to Diane-confirmation, ballet, prom, graduation. A life in an instant. Diane wanted to cry.
“I know waiting is painful. The process is slow… We are working as quickly as we can. As soon as we know
