The man stood up and marched over to the policeman. The boy just smirked and looked on. Not a nice kid, Diane thought, but she had come to that conclusion much earlier when he held his gun on her.
“When I find out who that stupid bitch is who accused him of trying to hijack her car, there’ll be hell for her to pay, and you’ll pay it with her for that smart mouth.”
“Yeah, yeah, they all say that right before I turn the key and lock their cell. Look mister, I don’t care who you are or who you know. You take one more step toward me with that attitude and you are going to be under arrest along with your son.”
“What is your badge number?” The father balled his fist by his side, but didn’t take another step toward the officer.
“It’s on my badge here.” He pointed to it pinned to his shirt. “I assume a man of your standing can read numbers.”
Diane thought he was laying it on a little too thick. It would have been her advice to keep a professional attitude. But he must have had to listen to these folks smart off to him ever since they arrived. She decided that this was not a good shortcut to take. She started to retreat when the kid recognized her. She was shocked; she didn’t think he could possibly remember her face, given the condition he was in.
“That’s her. The director of the museum here in Rosewood,” he said.
Suddenly Diane had two angry people bearing down on her. She really didn’t have time for this.
Chapter 12
Diane held her ground as she watched the two angry people coming toward her.
“Stop right there,” she said when they approached her comfort zone. “If you come any closer I’ll call the police. Speaking to me personally is inappropriate under the circumstances.”
They took several steps forward before stopping, Diane guessed to show that she couldn’t tell them what to do.
“So you’re the lying bitch who got our son in trouble,” the mother shouted at her. They now had the attention of all the patients and visitors in the sunroom. “Look at him, he’s maimed for life, and he’s not receiving the sympathy he deserves because your lies have the police believing he had something to do with the explosion. He’s the victim here.”
Diane didn’t say anything. She merely folded her arms across her chest and let them talk.
“Blake told us how you lured him into your car.” The father said this as if it were some brilliant piece of evidence he had uncovered against Diane.
The kid’s eyes glittered with excitement. Diane was willing to bet he was used to this-setting his parents off against people, or each other, then sitting back to watch the fireworks. A disturbed kid with clueless parents who apparently had more money than sense. Diane said nothing.
“He was asking for help, damn you. You know he found that gun in your car. It was your damn gun, yours. He didn’t have it until you lured him into your car. He was just trying to break the window to get out. How dare you accuse him of trying to hijack your car.” His mother was speaking through gritted teeth now and her voice was a low growl.
“So you are the director of the museum,” his father said when his wife ran out of breath. “I hope you aren’t too attached to your job. I know several members of the board and I serve on three charity organizations with Vanessa Van Ross.”
Diane watched as her silence irritated them. The mother’s eyes were dark slits, her mouth turned down in a deep frown. The father’s mouth was a thin straight line. His dark eyes were full of malice.
“Well, what have you got to say for yourself?” his mother said. Diane expected her to stamp her foot.
“Nothing,” said Diane. “I have said everything to the police. Anything else I’ll say in court.” She turned her back and walked out the door.
“Don’t you turn your back on us,” screeched his mother, so loud that Diane was sure she cracked the windowpanes.
Diane continued walking down the hallway, but soon heard high-heeled footfalls behind her. The woman was following her! Diane didn’t know why this astonished her. She stopped and turned.
Before Diane could say anything, the woman came at her with long red fingernails on hands formed into claws. Diane dodged, but was hit with a fist in the shoulder and knocked flat against the wall. Before she could take more evasive action, the policeman who had been guarding the son was putting cuffs on the mother.
“What the hell are you doing, you oaf! You can’t do this!”
“Let go of my wife. I’ll sue you, the police department, and the city. Get those handcuffs off her.”
Through all the yelling, Diane could hear the policeman reading the woman her rights. By the time he finished, not only were several hospital staff gathered at the scene, but hospital security had shown up, along with another policeman.
“What are you arresting me for? You stupid jerk,” she spat at him.
“Attacking Dr. Fallon here.”
“I didn’t attack her. She attacked my son.”
“Lady, I saw you hit her. She’s not just the director of the museum, she’s the director of the crime lab, and that makes her a member of the Rosewood police department. So you just struck an officer to boot, and I’m taking you to jail. You can call a lawyer from there.”
“We didn’t know she was a police officer,” said her husband.
“Sir,” said the policeman, “is it your belief that it’s OK to assault private citizens who are not police officers?” He turned to the other policeman. “Jackson, go watch that Stanton kid. Make sure he hasn’t run off. I’ll be back after I book Mrs. Stanton.”
“You aren’t going through with this,” said Mr. Stanton. “This is ridiculous.”
“Louis, do something,” she said. “Pay the man or something.”
“Now, you wouldn’t be trying to bribe me, ma’am,” said the policeman who Diane now remembered was Mickey Varner. “I’d hate to be adding charges.”
Mickey looked over his shoulder at Mr. Stanton. “You can see her down at the station.”
He hauled her off, protesting all the way. Diane wouldn’t be surprised if by the time they got to the police station, resisting arrest would be added to the charges.
The son, Blake Stanton, was standing in the doorway, looking at Diane with black hatred. She suspected that this was not the fireworks he had anticipated.
Before going into the morgue tent, Diane walked across the adjoining yard to the crime scene to see how David and Neva were doing. The sky was overcast with gray-white clouds, and the temperature was below freezing. She could see her breath every time she exhaled. Diane thought she heard on the radio that the forecast was for another ice storm this evening. It must be really hard living in Siberia, she thought as she trudged through the show. But from her experience she knew that as hard as it was working in the cold, working in the heat would be worse. The cold mutes the smell-though it’s still bad enough.
Between her crew and McNair’s arson team, they had made significant progress clearing away debris. In over half the area she could see the burned floor where piles of charred rubble had been before. David and Neva met her as she approached.
“How’s McNair acting?” asked Diane in a low voice.
“About the same,” said David. “The talk you gave him didn’t do a bit of good. He’s still looking in the evidence bags. I tell you what I’d like to do…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“David, did you happen to take pictures of him tampering with the seals on the bags?”
