cases broke in both locales.” Kingsley shook his head. “First, do no harm,” he said.
“Remember the guy accused of the Atlanta Olympic bombing? Turns out he was innocent. But just because he had wanted to be a policeman and failed, it looked like he fit a classic profile and was made out to be the perp. His life was turned upside down and just about ruined. Terrible. Anyway, it all just fell apart for me.” He took a sip of coffee. “So here I am.”
“What are you doing now?” asked Diane.
“I work for a detective agency in Atlanta-Darley, Dunn, and Upshaw,” he said.
“I’ve heard of them,” said Diane. “Big firm. They do a lot of client defense work. What do you do? Tear down profiles in court?”
He grinned. “As a matter of fact, I have, but that’s not my goal. What I would like is for profiles to be used as a simple tool, a guideline, and not to drive the case.”
“What brings you here?” asked Diane, staring at the briefcase that Kingsley put his hand on.
“I have a case I’m working on. It’s pro bono. The firm likes to do a few freebies when they can. Makes them look good. It’s a case where I think the police misused profiling techniques we taught them. I was hoping you would help.”
Chapter 10
“This is going to need more coffee,” said Diane. She took their cups and disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a tray of cups of fresh coffee.
Frank had cleaned off the coffee table to make room for the files Kingsley pulled from his briefcase. Diane put the tray on an end table and passed around the fresh cups of still-steaming coffee. Ross Kingsley took a sip, then another one, and Diane had the fleeting impression he was numbing his tongue against the upcoming narrative contained in the folders he’d set on the table.
“This isn’t pleasant,” said Kingsley.
“When you find murder that is pleasant, please come and share it with me,” said Diane. “You are talking about murder, aren’t you?”
“Maybe. That is why I’ve come to you. The firm I work for-although they like and encourage pro bono work, they don’t put the entire staff on it. That’s why I need to consult. How do you feel about pro bono?” he asked, looking up at her with a thin smile.
“I’ve done my share,” said Diane, smiling back.
Kingsley pulled a file off the bottom of the stack and opened it. “I have to start with a murder that took place nine years ago. That’s where the story begins.”
Diane looked down at an eight-by-ten mug shot of a man who looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had straight blond hair and brown eyes. His face was thin. He had a narrow, crooked nose and full lips. He looked frightened.
“This is Ryan Dance. He’s serving a life sentence for the murder nine years ago of Ellie Rose Carruthers. El, as her friends called her, was fifteen years old. She was reported missing on a Saturday. She had been left alone at home in an upper-middle-class neighborhood while the rest of the family visited her grandmother in a nursing home. When the family returned, El was not at home. They called all her friends, drove to all her favorite spots looking for her, and finally called the police. She was discovered two days later when an anonymous caller reported a possible body on the side of the road near I-85. She had been strangled and there was an attempted rape. She apparently fought and was killed before the assailant could complete the rape. At least, that was the analysis.”
Kingsley stopped speaking and took another drink of coffee.
“Who was the anonymous caller?” asked Diane.
Kingsley shook his head. “Don’t know.” He set down his coffee cup and continued the story.
Diane looked at the stack of folders and sensed it was going to be a long one. She stared at the picture of Ryan Dance.
“This is not a cold case. They made an arrest,” said Diane.
“Yes. They found cigarette butts near the body and matched the DNA to Ryan Dance,” said Kingsley.
“He stuck around and smoked cigarettes after he dumped the body?” asked Diane.
“I found that a little odd too, but it was an out-of-the-way place, and God knows, perps do strange things,” he said. “Besides, as I was told, the cigarette butts could have been carried there when he carried the body.”
“Is there more evidence?” asked Diane.
“The police searched his car and found strands of her hair, a button from her dress, and a smear of her blood in the trunk,” Kingsley said.
“Then this was a slam dunk,” said Diane.
“Ryan Dance’s sister, Stacy, didn’t think so. Stacy Dance was fourteen years old when her brother, Ryan, was arrested, tried, and convicted. She always believed him to be innocent. When she turned twenty-one, she started an investigation on her own. Four weeks ago, Stacy Dance, age twenty-three, was found dead in her apartment over her father’s garage. Her father came to see me last week, and that’s why I’m here.” Kingsley closed the file and picked up another one. He started to open it, then stopped. “As I said, it’s not pleasant.” He opened the folder.
“Stacy’s death was ruled an accident by autoerotic asphyxiation. The father believes it was murder. The police won’t listen to him. Understandably, their position is that the father simply does not want to believe his child would do what it appears that she did.”
Kingsley handed the detective’s report, the autopsy report, and the crime scene photo to Diane.
“Most cases of autoerotic asphyxia are male,” commented Diane as she read the police report.
“I know,” said Kingsley. “One thing that attracted me to his case was the profiling. The detective in charge had taken basic profiling courses the FBI offered to local law enforcement departments-I was the instructor. I should be jailed for malpractice.”
Diane glanced up at him. He sounded bitter.
“The detective first suggested that because she was a little overweight, and
“I imagine her father had a reaction to that,” said Frank.
“He did,” said Kingsley. “He pointed out that his daughter had a boyfriend, and many other friends, she was enrolled in the local community college, and she and a couple of her friends had a band. They practiced in his garage. He was sure she was not into anything kinky.”
“What did the detective say about the boyfriend?” said Diane.
“He revised his original ‘profile’ to suggest that since she was a college student and involved in a band, the autoerot ica was probably something kids in her group were trying out. He made it sound like sniffing glue or taking drugs. When his first profile hadn’t panned out, he revised it to fit his conclusion of what happened. First she did it because she was unpopular; then she did it because she was popular.” Ross Kingsley threw up his hands as if in surrender. “Anyway, tell me what you think. I promised Mr. Dance I would look into it. In the space of nine years he has lost both his children. He is a devastated man with no other recourse. He was going to give us his life savings to open an investigation. I talked my bosses into letting me work on it pro bono.”
Diane read the report twice and handed it to Frank when he reached for it. She took a breath and looked at the photograph. It showed a young adult woman, nude, with a rope around her neck. She was in a kneeling position on a bed. One end of the rope was tied to a bedpost and she was leaning forward into the noose. There was a towel half under the rope and half falling out. There were clothespins attached to each of her nipples.
“Her father didn’t find her, did he?” said Diane.
“No. How did you know?” asked Kingsley.
“He wouldn’t have left her this way. No father would, even if it meant disturbing evidence,” said Diane.
“She was found by a friend, who called 911,” said Kingsley.
Diane put down the photograph and picked up the autopsy report. She read it several times, picked up the photograph again, and looked at it. She rose from her stuffed chair and went into the kitchen and came back with a
