magnifying glass.
“Is this the only crime scene photograph?” asked Diane.
“Yes,” said Kingsley. “Have you found something?”
Diane didn’t answer; she continued examining the photograph with the magnifier. After a minute she put the picture and the magnifying glass down on the table.
“There are two things that make me question the finding,” she said. “The first is the knot in the rope. Do you have the rope?”
“That’s right, you do forensic knot analysis,” said Kingsley. “How could I forget that? What about the knot? Oh… no, we don’t have the rope.”
“Anyone who is into this form of self-gratification would use some variation on a slipknot to hold the rope around the neck so that when pressure is released, the rope loosens. This is a granny knot-an incorrectly tied square knot. Granny knots are known for their difficulty in untying. Look at this.” Diane handed the photograph to Kingsley along with the magnifying glass. “The rope is tied tight around her neck. No way did she do this. Frankly, I’m surprised the forensics people didn’t notice it. Did any forensics person work it as a crime scene?”
“No, just the detective assigned to the case,” said Kingsley. “I see it now. Of course. She would never have been able to get out of this. In fact, as tight as the rope was around her neck, she would have passed out before she could even arrange herself in this position. Funny, I never noticed how the rope was tied, and I studied crime scene photographs of autoerotic asphyxia. They contained elements much like this one-accessories to aid in arousal, rope around the neck, a towel to prevent ligature marks… ”
“But that’s the second thing,” said Diane. “She does have ligature marks on her neck.”
“Are you saying… What exactly are you saying?” asked Ross Kingsley.
“Ligature marks are briefly mentioned in the autopsy report, but only that they are present. They are not described in any detail,” said Diane. “But look at the photograph. Look at the marks on the neck where the towel has slipped. See this ligature mark?” She pointed to a clear linear bruise on the victim’s neck and looked up at Kingsley. “It’s an inch lower on the neck than where the tightened rope is cushioned by the towel. If I could see autopsy photos, I believe they would show two ligature marks. One made perimortem, and the other made postmortem.”
“You’re saying she was strangled; then this was staged after her death?” said Kingsley.
“It looks that way. What I believe is the second ligature mark looks very deep and appears to extend under the towel-at least, the mark is deep right up to where the towel covers the neck. The rope should have made a lighter impression on the skin at the edge of the towel.”
“The towel at that point would start to hold the rope off the neck,” said Kingsley.
Diane nodded. “I think this makes the manner of death worth a second look.” Diane looked at the signature of the medical examiner-Oran Doppelmeyer. “I’m not familiar with this medical examiner. Is he new?”
“I believe so,” said Kingsley. “So, does this mean you will help me?”
“You have enough here to get the lead detective to reopen the case,” said Diane. “The father would probably give permission to exhume the body.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure we could do that. But it would be really good for my firm if we could get the credit for solving the case.” He raised his hand when Diane opened her mouth to speak. “I know we will have to hand it off to the police eventually, but I, on behalf of the firm that so graciously hired me, would like to hand the detective a truckload of evidence along with the solution. After all, it’s a closed case and we would not be interfering in an ongoing investigation. Besides, they might botch it up again.”
Frank had been quiet the whole time Kingsley and Diane discussed the case. He eyed Kingsley.
“You think Stacy was killed because of her investigation into her brother Ryan’s murder conviction,” said Frank. “But you’re afraid the detective will ignore that angle and try to hang her death on the boyfriend, or some other friend. You think he’s a man who likes to take shortcuts.”
“You’re pretty good at this profiling thing yourself,” said Kingsley.
“Why do you believe her death is connected with her brother’s case?” asked Frank.
“Because Stacy’s father told me that in her room she kept a thick folder filled with documents, clippings, interviews, and notes on her investigation into the case against her brother. Now the folder, along with all her findings, is missing. It’s too much of a coincidence,” said Ross. “I felt it before. And now, with what you’ve found in the evidence, I’m convinced there is a connection, and her death was no accident.”
Diane was quiet for a moment. She understood what Ross wanted; so did Frank. It wasn’t so much that he wanted credit for his firm. He wanted to control the investigation against people he believed were incompetent to carry it out-or wouldn’t carry it out.
“Is her room still intact?” Diane hoped that Stacy’s father had kept the room as it was.
“Yes,” said Kingsley. “It is. And I’ve got an appointment at the prison for tomorrow to talk with Ryan Dance. I know how you love to visit prisons and would want to get it over with first thing.”
Chapter 11
Diane hated prisons. They were drab, depressing, and they smelled bad. Prisons were places people wanted to leave. The last time she visited someone in prison was when she came to interview Clymene O’Riley, a black widow she had put away. It was more or less an official visit then and, although not pleasant, it was bearable. This time she almost decided to just forget about it and leave. She would have if Ross Kingsley hadn’t been with her.
She filled out the mandatory forms that, among other things, gave the guards permission to search her person and allow the drug dog to sniff her up and down. The papers must also have given them permission to be ill-mannered. The prison personnel probably didn’t like being there either. Once she passed the sniff test, she was allowed to go into the visiting room. Ross went to see the warden on his own mission.
The visiting area wasn’t a bad room. It was painted salmon pink, and she wondered whether the color meant anything-perhaps that it sapped your strength or something, kind of aroma therapy for the eyes. On the back wall was a row of cubicles with telephones. Each cubicle contained a stool screwed to the floor. The communication stalls resembled those small doorless phone booths you used to see everywhere, except for the window in the wall that separated visitors from the prisoner on the other side.
Diane sat down on the stool in cubicle three, as she had been instructed. In a few minutes Ryan Dance came into the room on the other side of the window, sat down, and picked up the phone.
He looked older than the young man in his mug shot. Of course, the photograph was taken nine years ago. He was thirty-one now. He looked older. His once gold-blond hair was now brown, dull, and stringy. His nose looked even more crooked. He had a front tooth missing and prison tats on his arms and fingers.
Diane picked up the phone, introduced herself, and told him she was sorry about his sister.
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
“Your father believes Stacy was murdered because she was getting close to discovering who framed you,” said Diane.
Ryan nodded his head and looked away for a moment. “She is a neat kid-was a neat kid” he said.
Diane saw his eyes sparkle with moisture.
“I told her not to do anything dangerous. Dad doesn’t have anybody now.”
“I’m working with someone your dad hired to find out what happened to her. The police ruled her death an accident,” said Diane.
Ryan’s face transformed into a cruel mask. “I know what they said and they’re full of shit. Stupid bastards. They were stupid then. They’re even stupider now.” He spat out the words as if they were bitter seeds. “She don’t deserve none of this. None of us do.”
More visitors came in and filled the cubicles, and the noise level rose. Most everyone spoke in low voices, but Diane could pick out sniffling, sobbing, whispered anger, and laughing among the low cacophony of sounds. She wanted to finish this, get the hell out, and go home.
“Would you mind telling me what you think put you here?” said Diane. “From your point of view.”
He was quiet for a moment and his face went back to the emotionless mask it had been before she’d
