Dead Guilty by Beverly Connor Page A

‘‘Who’s going to
get the body?’’
‘‘Rankin. He’s our medical examiner. You thinking
maybe he should go to Webber because of the connec
tion to the other victims?’’
Yes, she wanted Webber to do it. If the cases were
related, it would be better if one examiner did them
all.
‘‘I think it would be a good idea.’’ When the words
were out of her mouth, she wondered if she sounded
too curt.
Garnett
thought
for
a
moment.
‘‘Webber
would
make
sense,
especially
if
this
turns
out
to
be
truly
connected to the others. However, we don’t need to
offend Rankin.’’
Diane could see that Garnett was going to make a
political
decision,
and
started
to
say
something,
but
Whit beat her to it.
‘‘We’ll send them to Dr. Webber.’’
Garnett looked sharply at Whit Abercrombie, as if
forgetting for a moment that it was Whit who had the
power to make that decision. Whit’s black eyes spar
kled
as
he
returned
Garnett’s
gaze,
and
his
teeth
gleamed against the border of his short black beard.
‘‘I’ll
talk
to
Rankin,’’
Whit
said.
‘‘I’m
sure
he
won’t mind.’’
Garnett nodded. ‘‘If you have everything under con
trol here, I need to see about finding Mr. Mayberry.’’
Diane was glad to see him go. He might be the lead
detective, but his presence was like a guest who ar
rived uninvited for a dinner party and you didn’t quite
know where to put him.
‘‘How
did
you
get
mixed
up
with
the
Rosewood
police?’’ Whit asked when Chief Garnett was safely
away. ‘‘Last time I heard, you weren’t on their Christ
mas card list.’’
Diane explained the complicated scenario.
‘‘So you got blackmailed into it, and Rosewood got
free space for a crime lab.’’
‘‘That’s about the size of it. I have to admit, I rather
like it. But I can’t tell the mayor or the chief of detec
tives that.’’
Whit laughed. ‘‘I understand. It’s like, ‘Please, Brer
Fox, don’t throw me in that briar patch.’ ’’
‘‘Thanks for making the call on Lynn Webber.’’
‘‘It makes sense,’’ said Whit. ‘‘Rankin won’t mind.
He’s not as political as the people around him.’’
    Lynn
Webber arrived with the medical technicians
to
transport
Chris
Edwards’
body
to
the
morgue.
Diane asked the technicians to wait on the porch while
Lynn examined the body and Diane and Jin finished
processing a path to the door.
One of the technicians, a white man about twentyfive
with
brown
receding
hair
and
dark
blue
eyes,
asked
if
it
was
all
right
to
sit
down
on
one
of
the
porch chairs.
    ‘‘It’s
been dusted,’’ Jin yelled from the living room.
‘‘Might get powder on you.’’
The
other,
a
black
man
of
about
thirty,
told
him
he’d best remain standing. ‘‘No telling what you might
sit on at a crime scene.’’ The two of them talked to
each other about football while they waited.
Lynn twisted the neck and jaw of the corpse, and
then moved his arms as far as the rope would allow.
‘‘Whit tells me I have you to thank for this.’’
‘‘I hope you don’t mind. They may be related.’’
‘‘This
looks
different
from
those
in
the
woods,’’
said Lynn.
‘‘But this is one of the men who found the victims
in the woods.’’
Lynn
looked
up
at
Diane
sharply.
‘‘What’s
going
on?’’
‘‘I don’t know.’’
Lynn shook her head, pushed her thermometer into
Chris
Edwards’
liver
and
looked
at
her
watch.
‘‘Ninety-four
point
five.
Rigor’s
.
.
.’’
Lynn
looked
around the room. ‘‘Who’s the detective on the case?’’
‘‘Chief Garnett’s taking the lead,’’ said Diane. ‘‘This
guy’s partner, Steven Mayberry, is missing—the one
who
was
with
him
in
the
woods
when
they
found
the bodies.’’
Lynn’s frown deepened. ‘‘This just gets worse. Any
idea what this is all about?’’
‘‘Maybe
we’ll
find
out
when
Mr.
Mayberry
is
found.’’
Dr. Webber stood up. ‘‘At a