Dead Past by Beverly Connor Page A

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?”
    David stared, frowning at her for several moments. “Diane, it worries me when someone knows me that