The Face of Death by Cody McFadyen Page B

he wrote it in Sarah’s bedroom, don’t you think?” Callie asks.
    “Yeah, yeah, puzzle puzzle cauldron bubble,” Barry grumbles. “Why can’t they ever write anything useful. Like: ‘Hi, my name is John Smith, you can find me at 222 Oak Street. I confess.’”
    The second reason for Callie’s “wow” can be found in the décor. The memory of standing in Alexa’s room earlier today comes to me by comparison. Sarah’s room is about as far from froufrou girly-girl as you can get.
    The carpet is black. The drapes on the windows are black and they’re pulled shut. The bed, a queen-sized four-poster, isn’t black—but the pillowcases, sheets, and comforter on it are. It all contrasts with the white of the walls.
    The room itself is a good-sized room for a child. It’s about half as big as the standard-sized “kids’ room” in most homes, perhaps ten by fifteen. Even with the large bed, a dresser, a small computer desk, a bookshelf, and an end table with drawers next to the bed, space remains in the center of the room to move around in. The extra space doesn’t help. The room feels stark and isolated.
    “I’m no expert,” Barry says, “but it looks to me like this kid has problems. And I’m not just talking about a bunch of dead people in her house.”
    I examine the wooden end table next to the bed. It’s about the height and width of a barstool. A black alarm clock sits on top of it. Its three small drawers are what interest me the most.
    “Can we get someone in here to fingerprint this?” I ask Barry. “Now, I mean?”
    He shrugs. “I guess. Why?”
    I relate the end of my conversation with Sarah. When I finish, Barry looks uncomfortable.
    “You shouldn’t have made that promise, Smoky,” he says. “I can’t let you take the diary. Period. You
know
that.”
    I look at him, startled. He’s right, I do know it. It goes against the chain of evidence, and at least a dozen other forensic rules, the violation of which would probably send John Simmons into some kind of apoplectic seizure.
    “Let’s get Johnny up here,” Callie says. “I have an idea on how to handle this.”

    Simmons looks around Sarah Kingsley’s bedroom. “So, Calpurnia. Explain to me what it is you’re trying to accomplish here.”
    “Obviously, Johnny, Smoky can’t take the diary. My idea was to make a copy via photographs of each page.”
    “You want my photographer to spend time—now—taking a picture of every page in the girl’s diary?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why should I give this a particular priority?”
    “Because you can, honey-love, and because it’s necessary.”
    “Fine, then,” he says, turning away and heading toward the door. “I’ll send Dan up.”
    I stare after him, bemused at his instantaneous and complete capitulation.
    “How was that so easy?” Barry asks.
    “The magic word was ‘necessary,’” Callie says. “Johnny won’t tolerate wasted motion on his crime scene. But if something is needed from his team to clear a case, he’ll work them for days.” She gives us a wry smile. “I speak from experience.”

    The diary is black, of course. Smooth black leather and small. It’s not masculine or feminine. It’s functional.
    Blushing Dan the Photographer Man is here, camera ready.
    “What we want is an image of each page, in sequence, large enough to be printed out on letter-sized paper and read.”
    Dan nods. “You want to photocopy the diary with the camera.”
    “Exactly right,” Callie says.
    Dan blushes, again. He coughs. This proximity to Callie seems to be overwhelming him. “No—uh—problem,” he manages to stammer out. “I have a spare one gigabyte memory card I can use and let you take with you.”
    “All we need then, is someone to prop it open.” She holds up her hands, showing the surgical gloves she’s already slipped on. “That would be me.”

    Dan calms down once he’s back and safe behind his camera lens. Barry and I watch as he shoots. The room is quiet,