Dead Past by Beverly Connor Page A

the seal on the evidence bags. . . .”
    “Listen, you can’t tell me how to run my investigation. I need to see what they’re finding.”
    Diane’s flush was now a full-fledged burn. “They’re recovering what’s left of the human victims of this fire, and they’re doing it by strict protocol. We have serious chain of custody and contamination concerns here. This is not the time or place to examine sensitive evidence.”
    “People want answers fast. The slow way you and your people work won’t do.”
    “Forensic analysis and identification of human remains is an exacting process with the most profound legal and personal consequences. It takes the time that it takes. And my people are the best in the business.”
    McNair gave her a dismissive snort and a snide smirk. Diane had an almost irresistible urge to hit him right in the middle of his smirky mouth.
    “What do you propose we do?” she said. “Give a hasty identification of someone’s child on the basis of a nose ring or a belly piercing?”
    McNair glared at her. She fully expected him to yell at her or say something like, “You’re not my boss,” but he was silent for several beats.
    “Why don’t we compromise on this?” she said. “Why don’t you set up an examination table inside the morgue tent where chain of custody can be maintained and the dangers of evidence contamination can be controlled?”
    “That’s probably a good idea,” he said.
    Diane thought she would fall over. He had admitted she had a good idea? Maybe he was trying to make nice after all. She glanced over to the end of the road where there seemed to always be a crowd.
    “Is that mostly journalists, onlookers, or loved ones?” she asked.
    He shrugged. “All of the above, and they’re all looking at us. They want to know exactly what happened—and they want to know yesterday.”
    He walked past her to the site and immediately got on his cell phone. Maybe he was taking her advice, she thought. She hated adding another table to the already crowded morgue tent, but it was better than fighting over the evidence.
    Diane walked to the hospitality tent. The sleet was turning into snow. The weather hadn’t chased away the onlookers. Inside the tent was warm, mainly due to the number of people in it. Several men and women were gathered around the police intake desk, all trying to talk at once. More people stood by the long table of refreshments, drinking coffee and eating cookies. Brewster Pilgrim sat by himself in the corner, sipping from a Styrofoam cup. He nodded when he saw Diane.
    She worked her way around to the table where the coffee was being served. A slender woman with short brown hair sprinkled with gray and wearing an apron handed her a cup of coffee and a napkin. Behind the table were Diane’s neighbors Leslie and Shane. Leslie was putting out a fresh box of doughnuts, and her husband was pouring coffee. They looked up and smiled when they saw Diane.
    “Aunt Jere,” Leslie said to the woman. “This is my neighbor, Diane Fallon. Diane, this is my aunt, Jere Bowden.”
    Diane smiled and nodded. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. “Leslie and Shane are the ones who warned me of the danger from the explosion.”
    “Well, we’ve always taught our children to care about others.” Mrs. Bowden smiled and handed Diane a chocolate-covered doughnut.
    “Were you able to get hold of the guy who lives in the basement?” asked Leslie. “Who is he?”
    “A professor of history. Thin man, looks like he wears Goodwill clothes,” said Diane.
    “We thought he was a homeless guy the landlady fed. I’ve seen her give him bags of food.”
    “That’s old bread from her nephew’s bakery. Keith, that’s his name, likes to feed the ducks in the park.”
    “Oh!” Leslie’s face suddenly registered uncertainty. “Sometimes I leave a sack with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an apple along with her sacks.”
    Diane smiled and Leslie’s husband laughed.
    “He