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rope here, and...’’
The rope had been covered in leaves and lay in a loose tangle on the ground. It was hemp, like the death ropes, had no knots and showed signs of chafing in several places.
‘‘This is good,’’ said Diane. ‘‘The killer might have dropped it. Take a picture of it, do a sketch, but let me take it up.’’
‘‘Sure.’’
‘‘When you sketch it, take note of how the rope crosses itself.’’
Neva nodded. ‘‘David and Jin said you do forensic knot analysis. I’ve never heard of that.’’
‘‘It comes in handy. It’s amazing how many you run across in criminal investigations.’’
‘‘Can you really find out anything from knots?’’
‘‘You can make some good guesses about the per son who tied them. How good he is at tying knots, perhaps what kind of job or hobby he’s had.’’
‘‘I always thought a knot was a knot.’’
‘‘Oh, no, there’s a specific knot for every purpose. Some are commonly used, and some are rare.’’
‘‘This rope doesn’t have any knots in it. Will you be able to tell anything from it?’’
‘‘I doubt it, but you never know. There might be bloodstains or fibers on it that’ll give us information. If we’re lucky, we might be able to find out where it came from. It’s a good find.’’
Neva nodded. ‘‘I was afraid it might be just trash.’’
‘‘There’s no such thing as ‘just trash’ at a crime scene.’’
After Neva photographed the rope, she lay a grid over it and began drawing a sketch of it onto the graph paper.
Diane stepped out of the crime scene and walked around the perimeter toward David. She noticed that Neva occasionally cast nervous glances in her direc tion. Neva was a friend of Janice Warrick. Warrick’s mishandling of the Boone family crime scene had re sulted in her demotion in the Rosewood police depart ment, a demotion that was blamed on Diane by almost everyone in the department.
‘‘How’s it going?’’ she asked David.
‘‘We’re ready to take them down.’’
He stood in the cleared area under the corpses, looking like he was about to be hanged himself. Diane understood. She hated this part—placing once living people into body bags.

Chapter 5
    The only other time Diane had been in a hot autopsy room was in the South American jungle. Dr. Lynn Webber’s lab in the regional medical center was sti fling. The smell of death weighed over the room like a heavy blanket of rotting flesh. The metal tables, white glass-door cabinets, appliances and tools that went so well with the usual chill of the autopsy room looked out of place and dreadful here. Diane wanted to back out of the overwhelming stench and heat and go someplace else.
    Through a window on the opposite side of the main lab Diane could see the isolation room designed for the autopsy of badly decomposed and infectious bod ies. The diener, servant to the dead, stood by a table occupied by one of the hanging victims—extended on a shiny metal table, neck curved around the torso so that the head sat beside the shoulder.
    Lynn was in her office on the phone, the door open. Her voice carried out to the autopsy room.
‘‘I asked you two days ago to come fix the air condi tioner.’’ Pause. ‘‘I don’t care if it’s the vents, not the unit. The temperature is too high in here. I have dead bodies rotting on my tables. No amount of lemon juice is ever going to get the smell out of my hair.’’
Lynn tapped a pencil on a pad of paper as she lis tened. ‘‘I don’t care if both your ankles are sprained. A man your age has got no business being on Roll erblades. Let me remind you that I’m a woman who knows how to kill and leave no evidence to show up in the autopsy. I want this problem fixed, and I don’t mean tomorrow.’’
She hung up the phone and walked out into the lab. ‘‘I hate to talk to maintenance men. It’s like talking to a blackmailer. They know they’ve got you by the balls.’’
She motioned toward suits of