Dust to Dust

“You are talking about murder, aren’t you?”
    “Maybe. That is why I’ve come to you. The firm I work for—although they like and encourage pro bono work, they don’t put the entire staff on it. That’s why I need to consult. How do you feel about pro bono?” he asked, looking up at her with a thin smile.
    “I’ve done my share,” said Diane, smiling back.
    Kingsley pulled a file off the bottom of the stack and opened it. “I have to start with a murder that took place nine years ago. That’s where the story begins.”
    Diane looked down at an eight-by-ten mug shot of a man who looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had straight blond hair and brown eyes. His face was thin. He had a narrow, crooked nose and full lips. He looked frightened.
    “This is Ryan Dance. He’s serving a life sentence for the murder nine years ago of Ellie Rose Carruthers. El, as her friends called her, was fifteen years old. She was reported missing on a Saturday. She had been left alone at home in an upper-middle-class neighborhood while the rest of the family visited her grandmother in a nursing home. When the family returned, El was not at home. They called all her friends, drove to all her favorite spots looking for her, and finally called the police. She was discovered two days later when an anonymous caller reported a possible body on the side of the road near I-85. She had been strangled and there was an attempted rape. She apparently fought and was killed before the assailant could complete the rape. At least, that was the analysis.”
    Kingsley stopped speaking and took another drink of coffee.
    “Who was the anonymous caller?” asked Diane.
    Kingsley shook his head. “Don’t know.” He set down his coffee cup and continued the story.
    Diane looked at the stack of folders and sensed it was going to be a long one. She stared at the picture of Ryan Dance.
    “This is not a cold case. They made an arrest,” said Diane.
    “Yes. They found cigarette butts near the body and matched the DNA to Ryan Dance,” said Kingsley.
    “He stuck around and smoked cigarettes after he dumped the body?” asked Diane.
    “I found that a little odd too, but it was an out-of-the-way place, and God knows, perps do strange things,” he said. “Besides, as I was told, the cigarette butts could have been carried there when he carried the body.”
    “Is there more evidence?” asked Diane.
    “The police searched his car and found strands of her hair, a button from her dress, and a smear of her blood in the trunk,” Kingsley said.
    “Then this was a slam dunk,” said Diane.
    “Ryan Dance’s sister, Stacy, didn’t think so. Stacy Dance was fourteen years old when her brother, Ryan, was arrested, tried, and convicted. She always believed him to be innocent. When she turned twenty-one, she started an investigation on her own. Four weeks ago, Stacy Dance, age twenty-three, was found dead in her apartment over her father’s garage. Her father came to see me last week, and that’s why I’m here.” Kingsley closed the file and picked up another one. He started to open it, then stopped. “As I said, it’s not pleasant.” He opened the folder.
    “Stacy’s death was ruled an accident by autoerotic asphyxiation. The father believes it was murder. The police won’t listen to him. Understandably, their position is that the father simply does not want to believe his child would do what it appears that she did.”
    Kingsley handed the detective’s report, the autopsy report, and the crime scene photo to Diane.
    “Most cases of autoerotic asphyxia are male,” commented Diane as she read the police report.
    “I know,” said Kingsley. “One thing that attracted me to his case was the profiling. The detective in charge had taken basic profiling courses the FBI offered to local law enforcement departments—I was the instructor. I should be jailed for malpractice.”
    Diane glanced up at him. He sounded bitter.
    “The detective first suggested that because she was a little overweight, and homely —his word, not mine—that she was dateless and therefore frustrated. That led her to practice this form of entertainment —again, his word, not mine.”
    “I imagine her father had a reaction to that,” said Frank.
    “He did,” said Kingsley. “He pointed out that his daughter had a boyfriend, and many other friends, she was enrolled in the local community college, and she and a couple of her friends had a band. They practiced in