The Night Killer

report.
    “There was no blood on any of the things he gave me. I asked my people to take the knife apart and check every part of it. Had there been blood, they would have found it. Even if it had been washed, the blood still would have seeped through the cracks in the handle.”
    “Don’t recollect Travis telling me about the knife. Told him he should of taken the raincoat,” he said.
    “I told him about the rain gear. The knife was tucked away in my jeans. I was quite frightened when Travis found me—seeing the Barres like that. I had just had a meal with them a few hours before. They were good people,” said Diane.
    Sheriff Conrad watched Diane for several moments. “Should have mentioned the knife,” he said.
    “I agree. If I had been thinking like I should, I would have,” she said. “I was near the point of collapse from fatigue and dehydration.”
    He didn’t like it that she had kept the things the mysterious man gave her. But he was also displeased with his son for not taking the poncho—and probably for not taking her in for questioning.
    Diane continued her story before he decided whether he wanted to pursue another conversation—one she would prefer he not.
    “I thought if I could find the large creek I had crossed the previous afternoon on the way to the Barres’ house, I could follow it and find the road. I found the creek—a creek—and eventually I found the Barres’ house. I thought I was safe, until I went inside.”
    Another tricky part. How was he going to feel about her taking photographs of the crime scene and not telling Travis about that either? She wanted to keep outright lying to him to a minimum, but she also didn’t want to tell him that everything she did was governed by her belief that he didn’t know what he was doing. She knew that wouldn’t go over well. He’d probably try to haul her back to Rendell County with him.
    “The telephone was out of order. I assumed the wires leading into the house were cut. I had to go for help, but I was very concerned about the security of the crime scene,” she said.
    Diane pulled out an envelope marked Photographs , and took them out.
    “So before I left, I snapped some photographs,” she said, handing them to him.
    He took them, not taking his eyes off her. He wasn’t pleased, she saw.
    “You had a camera with you? Get that from the man in the woods too—he give you his camera?”
    “No. I used my cell phone,” she said.
    “What?” His frown deepened.
    “My cell phone. I used it to take the photographs,” she repeated.
    “Your cell phone?” He looked puzzled. “You took pictures with your cell phone?”
    Now Diane was surprised. He might not like cell phones, but surely he knew about them. He sat looking at her for a moment, then down at the photographs.
    “You have the negatives for these,” he said.
    Diane hesitated. “It’s a digital camera. There are no negatives,” she said. Okay, surely they have digital cameras in Rendell County. They’re only about an hour away from Rosewood, two hours from Atlanta, for heaven’s sake. They don’t have a wall built around the county . They have television.
    “Travis knows about these things,” he muttered, going through the photographs. “They’re not real sharp,” he said.
    “You don’t get the best resolution with the camera in a cell phone,” she said.
    “Why did you take them?” He looked up at her.
    She thought to herself that if his gaze had been a spear, she’d have been impaled.
    “I had to leave and go for help. I didn’t know if the killer might come back and move the bodies, burn the house, or otherwise disturb the crime scene. Or someone else might stumble into it. I thought there should be a record of it as it was, undisturbed,” said Diane.
    “You telling me you didn’t have the presence of mind to tell Travis about the knife, but you were clear-thinking enough to take pictures?” he said.
    “That describes my entire night. Going from hours of panic to moments of clarity. I was terrified running from Slick. I tried to get my wits about me enough to figure a plan to find the Barres’ house and get help. When I did, well . . . this is what I found.” She gestured to the photographs.
    “I was panicked all over again. I tried to get control of myself enough to do the right thing. I took the pictures, because that’s what I do—preserve crime scenes. I meant no offense. I didn’t mean to overstep authority. I wanted to make sure