Connie Kerr seemed sane to me. Cracked, yes; loony enough to dig up skulls in a garden while thinking she was creating fiction. But I wasn’t picking up stark raving cuckoo. And I wasn’t feeling her as a murderer.

“What happened after you dug up that skull, Connie?”

“Well. I dug up another one.”

Chapter 95

Chapter 95

CONNIE DABBED AT her eyes with a wad of tissues and continued her story.

“The second head was bad,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting it to be — to have — hell. I didn’t expect it to be so disgusting. I was coming up with my plan, though, and I just told myself to have courage. I thought of it as forensic archaeology.”

“Appropriate term,” I said.

“You think so?”

I said, “Yes,” not adding that in this situation, the correct term for her activity was evidence tampering.

Connie went on to say that she’d placed the “horrid remains” on the patio, returned to get the first skull, and then the idea took full form.

“I went back to my place and got a pair of index cards. I had a cool idea, very dramatic, but I was scared going back to the garden,” she said.

“I was thinking that I was now wandering into the area of premeditation. But I couldn’t stop. I was on a roll. The chrysanthemums were so white. So I plucked some and I made a wreath. I laid it around the heads,” Connie Kerr said, making a wide circle with her arms. “It looked very good. After I finished the wreath, I started to feel better. In fact, I felt elated.”

“You were excited.”

“Yes, that’s it. I was excited and my wheels were turning. I wanted to draw attention to the victims, you see. I wrote numbers on the index cards. I knew the numbers would make these heads into a big story. And I did a clever thing.”

“Those numbers are a code.”

“You’re warm.” Coy smile from Connie.

“Numerology,” I said. “The number six.”

“Aren’t you smart!” she said. She clapped her hands together, and for a moment the woman who had pirouetted around her small apartment was back.

“So you wanted the police to find you?”

“Yes! I wanted the police to find the killer and I wanted to be the heroine who helped solve the case. I wanted good realistic details for my book. I’m calling it Eleventh Hour, because the crime is solved at the last moment. But I never expected to be charged.”

“So that’s your story, Connie? You did forensic archaeology, left some false clues for the police that led to your door.”

“I’ve committed crimes, haven’t I?”

I nodded. I wanted her to be afraid, but truthfully she wasn’t guilty of much. Trespassing. Falsifying evidence. It wasn’t illegal not to call the police to report a crime.