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Chris.

Chapter 4
    Diane knew what Chris and Steven were thinking. The same thought flashed through her mind—the killer. As the vehicle slowed to a stop, the letters WXNG on the magnetic sign attached to the side brought relief to Chris and Steven. But not to Diane. She crossed in front of the vehicle and walked to the driver’s side.
    ‘‘Can I help you?’’ she asked the woman who ap peared as the window slid down.
‘‘WXNG news.’’ The woman, perhaps twenty-five with fine brown hair and eyes to match, looked Diane up and down a moment and spotted the identification that hung from a cord around her neck. ‘‘What can you tell us?’’ she asked.
‘‘Not a thing. Have you seen the sheriff?’’
‘‘The deputy said he’s at the scene. We heard it’s a racial thing.’’
Thing, thought Diane. What a way to describe the horror of murder. Diane measured her words. She could see ‘‘No comment’’ appearing in the news, something like: ‘‘The authorities at the scene had no comment when asked if this was a racially motivated crime.’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’ Diane asked.
‘‘We heard that someone lynched three black men.’’
‘‘You’ve been given incorrect information. For more than that, you need to talk to the sheriff.’’
‘‘That’s who we’re going to see.’’ She turned to her passenger. ‘‘I see a road down there. I think that’ll get us to the crime scene.’’
‘‘That roadway’s part of the crime scene. You can’t go there,’’ said Diane.
‘‘People around here want to know what’s going on. It’s my job to tell them, and I’m going to do it.’’
‘‘Not by contaminating the crime scene, you’re not. You get near that roadway, I’ll impound your vehicle.’’
‘‘You can’t do that.’’
‘‘Yes, I can. If you continue on after I’ve told you it’s a crime scene, I’ll have you arrested. You can get the information you want, just not through here. Drive back to the road. I’ll call the sheriff and tell him you want to speak with him.’’
Diane took her phone and punched in the sheriff’s number with her thumb, not taking her eyes off the woman. When he answered she told him about the reporter. She also asked him to send one of her team with some crime scene tape to rope off the roadway to the scene.
‘‘Damn reporters,’’ he said. ‘‘I suppose they’ve got ten on to this racial thing going around.’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘You told them it wasn’t, didn’t you?’’
‘‘Yes. And I also told them that all other informa tion had to come from you.’’
‘‘You did, did you? I suppose I got to talk to them sometime. Tell them I’ll meet them up at the road.’’
Diane relayed the message. The woman was reluc tant. She sat in her SUV, not making a move to put her car in gear. ‘‘I need to pull down there so I can turn around.’’ She pointed to the forbidden path.
Diane had the impression she was planning to make a break for it. ‘‘I’m sorry, but you can’t. As I said, it’s part of the crime scene.’’
‘‘Well, where the hell do you expect me to turn around?’’
‘‘Not at the crime scene. If you back up several feet, there’s a small turnaround between those trees.’’
‘‘Back up?’’ She said it as though her vehicle didn’t have a reverse gear.
‘‘Yes.’’
She reluctantly put her car in gear and started to back up, then abruptly slammed on the brakes, throw ing her passenger forward and backward. She stepped out of the car and turned toward Steven and Chris. ‘‘Who are you two? Are you the ones who found the bodies?’’
The passenger, a tall lean man close to thirty, stepped out and shouldered his video camera and trained it on the two timber cruisers.
‘‘You are the two who found the bodies, right?’’ the reporter asked again.
‘‘We found them and called the sheriff. That’s all there was to it,’’ Steven told her.
‘‘Tell us about the