Part 1 (1/2)
DEAD HUNT.
A DIANE FALLON FORENSIC INVESTIGATION.
BEVERLY CONNOR.
Chapter 1.
It wasn't the sound of the steel doors clanging shut behind her that bothered Diane Fallon about the prison, or the flas.h.i.+ng red lights, or the blare of highpitched horns that screamed their warnings when the doors were unlocked. It was the smell, like no other- the acc.u.mulated odor of hundreds of women caged for years in close quarters.
Greysfort Maximum Security Prison for Women looked clean-the gray-green walls were freshly painted, and the tile floor of similar color was so highly polished that Diane could see her reflection as she walked down the hallway to the interview room. But bad odors always come through, and even the pine scent of disinfectant in the air carried with it the smell of urine and feces.
Diane was accustomed to the unpleasant odors of death. They held useful information. But she didn't have to live with those odors as the prisoners and guards did here. The thought of it was depressing.
A guard opened the door for her and motioned toward a plain gray metal chair next to a table on the visitor side of the interview room. Another dull graygreen room.
The room was divided by a thick screen of wire so finely woven that only the tips of fingers might fit through the holes. Diane stood waiting beside the chair. She looked at her wrist, momentarily forgetting that she had been required to leave her watch outside.
Several long minutes pa.s.sed.
Diane glanced at the clock on the wall behind her. It reminded her of a school clock-large and round, black hands and numbers on a white face. It clicked quietly as the sweep hand ticked off the seconds. Depressing. This was a place where time crept by.
She needed to be at the museum putting out the fire that was igniting all the local media. Why had she agreed to come here? The prosecution hadn't wanted her to. Nor had the detectives on the case. Frankly, she hadn't wanted to come.
It was not the first time she'd received a letter from an inmate put in prison by evidence processed by her lab. The letters were always long and often full of excuses and accusations. This one had been short and almost cordial. Three sentences.
Dr. Fallon, I know the last thing you want to do is respond to my letter, but there is something I need to tell you. I'm asking that you please visit me. I will understand if you can't.
Clymene O'Riley Diane had almost filed it away without responding. Instead she called the lead detective in the case and left a message. It was the district attorney who called back.
”Out of the question,” he'd shouted before she even said anything. His manner always irritated her, even during the trial. She had to keep reminding herself that they were on the same side. DA Riddmann. He had used his name to good effect during his election campaign.
”What is out of the question?” Diane had asked, though she knew the answer.
”Visiting O'Riley. That's what you're asking, isn't it?”
”No. What made you think that?” she asked. He had caught her in a bad mood.
”Detective Malone said . . . I just a.s.sumed . . . ” He stopped. ”What did you want?”
Nothing from you, she thought. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to discourage a headache. ”I called Detective Malone to ask if he knew what Clymene might be up to.” she thought. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to discourage a headache. ”I called Detective Malone to ask if he knew what Clymene might be up to.”
He paused for several seconds. ”I don't know. I've expected her to file an appeal. So much of the case was circ.u.mstantial.”
He said it in such a way as to imply that Diane and her team had failed to provide convincing evidence. They hadn't.
”What did the letter say?” he asked.
Diane read it to him.
”Short,” he said. ”You think maybe she wants to confess?”
”I doubt it,” said Diane. ”Not to me.”
”Of course it's the warden's call, but I would prefer you not to go,” he said after another long pause.
”I have no intention of going. I only wanted to pa.s.s along the information and get an informed guess as to why she wrote me.”
When Diane hung up the phone with the district attorney, she filed the letter and forgot about it. A week later she was sitting in her museum office when Ross Kingsley, a profiler for the FBI, called. She knew Kingsley. When Rosewood police had been frustrated by a particularly gruesome murderer, they had called Kingsley. He had interviewed Diane after the murderer began calling her and sending her flowers.
Ross Kingsley was now interviewing Clymene O'Riley, a convicted killer and possibly a serial killer, a rarity in the category of serial killers-almost all of whom are male.
Kingsley surprised Diane. He wanted her to comply with Clymene's request for a visit.
”Why?” she asked.
”I want to know what she wants,” he said.
”Why?” Diane asked again. She had more immediate concerns. She frowned at an Atlanta newspaper spread out in front of her with a picture of the mu seum and the headline: SCANDAL AT THE ROSEWOOD MUSEUM? One of her worst nightmares-negative publicity for the museum. At least it was deep inside the paper, not on the front page. She scanned the article as she listened to Kingsley. One of her worst nightmares-negative publicity for the museum. At least it was deep inside the paper, not on the front page. She scanned the article as she listened to Kingsley.
”I think she's killed many more men than just her late husband. If poor Archer O'Riley had only known what he was marrying. I don't have enough proof to convince a jury, but I'm convinced she killed her previous husband, Robert Carthwright. And I believe she may have killed others-and so do you.”
”You may be right, but what does that have to do with me? I only do crime scenes,” muttered Diane. The article was no more than questions voiced by a reporter who had little information, and it was short- only three paragraphs. But this was just the beginning. It wouldn't take them long to start collecting stories on such a juicy topic.
”That's not exactly true and you know it. It was you who discovered her faked background. And those things your team did with the photographs were amazing.”
”That's all part of crime scene a.n.a.lysis. My part is done.” Diane was only half listening to what Kingsley was saying as she scanned the article. d.a.m.n d.a.m.n, she thought as she finished.
”But the reason I want you to visit her is to see if she'll open up to you . . . tell you something, intentionally or otherwise.”
”She hasn't given you anything?” asked Diane. ”Getting serial killers to open up is a long process. They are not trusting people and are always driven by their own agenda. I'm sending you a preliminary report on her.”
”The DA doesn't want me to go,” Diane said. She still wasn't convinced she should help Kingsley with his job-that's what it felt like he wanted.
”I've spoken with him. He's worried about her getting information from you that will help to overturn her conviction.”
”She isn't even trying to get it overturned,” said Diane.
”That's a little different too. She's much too quiet for your average serial killer-even a for-profit serial killer. You need to do this, Diane. There are more of her victims out there waiting for justice. I'm sure of it.”
So here Diane stood in an interview room at the Greysfort Maximum Security Prison for Women waiting for a black widow. The sound of the door opening on the other side of the wire screen brought her attention around.
Clymene O'Riley was dressed in a bright, almost glowing, orange prison-issued dress. Quite different from the conservative suits she wore at her trial.
Diane had seen her wardrobe at the crime scene. The huge walk-in closet filled with clothes in a rainbow of colors and styles. She could visualize Clymene in front of her clothes rack looking for just the right outfit, running her hands along the suits and dresses, deciding what would make the best impression on the jury. Black? No, too obvious a play for sympathy. Not jewel tones-they subconsciously convey the impression of wealth. Pastels are too lighthearted. A tailored look? Yes, a tailored look in earth tones. The tweed is nice, and the brown wool. Perhaps the navy too- it's dark, but not black.