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.
‘‘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 analysis. My part is done.’’ Diane was only half listening to what Kingsley was saying as she scanned the article. Damn, 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.
She had sat beside her lawyer in court, well dressed in wool suits and cream blouses accessorized with June Cleaver pearls, looking like the grieving widow of the man whose portrait the DA had resting on an easel.
Clymene’s hair was still blond, but darker now and shorter, without the beauty-treatment highlights. It was combed back behind her ears. Her lean face had been softer at the trial, with gentle curves that made her appear vulnerable and feminine. She’d looked at the jury with liquid blue eyes and it had taken them two weeks to decide her guilt. Not because the evidence was only circumstantial, however much the DA tried to poor-mouth about the lack of hard evidence. The jury took so long because Clymene O’Riley simply did not look like the kind of woman who would murder her husband.
Even in prison clothes behind screen wire she didn’t look like a murderer. Diane studied her face. It was a good face for her line of work—if indeed murdering husbands was her line of work. Diane suspected there was a string of dead husbands, but they knew only of the two and could prove only one.
Clymene had regular features, almost generic—if there is such a thing as generic features. Her nose was straight, neither too large nor too small. The same for her lips—not small, but not full lips either. Her eyes were almond shaped but not slanted in any direction, nor did they droop. Her face was perfectly symmetrical—that in itself made it interesting. It was a face that could be made to look beautiful or plain. She could change her hair and eye color and be a different person.
In addition to her chameleon-like attributes, Clymene’s age was hard to estimate. From a distance she could pass for her late twenties or early thirties. A closer look showed she was older, but by how much was impossible to tell—she could have been thirty-five or forty-five. Diane didn’t know how old she was. They didn’t even know her real identity.
Clymene moved her chair forward and sat down. Diane sat in the visitor’s chair and they stared at each other for a moment. Diane tried to read her face, looking for some sign of hostility, remorse, deceit— something. The woman simply looked interested. That was all. No daggers shooting from her eyes. No bared teeth.
‘‘Thank you for coming,’’ she said. ‘‘Frankly, I’m surprised you came. My profiler must have asked you.’’
She said my profiler the same way she would have said my biographer. Diane supposed that’s what he was.
‘‘What do you want?’’ asked Diane.
‘‘I want you to check on one of my guards,’’ she said.
Chapter 2
‘‘You want me to check on one of your guards?’’ Are you nuts? I don’t have time for this, Diane thought. She stood up to leave.
Clymene didn’t stand, but she appeared poised as if she might be ready to chase Diane through the wire barrier if she tried to leave.
‘‘Please hear me out,’’ said Clymene. ‘‘I know this sounds strange.’’
Diane stood for a second, then sat down again. ‘‘All right, go on,’’ said Diane. ‘‘I’m listening, but I don’t have a lot of time.’’
‘‘The reason I want you to check on her is to make sure she is all right,’’ said Clymene.
‘‘Do you have reason to believe she isn’t?’’ asked Diane. Now she was getting concerned. What was Clymene up to?
‘‘Yes and no. Let me explain,’’ she said.
Diane eyed Clymene. Her profiler said she never exhibited any of the normal tells of a person who lies. She always maintained eye contact; she was always relaxed. She would be evasive, he said, but he could never find a pattern in her body language that said she was lying. Diane couldn’t either. But that meant nothing. Sociopaths are good liars.