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made pledges he knew they couldn’t keep. By his account, Clymene listened, asked questions, and participated in a meaningful way in his classes—actions above and beyond her simple pledge to keep an open mind. A small thing, but an important thing to Rivers. Clymene was good at calcu
lating what was important to people.
Saying she was afraid and wanted a safe place to
work was probably true. What was it Frank, her whitecollar-crime detective-friend, said? Truth makes the lie
believable in a con. Clymene was undoubtably good at
using truth to her advantage—just as good as she was
at making fiction seem true.
Diane saw now what Clymene was doing—why she
hadn’t filed an appeal yet. She was gathering her supporters first. The DA said she had a following on the
outside consisting of a few friends and people she
went to church with. Having the prison chaplain on
her side would be a PR coup for her.
‘‘The health department investigated the doctor’s
office,’’ said Diane. ‘‘They found nothing that would
account for the infection.’’
He again shifted uncomfortably in the small chair,
putting further strain on his buttons. She could see
the white T-shirt underneath. ‘‘Would they find anything? I mean’’—Rivers shrugged his shoulders—‘‘if it
was just that one contaminated needle.’’
‘‘Of course,’’ agreed Diane—just to be agreeable,
‘‘that was a possibility. But the investigation didn’t
stop there.’’
‘‘Let’s move over here to the table,’’ he said, pointing to a honey-colored maple table with a vase of red
silk roses. ‘‘Either the chairs are getting smaller or I’m
getting bigger.’’ He gave a small self-conscious laugh
and squirmed out.
They moved to two straight-backed wooden chairs
with vinyl-covered padded seats. They were better
than the desk chairs, thought Diane, but not by much. ‘‘I’m sure the prison saves a lot of money on furniture,’’ said Rivers.
‘‘And paint,’’ said Diane because she knew it would
make him laugh.
Rivers’ laugh was a little more hearty. ‘‘Yes, defi
nitely on paint.’’ He sighed. ‘‘I’d like to understand
this,’’ he said, resting an arm on the table.
Diane nodded. By ‘‘this’’ she understood him to
mean the evidence against Clymene.
‘‘Archer O’Riley was old Rosewood—old money.
Many of his friends were old Rosewood.’’ Diane had
actually met him once at a contributors’ party at the
museum. He had come as a guest of Vanessa Van
Ross, the museum’s biggest patron and good friend to
Diane. Clymene hadn’t been with him.
Vanessa was the first to light the fire under the police when he died. For reasons Vanessa couldn’t explain exactly, she had never liked Clymene. ‘‘There
was something about her that seemed fake to me,’’
was all she could tell Diane.
‘‘One of Archer O’Riley’s friends, along with his
son, insisted that the police investigate,’’ said Diane.
She didn’t say that Vanessa had to convince his son
at the time.
‘‘O’Riley’s infection had spread more rapidly than
normal, so the ME’s suspicions were already raised.
Then she found puncture wounds in the bend of his
arm that could not be accounted for as a result of the
blood sample taken by his doctor. Two of the punctures were not in his vein, but into the muscle tissue.
We—the crime scene team—were asked to search the
house. We started in his bedroom,’’ said Diane. Rivers listened without comment. The intensity of
his gaze revealed his interest in what Diane had to say. ‘‘It had been several days since Archer O’Riley was
last in his house, and the room had been cleaned. We
didn’t expect to find anything. But behind the
nightstand on his side of the bed, caught between the
stand and the chair rail, we found a cotton ball. It had
two distinct creases in it—as from wiping a needleshaped object.’’ Diane made an effort to keep her
descriptions objective.
Rivers opened his