Dead Hunt dffi-5 Read online

  Dead Hunt

  ( Diane Fallon Forensic Investigation - 5 )

  Beverly Connor

  Clymene O'Riley is in prison for killing her husband - though Diane Fallon is sure she killed another, and suspects she may have left a veritable graveyard of dead men in her wake. Either way, Diane was happy to help put her behind bars. So when Clymene informs her that one of the prison guards may be in danger from a serial killer, Diane is suspicious. And when Clymene escapes from jail, Diane becomes the prime suspect in a bloody murder that puts her in the path of an angry killer who wants her dead...

  DEAD HUNT

  A DIANE FALLON FORENSIC INVESTIGATION

  BEVERLY CONNOR

  Praise for the novels of Beverly Connor

  ‘‘Calls to mind the forensic mysteries of Aaron Elkins and Patricia Cornwell. However, Connor’s sleuth infuses the mix with her own brand of spice as a pert and brainy scholar in the forensic analysis of bones.... Chases, murder attempts, and harrowing rescues add to this fast-paced adventure.’’ —Chicago Sun-Times

  ‘‘Connor combines smart people, fun people, and dangerous people in a novel hard to put down.’’ —The Dallas Morning News

  ‘‘Connor grabs the reader with her first sentence and never lets up until the book’s end....The story satisfies both as a mystery and as an entre´e into the fascinating world of bones. . . . Add Connor’s dark humor, and you have a multidimensional mystery that deserves comparison with the best of Patricia Cornwell.’’

  —Booklist (starred review)

  ‘‘In Connor’s latest multifaceted tale, the plot is serpentine, the solution ingenious, the academic politics vicious... chock-full of

  and archeological detail.’’

  engrossing anthropological

  —Publishers Weekly

  ‘‘Connor’s books are a smart blend of Patricia Cornwell, Aaron Elkins, and Elizabeth Peters, with some good deep-South atmosphere to make it authentic.’’

  —Oklahoma Family Magazine

  ‘‘Crisp dialogue, interesting characters, fascinating tidbits of bone lore, and a murderer that eluded me. When I started reading, I couldn’t stop. What more could you ask for? Enjoy.’’

  —Virginia Lanier, author of the Bloodhound series

  ‘‘Beverly Connor has taken the dry bones of scientific inquiry and resurrected them into living, breathing characters. I couldn’t put [it] down until I was finished, even though I wanted to savor the story. I predict that Beverly Connor will become a major player in the field of mystery writing.’’

  —David Hunter, author of The Dancing Savior

  ‘‘Fans of... Patricia Cornwell will definitely want to read Beverly Connor . . . an author on the verge of superstardom.’’ —Midwest Book Review

  ‘‘Connor’s breathtaking ability to dish out fascinating forensic details while maintaining a taut aura of suspense is a real gift.’’ —Romantic Times, Top Pick

  ALSO BY BEVERLY CONNOR

  DEAD PAST

  DEAD SECRET

  DEAD GUILTY

  ONE GRAVE TOO MANY

  DEAD HUNT

  A DIANE FALLON FORENSIC INVESTIGATION

  BEVERLY CONNOR

  In memory of Dixie Lee Connor and Charles C. Connor, Sr.

  Chapter 1

  It wasn’t the sound of the steel doors clanging shut behind her that bothered Diane Fallon about the prison, or the flashing 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 accumulated 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 passed.

  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 assumed . . . ’’ 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.’’

  He paused for several seconds. ‘‘I don’t know. I’ve expected her to file an appeal. So much of the case was circumstantial.’’

  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 pass 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 interviewi
ng 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.

  ‘‘Why are you concerned?’’ Diane asked.

  Clymene smiled. Not a strained smile, but one that reached her eyes. ‘‘I guess that seems strange. But in the world I live in now I depend on—how shall I say— the kindness of strangers. That’s the way it is in here. I own nothing—things are taken away at any moment and my living space turned inside out. I have to be alert to prisoners who suddenly go off the deep end because they received a letter they didn’t like and decide to take it out on me. As I said—that’s just the way it is in here, so kindness from a guard is important. It makes the quality of life a little better. It gives me some protection against the elements here. Grace Noel is a kind guard.’’

  As Clym
ene spoke, her hands were flat on the table, her right over her left. Her nails were short and well manicured. Her voice was calm, her face pleasant, even though the bright orange color of her dress made her look sallow.

  She showed no noticeable reaction to Diane’s obvious impatience. Ross Kingsley said she was always self-possessed. She would get frustrated, but never angry. She would state her innocence, but only in response to a question or some statement from him. She wasn’t like other prisoners. Ross thought she made it a point not to be like them.

  ‘‘Why do you think Grace Noel may be in danger?’’ asked Diane. She wondered if there was a real danger or if this was a ploy—or threat.

  ‘‘Let me start at the beginning,’’ Clymene said. ‘‘Grace Noel is the kind of guard who likes to talk with the prisoners—some of them anyway.’’ Diane noticed that Clymene usually referred to prisoners as them, not us.

  Clymene smiled. ‘‘I suppose I should say us,’’ she said, as if reading Diane’s mind. ‘‘Grace Noel is a plain woman, large boned.’’

  ‘‘Are you saying she is overweight? How is that relevant?’’ asked Diane, growing more impatient. She shifted her position in the hard chair, thinking she needed to be tending to the problem at the museum.