Dead Hunt

of anyone dying of it, despite all my mother’s warnings about stepping on rusty nails.’’
‘‘Yes, it’s rare. Only about eight people a year die from tetanus in this country, out of a population of three hundred million,’’ said Diane.
Rivers said nothing for a moment, as if he were searching for the right words. ‘‘She . . . she somehow infected him? You proved it? With a cotton ball?’’ He looked skeptical.
‘‘One cotton ball about that big’’—Diane made a circle with her thumb and index finger—‘‘told the entire story. I’ve never had evidence that good before.’’
Rivers shifted in the small chair. A few of the but
    of pulling tons on his shirt looked to be in danger
    loose. He shifted again.
‘‘I don’t know the details of Clymene
trial,’’ he said. ‘‘All I really know is that she was con
    husband and suspected of victed of killing her last
    killing her first husband.’’ Diane started to say they didn’t know if Robert
Carthwright was her first husband or second, third, or
tenth for that matter, but she let that go. The fact was,
she didn’t know. She did know the evidence supporting the Archer O’Riley murder and she felt it was
important for Rev. Rivers to know it.
‘‘Archer O’Riley died just an hour after they got
him to the hospital,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Why was murder suspected?’’ asked Rivers. ‘‘It wasn’t right away. His body was flown back to
the United States, where it was examined by his own
doctor, who was concerned about the arm because the
site of the infection was where his office had taken a
blood sample in a routine checkup just days before.’’ ‘‘Naturally, he didn’t want liability,’’ said Rivers. ‘‘Naturally,’’ repeated Diane.
Clymene had gotten to Rev. Rivers. Diane could see
it in his face—the way he blushed at leaping to her
defense. She guessed that he hadn’t realized it himself
until now—until he felt called upon to defend her. Diane imagined that it had been easy for Clymene O’Riley’s to win Rivers over, even though he was resistant to prisoners trying to pull the wool over his eyes. He was a man with meager resources, dedicated to making a difference among the prisoners. Successes were probably few and far between. Clymene hadn’t told him what he wanted to hear, like so many prisoners do. She told him what he hadn’t expected to hear. Making a promise, small though it was, and keeping it set her apart from the prisoners who 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