Dead Hunt

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    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