Dead Hunt

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 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