Dead Hunt

did,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Would you go over it with us?’’ asked Merrick. Diane looked surprised only because it would have
looked suspicious if she hadn’t.
‘‘You think what happened to me has something to
do with Clymene?’’ she asked.
‘‘Just tell us about it,’’ said Drew.
Diane again repeated the incident of awaking in the
wee hours of the morning to the sound of knocking
at her door and slipping in the blood.
‘‘Tell me,’’ said Riddmann, glaring over at the marshals. ‘‘How much blood is in the human body? You
would know that, being a forensic anthropologist,
right?’’
‘‘We each have about ten pints,’’ said Diane. ‘‘And how much can you lose and still live?’’ DA
Riddmann asked.
‘‘Less than three and a half pints. Any more than
that and you are dead,’’ said Diane.
‘‘How much blood would you say was on your
floor?’’ Riddmann asked, leaning forward. From the
glitter in his eyes, Diane could see he was warming to
the way he was building up his argument.
‘‘I would say four pints or more,’’ said Diane not
taking her eyes off his.
‘‘Can you distinguish, say, blood from a blood bank
from fresh blood?’’ he asked.
‘‘Yes. An anticoagulant preservative is added to
stored blood,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Among other things.’’ ‘‘Okay, now . . . ’’ He sat up in his chair and
straightened his tie.
Going in for the kill , thought Diane. What she didn’t
understand was why. She cast a glance at Garnett while Riddmann’s attention was averted to his tie. Garnett was staring at her intently. She knew Garnett would be on her side—at least she thought she did. She did know that Garnett and Riddmann didn’t always see eye to eye. In a flash it dawned on her.
Councilman Albin Adler.
Riddmann was a friend and political crony of Adler.
When Adler’s mental and physical health forced him
to leave politics amid one of Rosewood’s worst
catastrophes—an explosion that killed more than
thirty students—it left a vacuum his political opponents eagerly filled. Diane knew Adler’s friends and
family believed she had misdirected paramedics, causing Adler to be left in subfreezing temperatures overnight, resulting in severe harm to him. They were
wrong. It was not her fault. But they still blamed her. And there was one thing about Adler’s gang of
friends. They were as vindictive as hell.

Chapter 22
    ‘‘Can I get any of you something to drink?’’ said Diane. She wanted to add, while the DA is straightening his tie , but didn’t. Tie straightening was Riddmann’s tell. Diane didn’t think he knew it. ‘‘I have a refrigerator in my osteology office.’’
    There was a round of ‘‘no’’ from the marshals and Garnett—just enough time to interrupt Riddmann’s flow. He glared at her. Diane sat looking at him innocently. He stumbled for words for several moments before continuing.
    ‘‘What if I told you the blood in your apartment was fresh and belonged to one person,’’ he said.
‘‘I would say that person is most likely dead,’’ said Diane.
‘‘What if I said the blood trail leads from your apartment to your car and that a knife from your apartment was found in the trunk along with more of the same blood that was in your apartment?’’ said Riddmann.
‘‘I would be very surprised,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Is that what you are saying?’’
He didn’t answer. Diane didn’t think he would. She was starting to resent being treated like a perp. She would stop the whole thing, but Riddmann would probably make Garnett drag her butt downtown.
‘‘And what if I told you the blood belonged to Clymene O’Riley?’’ said Riddman.
Diane didn’t say anything and again feigned astonishment. ‘‘Does it? Are you saying that Clymene was in my home?’’
‘‘Are you sticking to your story that you slept through a massacre going on in your apartment?’’ said Riddmann.
Apparently all of my neighbors did too, she thought. This is where he wanted to entice her to start a cascade of confessions: Maybe I heard something, but didn’t get out of bed; yes, I got out of bed but when I saw someone in my apartment I hid; well, maybe I did confront them but I didn’t kill them—it was someone else; well, maybe they attacked me and I had to defend myself. And last: well, there I was ankle deep in blood and a body in the living room—what was I to do but dump it?
But there was nothing to confess. The fact was, she did