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 because she knew it would
make him laugh.
Rivers’ laugh was a little more hearty. ‘‘Yes, defi
nitely on paint.’’ He sighed. ‘‘I’d like to understand
this,’’ he said, resting an arm on the table.
Diane nodded. By ‘‘this’’ she understood him to
mean the evidence against Clymene.
‘‘Archer O’Riley was old Rosewood—old money.
Many of his friends were old Rosewood.’’ Diane had
actually met him once at a contributors’ party at the
museum. He had come as a guest of Vanessa Van
Ross, the museum’s biggest patron and good friend to
Diane. Clymene hadn’t been with him.
Vanessa was the first to light the fire under the police when he died. For reasons Vanessa couldn’t explain exactly, she had never liked Clymene. ‘‘There
was something about her that seemed fake to me,’’
was all she could tell Diane.
‘‘One of Archer O’Riley’s friends, along with his
son, insisted that the police investigate,’’ said Diane.
She didn’t say that Vanessa had to convince his son
at the time.
‘‘O’Riley’s infection had spread more rapidly than
normal, so the ME’s suspicions were already raised.
Then she found puncture wounds in the bend of his
arm that could not be accounted for as a result of the
blood sample taken by his doctor. Two of the punctures were not in his vein, but into the muscle tissue.
We—the crime scene team—were asked to search the
house. We started in his bedroom,’’ said Diane. Rivers listened without comment. The intensity of
his gaze revealed his interest in what Diane had to say. ‘‘It had been several days since Archer O’Riley was
last in his house, and the room had been cleaned. We
didn’t expect to find anything. But behind the
nightstand on his side of the bed, caught between the
stand and the chair rail, we found a cotton ball. It had
two distinct creases in it—as from wiping a needleshaped object.’’ Diane made an effort to keep her
descriptions objective.
Rivers opened his mouth to speak but said nothing.
He motioned for Diane to proceed. He probably
thought the evidence so far was pretty weak, but he
leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. ‘‘We analyzed the substances on the cotton ball,’’
said Diane.
‘‘And these substances told the story?’’ said Rivers. Diane nodded. ‘‘One crease contained trace amounts
of corn syrup, cornstarch, carrageenan, L-cysteine, casein hydrolysate, traces of horse manure, and an
ample supply of Clostridium tetani, tetanus bacteria.
The most interesting of these being casein hydrolysate
and the horse manure—and the bacteria. The second
crease had trace amounts of the same substances but
also included Archer O’Riley’s blood, rohypnol, and
epithelials from Clymene and from her horse.’’ Rivers was frowning now. Diane wasn’t sure if it was from trying to understand the string of substances she had just rattled off or from a deep concern about
Clymene’s guilt.
‘‘Can you walk me through what all those things
mean?’’ he asked.
‘‘Corn syrup, cornstarch, carrageenan, L-cysteine,
and casein hydrolysate are ingredients in a baby formula,’’ said Diane.
Rivers raised his eyebrows.
‘‘Casein hydrolysate is a good medium for growing
tetanus. Horse manure is a good place to get the tetanus bacterium.’’
‘‘I see,’’ said Rivers. He stared down for a moment
at his hands, clasped in front of him on the table. Diane continued before he could say anything—like,
How did you connect this to Clymene?
‘‘There was baby formula in the house. O’Riley’s
son and his wife have a baby, but the baby’s mother
said she didn’t use that particular brand of formula.
Epithelials—skin cells—in the manure were matched
to Clymene’s own horse.’’
Rivers looked up at Diane. He looked tired and
surprised. ‘‘So what you are saying, if I read the evidence right, is that she cultured some tetanus bacteria,
gave her husband the date-rape drug rohypnol to
knock him out and keep him from remembering she
punctured him with a needle and squirted tetanus in
him.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ said Diane. ‘‘Add that to the fact that she
fabricated a false family history for herself, she never
gave us her true identity that could be verified, and
her previous husband died an untimely death, and you
can see why she was convicted.’’
He let out a deep breath. ‘‘I must say, I’m
disappointed.’’
Diane could see he was. She felt sorry for him. He
was a man wanting to believe in people who were
constantly disappointing him.
‘‘So am I,’’ she said. ‘‘Clymene is intelligent and