of it. If he could convince the jury of its absurdity, then the competence of the prosecution would be put in question and doubt cast on the validity of all the prosecution’s evidence.
Clymene’s scrapbooks were certainly not the main evidence, but for Diane they provided a powerful insight into Clymene’s modus operandi. Ross Kingsley, the profiler, loved them.
Diane knew about scrapbooks through classes taught at the museum. Today’s scrapbooks are far more elaborate than scrapbooks of the past. The philosophy behind the design of the pages is to have the viewer experience the content of the photographs at a deeper level than just looking at the pictures. The photographs themselves may be cropped, made into a mosaic, covered with velum, or treated in any number of creative ways to draw attention to them. A picture of kids building a snowman might be showcased amid drawings of snow-covered trees embossed with fine white glitter. A photograph of a beach scene might be shown on a page with tiny shadow boxes filled with sand and sea shells. Personal journaling on the pages can supply context and explanation for photos. But the idea always is to illustrate an underlying truth, because the pages are windows into personal history.
Clymene’s pages were elaborately artistic and creative, but they were also fake. David, one of Diane’s crime scene crew and an expert in photographic analysis, noticed it first. Clymene had digitally edited herself into photographs, Photoshopping herself into the lives of strangers.
One photograph alone might simply have been artistic licence, but her scrapbooks were built on dozens of photos in which she had systematically grafted herself into a false past. She had even created a fivegeneration photograph out of whole cloth. It was as if she might have scoured flea markets looking for discarded photographs to build herself a history. Clymene had created a family and experiences that weren’t real, weren’t hers.
The scrapbooks in and of themselves weren’t conclusive of any wrongdoing. But added to the weight of the other evidence, they were more than suggestive. The fact that investigators were unable to find any family or history for Clymene before her marriage to Carthwright cast the purpose of the scrapbooks in a very grave light.
Clymene’s scrapbooks were constructed around the interests of each husband. Robert Carthwright was a car buff—he particularly liked cross-country racing. One of the scrapbooks showed her participating as navigator in cross-country rallies throughout Europe— most notably the Acropolis Rally in Greece—complete with sightseeing photographs of ruins and quaint villages. She had used a photo-paint program to graft her face or her whole body into all the pictures.
Archer O’Riley, the man she was convicted of killing, enjoyed amateur archaeology. One scrapbook showed Clymene on various digs in Europe. Digs that she was never on. David even found that faces in some of the images were the same faces that appeared in another scrapbook showing photos of other places and other times. The digital editing had been good and her pages elaborate enough to actually take the eye away from the individual people and focus it on the context. Clymene was good at creating illusions.
As Diane was let out of the maximum-security section she suddenly turned to the guard at the door and asked whether the chaplain was in. She followed the guard’s directions and came to an office labeledREV. WILLIAM RIVERS. She knocked on the door. It opened immediately.
She faced a heavy-set man in dark gray pants, shortsleeved white shirt, and tie who looked at her quizzically over an armful of papers. She imagined that it wasn’t often that people he didn’t recognize knocked on his door.
‘‘Reverend Rivers?’’ she asked.
He looked at her badge. ‘‘Dr. Fallon... ’’ He wrinkled his brow. ‘‘Do we have an appointment?’’
‘‘No. I—I’m the director
Lab and currently working
of the Rosewood Crime with Ross Kingsley, the FBI profiler. I was wondering if I could speak with you about a prisoner.’’ Diane didn’t want to get into Clymene’s request as the real reason for her visit, and since Ross got her into this, he deserved to have his name dropped.
Rev. Rivers nodded as he came out and closed his door. ‘‘Can you walk with me to the chapel? I need to put out these handouts. Who did you want to talk about?’’ Rivers breathed hard as he walked briskly down the hall.
‘‘Clymene O’Riley,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Ah, yes. Ross has spoken with me about her before. He’s taken quite a shine to her.’’
They reached the gate and the guard let them back into the high-security area. Diane didn’t ask any questions until they got to the chapel. Rivers seemed to have a hard time breathing, talking, and walking at the same time.
‘‘Here we are,’’ he said.
Diane opened the door to the chapel for him and he proceeded to place his handouts on each desk. Rather than pews, the chapel had rows of metal and plastic classroom chairs—the kind with a table attached and a wire basket underneath. The chapel itself had the same shiny tile as the rest of the prison and the same graygreen walls. A single wooden cross stood behind a wooden lectern at the front. Vases of silk flowers— mostly roses, irises and lilies—sat atop tables that lined the walls. Rivers caught her looking at the room.
‘‘Who would invent paint this color, huh?’’ he said. He shook his head. ‘‘Some of the women arranged the flowers. A local florist taught a flower-arranging class as part of our skills program.’’ He looked at Diane and grinned. ‘‘She had written a nice proposal to the state. Anyway, it was something for them to do. Clymene O’Riley took the course. She did several of the arrangements you see here. What do you want to know about her?’’
‘‘Your opinion of her,’’ said Diane.
Rev. Rivers finished placing his handouts on the desktops and motioned for Diane to sit down. He turned one of the desks around to face her and sat down with a deep breath, as if laying out all the handouts had tired him. His light brown hair was disheveled and his brown eyes looked red and strained.
‘‘She’s an interesting prisoner. When she asked to work in the chapel she wasn’t like the usual prisoner— she didn’t tell me how she’d found the Lord and wanted to help do his work. We sat over there in those chairs.’’ He pointed to two vinyl-upholstered wood chairs at a table by the wall. ‘‘She told me she was scared and wanted a safe place to work and if I let her work here she would listen to what I had to say with an open mind. I found that refreshing. She told the truth and promised me only what she could give. I’ve had women promise me they would become nuns.’’ He laughed. ‘‘I tell them I’m Protestant, but I’ll pass their desires along to Father Henry.’’
Diane smiled. ‘‘You are also a counselor here? Is that right?’’
He nodded. ‘‘I’m here all day. We have a rabbi and a priest come to minister to the prisoners too.’’
Diane glanced down at the handout on the desk in front of her. It was instructions for filling out a job application. Rivers followed her gaze.
‘‘With some of them, small skills like filling out forms, going for a job interview, and creating a budget help them get by on the outside. Clymeme has been a big help. She already has those skills. Sometimes we do role playing and the women pretend they are at a job interview. Clymene is good at interviewing and showing them how
