Fear Nothing: A Detective

by Lisa Gardner

  “And the killer could be male,” Neil spoke up. “Just saying, we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves on this one.”

  “The house was dark,” Phil said abruptly. Then he flushed, and that’s when D.D. understood what he meant. That house, the first crime scene, where she had plunged down the stairs. Phil had been one of the first detectives to find her. “When we got there,” he continued awkwardly now, “lights were out. Scene was quiet. We didn’t think anyone was there. Including you.”

  He glanced at D.D. “Maybe the killer didn’t know you were there, either. He or she thought the scene was safe to revisit. Except, of course, it wasn’t.”

  “I surprised the killer,” she whispered.

  “Who retaliated by pushing you down the stairs,” Alex continued. “Who maybe even assumed you had plunged to your doom. Except no articles appeared in the paper about a dead detective found at the scene of a crime.”

  D.D. frowned at him. “No articles appeared about an injured detective, either, right? The fact I’m incapacitated, indeed, must get well soon . . .”

  They all paused, the implication sinking in.

  D.D. said it first. “The killer found me. Has been watching. Only way he or she could know about my injuries.”

  “No,” Alex said, voice suddenly firm.

  “What do you mean—”

  “It’s been six, seven weeks since your injury. Six, seven weeks where you’ve heard nothing. Till today. You tell me, what changed in the past twenty-four hours? Where have you been?”

  And then she got it. “The second murder. A new crime scene—”

  “Which you visited,” he goaded.

  “Which I visited,” she agreed.

  “The killer was there,” Phil supplied. “Still watching the scene, still checking things out. Another note for the file.” He turned to Neil. “Our guy, or gal, is a watcher. That could help us, definitely help us.”

  Neil nodded, made a note. “But if the killer is a collector, why revisit the scenes? Isn’t that something normally done by sexual sadist predators to recapture the thrill of the moment?”

  “It could still be a thrill crime,” D.D. said. “But it’s the harvesting that’s the thrill. The time postmortem, instead of the actual murder. But the same rules apply. The person wants to remember, recapture. That would be part of the whole value of the collection, the memories it evokes.”

  Alex was staring hard at her. “You’re part of it now. The killer’s fantasy, need, compulsion. Maybe you surprised him or her the first time. And maybe the killer reacted with the impulsive decision to shove you down the stairs. But then you come back. You reappeared at the second crime scene, not even on the job, but still on the hunt. . . . That triggered something. Made it personal. You, D.D., made it personal.”

  She caught it, just a whiff of blame, but it was enough. Her job had already caused her to injure herself. And now, her detective’s instincts had endangered her entire family.

  “Do we even know today’s intruder is the same person as the killer?” she whispered, an exercise in wishful thinking.

  Phil supplied what, deep down, she’d already known. “Same brand of champagne was left here as at the two murders, a detail that wasn’t in the papers. We’ve considered it a minor victory. Got the damn media to omit at least that much.”

  “So it was definitely the killer who was in our house,” D.D. summarized, looking up at Alex. “A predator obsessed with harvesting human skin and taunting injured detectives.”

  She didn’t want to sound bitter, but she did. She didn’t want to sound scared, either, though she still wasn’t quite that lucky.

  “So what kind of killer is obsessed with removing strips of skin?” Neil asked.

  D.D. sighed heavily. “Oh, I have some ideas on that subject, too.”

  They regarded her blankly.

  “Introducing Harry and Shana Day.”

  • • •

  SHE STARTED WITH HARRY DAY, walking them through Harry’s spree of terror of forty years ago. The women he abducted, tortured and eventually killed. His own obsession for removing body parts, including the jars of excised skin found beneath the floor of his bedroom closet.

  Alex and Neil remained blasé on the subject. Until she got to the last two tidbits. Harry Day’s older daughter, Shana, was a notorious killer in her own right, currently serving life in the MCI. And, oh yes, his other daughter was none other than Dr. Adeline Glen, D.D.’s new pain therapist.

  “What?” Alex exploded. “That can’t possibly be coincidence. What if this doctor’s the one who just broke into our house? She knows all about your injury, as well as details from both murders since you discussed them with her. A daughter of a serial killer, she has good reason to be obsessed with a cop. Maybe she even pushed you down the stairs of the first crime scene, just so you’d become one of her patients.”

  D.D. rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Oh, for the love of paranoid thinking . . . For starters, I was personally with Dr. Glen this afternoon—”

  “What time?”

  “I don’t know. One to two.”

  “Break-in happened around three thirty. Doesn’t count her out.”

  “Come on. I only started seeing Dr. Glen because Superintendent Horgan recommended her. And even then, if my fall had led to a minor injury or a different kind of injury, I wouldn’t need her services. So to assume some malevolent shrink shoved me down the stairs at a crime scene just to get me into her office . . . large margin for error in that master plan.”

  “But Superintendent Horgan recommended her,” Alex insisted. “Meaning she’s known by the department, which has previously used her services. Meaning maybe not so unlikely that an injured cop would end up in her offices.”

  D.D. scowled at him.

  “Did you say she was a psychiatrist or a psychologist?” Phil spoke up.

  “Psychiatrist.”

  “So she’s a doctor, right? Went to medical school, with full medical training,” he continued, the skills-with-scalpel part being implied.

  D.D. wanted to argue. She liked her new doctor. Adeline Glen was intelligent, tough, challenging. She was also . . . compelling. For all her composure, there was a sense of aloneness to the woman, of resigned isolation. D.D. would’ve thought not being able to feel pain would be the greatest gift in the world, especially lately. But having talked to Dr. Glen this afternoon, having had a rare glimpse into the woman’s world . . . The doctor was forever set apart, studying her fellow man but never truly able to walk in anyone’s footsteps.

  And the woman knew it.

  “Can we back up for a second?” Neil asked, raking a hand through his mop of red hair. “Our killer could be male or female. Possibly an embalmer, comfortable with dead bodies, or a hunter, comfortable with skinning, or even a licensed psychiatrist with a full medical background. Why not? What’s throwing me is that you’re saying these murders might have something to do with a guy who’s been dead for forty years. Or, I guess, to be more precise, his surviving daughters?”

  Phil nodded. “Gotta say, you lost me on that one, too.”

  “I’m not saying anything yet,” D.D. clarified. “More like, here are some questions worth asking. Look, ViCAP exists to catch similarities in MO. According to it, our current killer has a match—Harry Day. Now, given that Day has been dead for four decades, I don’t think we need to be concerned about him personally assisting our predator. Then again . . . in this info-mad day and age, where hundreds if not thousands of websites exist to idolize the careers of various serial killers . . . I wonder if it’s as simple as our antisocial killer is a big fan. He researched Harry Day, and the way things work in the twisted mind of a psychopath, he read about jars of preserved flesh and his brain went ding, ding, ding. I want that!”

  “He recognized Harry Day,” Alex clarified. “Or at least, related to him.”
/>
  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” D.D. observed, thinking again about Dr. Glen’s point: Given enough pieces of warped wood, at least some were bound to be warped the same way.

  “Does Harry Day have his own website?” Neil asked.

  “I don’t know. Haven’t had time to look it up. But here’s my second thought. If our killer researched Harry Day, his daughter Shana’s name is bound to come up. And while he can’t ask Harry any questions about his technique, Shana, on the other hand . . .”

  “He might have reached out to her in prison,” Phil supplied, making a quick note.

  “More questions worth asking.”

  “What about your doctor?” Alex spoke up, laser focused. “Have any of her father’s fans contacted her?”

  “According to her, no. Her last name isn’t Day, however, but Glen, meaning the killer would have to dig deeper to find the family connection. Plus, if the killer’s inspiration is the personal . . . appeal . . . of preserving human skin, there’s no reason for him to reach out to Adeline. Shana, on the other hand, would be a better source, having infamously sliced and diced during her first murder. Now, Dr. Glen says her sister doesn’t receive visitors or respond to correspondence. But I don’t know how much she’s pushed the issue, either. Or how much her sister would admit to her.”

  “We need to interview Shana,” Phil said.

  “Dr. Glen said she’d be willing to assist with that,” D.D. provided.

  “You’re going to be there, aren’t you?” Alex stared at her, not really saying it as a question.

  “If Horgan allows it, I’d like to be.”

  “Why?”

  “Because. It’s what I do. What I know best. And given I can’t remember what happened that night, or if it was a man or woman or an asexual space alien who shoved me down the flight of stairs. And now two women are dead and I’m still stupid while the killer is walking through our home and thumbing his/her/its nose at us.” Her voice picked up, though she didn’t intend it to. “What if next time it’s not champagne? What if next time, he/she/it leaves crime scene trophies on our pillows? Or ribbons of skin in the middle of our bed? It’s going to get worse, Alex. What’s the number one rule of serial killers?”

  “Their crimes escalate.”

  “That’s right. Their crimes escalate. Now, look at me! Look at my stupid fucking shoulder. Look at our house, where, let’s face it, we both know we won’t be sleeping tonight. This is my life. My family. And I can’t even load my gun. I can’t do anything and it’s all my fault . . . Dammit!” Her voice broke roughly. “God dammit.”

  “I’ll be posting a patrol car outside,” Phil offered stiffly.

  She nodded but didn’t look up.

  “And we got a lot to go on now,” Neil offered. “These are good avenues of investigation. Given the publicity, you know Horgan will approve expanding the team. Pressure will be on to get to the bottom of this quick.”

  D.D. nodded again, her gaze still on the carpet.

  Alex moved. He crossed the space, placing his hand on her right shoulder. The motion jarred her left arm, but she willed herself not to wince.

  “Our family, D.D.,” he said firmly. “We will handle this. Together. Side by side. Three good arms taking on the he/she/its of the world. Because this is what both of us do best.”

  “I still can’t move my arm,” she whispered.

  He didn’t talk anymore. He kissed her on top of the head. She closed her eyes and willed it to be enough.

  Except it wasn’t.

  A killer had walked through D.D.’s home. And she didn’t want her husband’s love or her squad’s protection.

  She wanted revenge.

  Chapter 15

  I ENTERED THE SANCTUARY of my luxury high-rise condo building, oversize leather purse slung over my left shoulder, thoughts a million miles away as I considered my sister’s latest suicide attempt, not to mention my discussion with Detective Warren regarding my homicidal family tree. One family, two killers, an infamous legacy of death and destruction. And I heard my adoptive father’s voice once more in my head: Any family, but particularly your family, Adeline, has a gift for inflicting pain.

  I wished I could talk to him now. I don’t think I ever appreciated how much his crisp, analytic presence anchored me. Then he died, and I became adrift, a well-adjusted aspiring psychiatrist suddenly visiting her older sister in prison. A successful young woman, suddenly hanging out at the airport, armed with a scalpel and a collection of slender glass vials.

  The two recent murders. A killer obsessed with removing human skin. Did it mean anything? Could it mean anything?

  I stepped into the elevator, thoughts still churning. The car rising. Myself, contemplating things I didn’t want to contemplate. The doors sliding open. Now telling myself I would not head straight for my walk-in closet, pry up the loose floorboards and check on my precious collection. Instead, I would take up yoga, pour a glass of wine, something, anything more befitting a woman of my education and success.

  Finally arriving before my front door, still wanting what I knew I shouldn’t have.

  As a shadow peeled away from the far wall and a man suddenly materialized before me.

  “Dr. Adeline Glen?”

  Reflexively, I grabbed my purse strap, stifled a gasp.

  “How did you get up here?”

  He smiled, but it was a grim expression on his face. “Judging by the news this morning, that’s about to be the least of your concerns.”

  • • •

  HE INTRODUCED HIMSELF as Charlie Sgarzi. The reporter who, according to Superintendent McKinnon, had been calling and writing to my sister for the past few months. He was also the cousin of Shana’s twelve-year-old victim, Donnie Johnson. Though interestingly enough, Sgarzi wasn’t volunteering that information to me.

  “I have a few questions,” he stated now. “About your sister, Shana Day, and Donnie Johnson’s murder, thirty years ago.”

  “I can’t help you.”

  He gave me a look. He wasn’t a large man, but heavyset, with a swarthy complexion and small dark eyes. I imagined he could be quite intimidating when he wanted to be. The question was, did he want to be?

  “Oh, I think you can,” he stated bluntly. “A professional shrink who meets with her sister at least once a month at the MCI? I bet you know all sorts of things.”

  I shook my head. “No. Not really.”

  “Aren’t you gonna at least invite me in?”

  “No. Not really.”

  He frowned, starting to look angry. Frustrated as well, because clearly this conversation wasn’t going as he’d planned. But something else. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but another emotion, dark and potent, stirring the pot.

  Now he huffed, taking his hands out of his oversize Dick Tracy trench coat and making an imploring gesture.

  “Come on. Cut a guy a break. Your sister was one of the first fourteen-year-olds ever prosecuted as an adult. Nowadays, it seems the news is filled with depraved teenaged killers. But Shana, what she did to twelve-year-old Donnie . . . that was a bad case. Can’t tell me you don’t think about it. Can’t tell me, having her for an older sister, hasn’t affected your life.”

  I said nothing, simply readjusted my hand on my purse. If I grabbed my apartment keys, then went for his jugular, or jabbed at his eyes, would that be seen as a woman protecting herself? Or would it simply prove that I was just as violent as the rest of my family?

  “You care about your sister that much?”

  I said nothing.

  “I mean, it’s not like you grew up with her. Nah, you were the lucky one.” He rocked back on his heels. Giving me space, I realized, as if he knew what I’d just been thinking.

  “I read all about you,” he continued, voice matter-of-fact. “In a gene pool of freaks, you still managed to outfreak ’e
m all. Rare genetic condition, snagged yourself a rich doctor to play Daddy Warbucks. Way to go, Adeline. Bet your sister hates you for that alone.”

  He stared at me. I said nothing.

  “Is it true you can’t feel pain?”

  “Hit me and find out.”

  His eyes widened. I’d called his bluff, and for the first time, he appeared uncertain. His shoulders came down, expression puzzled. I could nearly watch the wheels spin in his head as he rapidly reassessed. Then he steeled himself and I caught his look of resolve once again. One way or another, he was determined to speak to me. Because my sister had repeatedly blown him off? Because I was as close to her as he was going to get? Or then again, was there something darker, more potent, driving him?

  “Were you relieved the prison guards got to her in time this morning?” he asked, going with a friendlier tone as if we were neighbors, meeting over coffee. “Or maybe a tad disappointed? You can tell me the truth, Adeline. I mean, a woman as accomplished as you, saddled with a sister as troubled as Shana. People understand these things. I’ll understand.”

  “How are your aunt and uncle?” I asked quietly. “The thirty-year anniversary of their son’s murder I imagine must be very difficult for them.”

  Sgarzi’s face froze. For all his efforts, I’d hit the mark first, and he knew it. A spasm moved across his face. Faint but telling. And I got it then, the undercurrent of emotion swirling around the man as tangibly as his reporter’s trench coat: grief. Charlie Sgarzi wasn’t angry. He was grieving. Thirty years later, that night, my sister, still haunted him.

  I felt myself falter.

  “They’re dead, thanks for asking.” His voice, once again matter-of-fact.

  “And your own family?”

  “I’m not here about them. I’m here about your family. Stop avoiding the question.”

  “My question is equally relevant. I didn’t know my sister when she killed your cousin. But you did. Meaning chances are my sister’s actions have had a greater impact on your life than on my own.”

  “Donnie was a good kid.”