by Lisa Gardner
I waited.
“He liked her, you know. She ever tell you that? During your sessions together, does she even talk about him?”
I remained patient. Charlie was just getting started. Sure enough . . .
“I found letters!” the reporter nearly exploded, his expression suddenly coming alive. Rage, sorrow, disbelief. Stages of grief, stamped into a man thirty years later, because pain can do that to a person. My sister can do that to a person. “Half a dozen letters I discovered stashed in the bottom of my uncle’s bureau, and you know what they are? Love letters. Love letters your sister wrote to my cousin. He was twelve years old, just a lonely little guy without a friend in the world, and here comes this older, streetwise new girl saying what a cool bike he has, maybe they can get together sometime. Course he met her by the lilac bushes. She didn’t just murder him. She lured him to his death.”
“Blood is love,” I murmured, but Sgarzi wasn’t in the mood to listen anymore. He’d shoved himself away from the wall, pacing restlessly.
“My aunt never got over it. She spent the next ten years drinking herself to death, and there was nothing my mom could do to stop her. Because that’s the lie they tell families of the victims; that it’ll get better. Time heals all wounds. Blah, blah, blah. Thirty years. Thirty fucking years, and six months ago, my uncle got out his service revolver and shot himself in the head. Your sister didn’t just kill my cousin. She destroyed my entire family. Now I have a few questions. Think you can pay me the courtesy of answering?”
“Why?”
“Why?” He stared at me, dark face nearly frozen in shock. “Why?”
“It’s been thirty years, Mr. Sgarzi,” I said gently. “There is nothing I can tell you that changes what happened to your family.”
“Please. I know my cousin is dead. I know my aunt and uncle are gone and my mom has turned into a shut-in who won’t even order takeout pizza because you never know about those delivery boys. I want access, okay? I want an exclusive interview with one of the most notorious female killers in the state of Massachusetts. After what Shana did to my cousin, hacking off his ear, slicing up his arms . . . At the very least, I think I deserve a seven-figure book deal. Maybe then, we’ll call it even.”
Despite myself, I was surprised: “You’re cashing in on your cousin’s murder?”
“No. I’m funding my mother’s home health aid. My mom’s dying of cancer, thank you very much, and she doesn’t want to leave the house my father built for her. I’m a blogger; I don’t make the kind of money my mom needs. But a book deal. An inside account of your sister, what she did to my family . . . There’s a decent-size market for true-crime novels. Especially something with a personal touch, say, written by the victim’s cousin and including an exclusive interview with a killer as notorious as Shana Day. I’ve been fishing the idea around publishing circles, and there’s some interest. Let’s just say, thirty minutes of your sister’s time, one-on-one, and my mom just might be able to die in comfort. My cousin was a good kid. He wouldn’t mind helping out his aunt. Now, what’s your excuse?”
“Mr. Sgarzi, you’re assuming my sister listens to me. That having ignored your persistent written requests, Shana will magically change her mind on my say-so. To be blunt, we don’t have that kind of relationship.”
Charlie got that look again, all steely resolve and grim determination. Not just a man grieving, I realized now, but given his mother’s deteriorating health, a man very much on edge.
“Manipulate her,” he said.
I stared at him.
“You heard me. You’re a sister as well as a psychiatrist. Stop dicking around and manipulate Shana into doing what you want.”
“You mean, as you attempted to do with your relentless letter-writing campaign. And how did that work for you again?”
“Hey, I need this. My mother deserves this. Now, are you gonna make this happen or not?”
“Mr. Sgarzi—”
“Ask her about the Rose Killer.”
My breath froze for the second time in a single day. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. This new string of murders, some psycho running around harvesting strips of human flesh. You can’t tell me that doesn’t sound just like dear old Dad.”
I remained silent, no longer trusting myself to speak.
“How does the killer do it, I wonder?” Sgarzi mused, tone mocking. “Know how to best slice down the length of the woman’s torso, excising each precious strip. Then how to preserve them so the memories last forever. Why, it’s almost as if he has inside information. . . .”
“You think my sister, who’s been locked up for nearly three decades, has something to do with these killings?” I asked sharply.
“I think your sister has been dancing rings around you for years. All those hour-long visits, yet you’ve never asked the right questions. You wait and you wait for your sister to magically come to you. What are you afraid of, Adeline? You can’t even feel pain. What do you have to fear?”
“I don’t know what you—”
His voice dropped. “Take the kid gloves off. Tell Shana point-blank it’s time to start cooperating. She knows more than you think.”
“And you know this how?”
“Because I didn’t just write letters to Shana. I wrote to several of her fellow inmates, including two that are no longer behind bars. And the stories they have to tell, about Shana, about the things she knows that she shouldn’t possibly be able to know. The girl’s connected, has a partner, a friend, I haven’t quite figured out what. But she’s not just moldering away in a cell like you seem to think. All these years later, she’s still tending to business.”
“Prove it.”
“You want proof? Ask what she did to those two corrections officers. Exactly what she did, exactly how she did it. You think you can’t feel pain, Adeline? Well, I think your sister is about to prove you wrong.”
Charlie Sgarzi stormed off down the hall, heading straight for the elevators.
I remained rooted in place, watching as the downward arrow finally dinged to life, the car doors opening, swallowing the reporter, then carrying him away.
My hands were still shaking as I slowly slid my purse down my arm, then rooted around for the key.
Just a reporter, I assured myself. A man who would say anything to write an article, let alone profit from his family’s tragedy.
But I couldn’t quite convince myself. First my sister’s suicide attempt, then the newspapers linking my father’s forty-year-old murders to two recent murders and now this.
Oh, Shana, I couldn’t help thinking as I finally walked into the quiet sanctuary of my condo. What have you done?
Chapter 16
THE CALL CAME while they were eating breakfast. Alex answered the phone, the two of them sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, pretending it was a morning like any other morning. Of course they’d slept well the night before, confident in the safety and security of their own home. Never jumping at unexpected sounds. Not getting up even once to double-check the lock, the security system, the Glock 10 Alex had moved to the top of his nightstand.
They were professionals. They didn’t get unraveled by the thought of a killer walking through their bedroom, bearing the same gifts he’d given to each of his murder victims.
At 2:00 A.M., D.D. had said, staring up at the ceiling, “We should name him. You know, like Melvin.”
“You want to name the intruder who broke into our house?”
“Sure. He’s a pain in the ass. Or she’s a pain in the ass. See, we don’t even know that much, and saying he-slash-she-slash-it all the time annoys the shit out of me. Our intruder needs a name. Maybe, like Melvin, it will make it easier to manage him, too.”
Alex was silent for a moment. “I vote for Bob.”
“As in SquarePants? You want to name our person
al murder suspect after Jack’s favorite cartoon character?”
“Yes. Bob sounds very killable. How can you not be able to destroy a guy named Bob?”
By 2:05 A.M., D.D. had considered the matter. “What about Pat? Equally killable, but, in keeping with the spirit of investigative truth, androgynous. Bob implies information we don’t yet have.”
“Pat from the SNL skits,” Alex mused. “That works for me.”
“Then Pat it is. Melvin, meet Pat. Pat, meet Melvin. Now, both of you go away.”
Alex had reached for her hand. And they’d resumed their silent vigil, lying side by side in their shadowed bedroom, staring up at the blank ceiling, fingers lightly touching.
Now it was nearly 8:00 A.M. The phone rang, Alex answered and, a moment later, handed it to her.
“We have permission to interview Shana Day,” Phil said without preamble.
“When?”
“Nine sharp.”
“Where?”
“MCI.”
“Who?”
“Her sister must be present—Shana’s terms—plus one detective.”
“Not Neil,” she said immediately.
“Please, she’d eat him alive. I’ll do it.”
“Going with the kindhearted father figure?”
“Making it up as I go along.” Phil hesitated. “It should be you,” he said shortly. “Don’t think I don’t know that.”
“It should be me,” D.D. agreed. “She’s not going to buy into the kindhearted father figure, either. In her world, understanding is weakness, and males are her murder victims of choice.”
“I asked Horgan . . .”
“I’m not on active duty. I can’t do it. I know that.”
“Will you come anyway? I’m told the prison interview room has a viewing window. You can’t go in, but there’s nothing to say you can’t watch.”
“I’m there. Have you read her file yet?”
“Just pulling it up.”
“Don’t bother. I spent most of last night researching her and good ol’ Harry Day. Take it from me, you need to remember just one thing.”
“And that is . . . ?”
“Blood is love. And as the father figure, you’re going to have to prove that you love her very much.”
• • •
ALEX HELPED HER shower and dress. She was nervous, which surprised her. Her hands were shaking, and for a change, she barely noticed the ache in her left arm and shoulder. Alex helped ease a button-up silk shirt over her left arm. She winced; then the blouse was on, and Alex worked the buttons.
“For the record,” he commented, “I much prefer the removal process. This goes against my grain.”
She smiled but remained distracted.
“She’s just another killer, D.D. How many have you interviewed over the years?”
“Dozens.”
“Exactly. And this one’s behind bars, meaning she can’t even be that good.”
“She was fourteen. Didn’t have the maturity and foresight yet to better cover her tracks.”
“She’s just another killer,” he repeated.
She nodded, but they could both tell it wasn’t working. Then Phil arrived, looking even more hyped-up than she was, and Alex shook his head.
“You are the detectives,” he informed them both. “You’re smarter, more experienced and definitely more capable. Now, get out there, and learn what you need to know in order to destroy Pat.”
“Pat?” Phil asked.
“It’s a long story,” D.D. supplied.
“Perfect,” he said twitchily. “I could use one of those right now.”
. . .
• • •
ADELINE WAS WAITING for them in the prison’s lobby. She wore professional attire. Dark-brown slacks. A blue cashmere sweater. More respected psychiatrist than loving sister, D.D. noted. Girding her loins for what was sure to be a highly interesting conversation?
The doctor walked forward to greet them. She explained basic prison protocol, that all jewelry, bags, scarves, accessories, were to be checked into the available lockers. Phil also checked his sidearm; the MCI didn’t permit firearms to be carried even by the corrections officers in order to minimize the risk of a weapon being seized by an inmate and used against them.
D.D. noticed Adeline kept her MedicAlert bracelet on. Another concession to her condition, D.D. figured. In case of emergency, any first responder would need to know that the patient couldn’t feel pain and thus was in no position to judge her own condition. Plus that whole risk-of-overheating thing. On a hot summer’s day, if Adeline collapsed in public . . .
D.D. wondered how many times a day Adeline was asked about that bracelet and what it signified. And she wondered how willingly and truthfully Adeline answered such questions.
By the time they’d divulged all personal possessions, a stunning black woman with gorgeous cheekbones had arrived. Adeline introduced her as Superintendent Kim McKinnon. She proceeded to lead them through security, down a narrow hall to where she said Shana was already ensconced in the interview room, waiting for them.
“She’s still recovering from yesterday’s incident,” McKinnon informed them briskly, striding rapidly down the long, grungy white corridor. “She lost a lot of blood, so she tires easily. I’d suggest you get straight to the point while she can still answer your questions.”
“She cut herself?” D.D. asked.
The superintendent nodded.
“Serious suicide attempt?”
“Serious enough she probably would’ve died in another few minutes.”
“Has she done that before?”
“Shana suffers from severe depression, in addition to antisocial personality disorder. Think of it this way: She doesn’t just hate your guts; she hates her own guts as well.”
“Lovely,” D.D. murmured. “And how long have you known Shana?”
“Since I first assumed the position of superintendent ten years ago.”
“You think you can handle her?” D.D. asked curiously.
The superintendent arched an elegantly shaped brow. “Anyone who thinks she can handle Shana Day is a fool. The woman is too smart for her own good. And too bored for anyone else’s health.”
“You sound like you have a certain measure of respect for her.”
The superintendent seemed to consider the matter. “Shana was incarcerated at the age of fourteen,” the superintendent answered at last. “Only the first third of her life was lived outside these walls. Let’s just say, I may run the MCI, but Shana is the expert here. I don’t put anything past her, and in return, no officers have died on my watch.”
The superintendent stated the last sentence matter-of-factly, a not-so-subtle reminder of Shana’s full capabilities. Walking on the other side of the superintendent, Phil twitched again.
They arrived at their destination, a glass window overlooking a darkened room.
All of them halted, Phil nervously picking at a hangnail on his left thumb, while Adeline stared straight ahead, expression neutral. Her game face, D.D. figured. Whatever thoughts, feeling, emotions, the doc had about questioning her own sister regarding the two recent murders, she was carefully boxing up and putting away.
The interview room came equipped with an audio system. Superintendent McKinnon helped Phil insert the earpiece into his left ear, which would enable them to communicate with him once he was inside the room. With the audio system flipped on, they’d also be able to hear everything said inside the cramped eight-by-twelve-foot space.
Phil and Adeline would enter the room. D.D. and the superintendent would remain on the other side of the glass, observing. Shana was also entitled to have her lawyer present but had declined.
Now Superintendent McKinnon glanced at Adeline, who stood slightly off to one side, then stared hard at Phil
.
“Ready?” McKinnon asked him.
“Sure.”
“You need a breather, just walk out of the room. Remember, you can come and go as you please. She’s the one who has to sit there.”
The pep talk seemed to work for Phil. He drew himself up straighter, nodded his understanding.
Superintendent McKinnon reached over, flipped on a light switch. Inside the room, Shana Day came into view, clad in prison orange, sitting at a small interview table, shackled hands clasped on top.
The inmate raised her head slowly as Adeline opened the door and led Phil into the chamber.
• • •
AT FIRST GLANCE, the aging female killer wasn’t what D.D. had pictured. Photos online had been black-and-white smudges from a nearly thirty-year-old murder trial, meaning D.D. had been left to fill in the blanks. Given Adeline’s sleek beauty, not to mention Shana’s predilection for preying on men, D.D. had expected the juvenile murderess to have grown from a once-awkward fourteen-year-old girl into a passably attractive middle-aged brunette. Not even close.
Mouse-brown hair hung down in shoulder-length clumps. Washed-out skin, dark, puffy eyes, sunken cheekbones. Mouth set in a perpetually sullen line. Even beneath the oversize bulk of her prison jumpsuit, it was clear that the woman’s body was too thin, nearly bony. Thirty years of incarceration had not been kind to Shana Day, and judging by the look on her face, she knew it.
She didn’t glance over when Adeline and Phil entered but kept her gaze focused on the viewing glass, as if she knew both D.D. and Superintendent McKinnon were there.
Then she smiled.
A small, faintly knowing smirk that immediately set D.D.’s nerves on edge.
“Shana Day?” Phil began, approaching the table. “My name’s Phil. I’m a detective with the Boston PD.”
She didn’t look at him.
“I’m here with your sister, per your request. As I believe Superintendent McKinnon has mentioned, I have some questions regarding a couple of recent murders.”
Without waiting for her to respond, Phil pulled out one of the empty chairs and took a seat. Adeline stayed to the side, leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded over her chest. The support role, D.D. realized. She was doing her best to grant Phil center stage.