by Lisa Gardner
D.D.’s eyes widened. “That’s our connection? Harry Day once collected one hundred fifty-three strips of skin and that’s your sister’s new favorite number? How do you think she learned that number? Looked it up, or maybe got it from some reporter researching her father years ago?”
“I checked. There’s not actually a lot written about Harry. And none of the articles I found contained that level of specificity regarding the crime scene. I even Googled his name combined with the number one hundred fifty-three. No hits.”
“Did your sister get her hands on the police report? Have her own copy?”
“Doubtful. We could check with the prison librarian, of course, see what kinds of subjects Shana was prone to researching.”
D.D. pursed her lips, feeling more confused than ever. “At the end of the day,” she said slowly, “Shana provided us with a number that relates back to her father. But that’s it, right? So she knows how many pieces of skin he collected. Now we do, too. Doesn’t necessarily mean it’s something to be too concerned about yet.”
Silence. Long silence. Long enough that D.D. suffered a sudden, acute feeling of foreboding, while Melvin began to ache.
“The Rose Killer,” Adeline started, and D.D. no longer wanted her to continue. “He’s removed strips of skin from his victims. I don’t suppose your ME knows how many?”
D.D. closed her eyes, said nothing.
“It’s only a guess, of course, but if those numbers match . . .”
“Your sister offered up a tangible connection between her and the Rose Killer. Proving she’s involved in this mess once and for all.”
“I’m assuming you’ll call the ME next.”
“Oh, I would assume that.”
“Detective, Shana does nothing without a reason. The question isn’t, what does her partner get out of this relationship. The question is, what does Shana get out of it? What’s in it for her? And I can tell you, the answer to that question won’t be simple. It would be easier for all of us if my sister were just a homicidal maniac. But she’s not. She’s smart, she’s strategic, and she’s . . . complicated. She’s also already lost thirty years of her life behind bars. If all of this is some gambit for her to get out, a brief furlough in return for her cooperation, as she alluded to this morning . . .”
“Yeah?”
“She won’t go back, D.D. I know that much about my sister. In her mind, she made one mistake when she was just a kid—”
“You mean killing another kid?”
“No, I mean getting caught killing another kid. Inside prison, Shana’s life is over. Outside . . . Whatever is going on here, whatever Shana’s looking for, we can’t give it to her. She will win and we will lose.”
“Is that your opinion as a professional psychiatrist or as a little sister?”
“Do you have any siblings, Detective?”
“Nope, I’m an only child.”
“For most of my childhood, so was I. So I’m sticking to professional psychiatrist. You’ll call the ME’s office?”
“I’ll do that. In the meantime, we’re not going to jump to any conclusions. And we are absolutely, positively not going to let this mess with our heads.”
D.D. could practically feel Adeline’s tired smile over the phone line. “Let me know how that works for you, Detective. As for myself, I’m going shopping. A little retail therapy can ease the burden of any woman’s soul.”
The doctor hung up. D.D. called the ME’s office. She had to wait ten minutes for Ben to pick up the line. As a matter of fact, he’d just finished arranging and analyzing the strips of skin from the first victim earlier in the afternoon. He’d counted 153.
“I’m actually guessing one hundred and sixty were removed,” he continued briskly. “With seven being taken away as souvenirs. I don’t have any proof, of course. Only that one hundred and sixty is a nice round number, and it’s clear to me that some amount of derma remains missing.”
D.D. thanked him for his report, disconnected the phone, hung her head. It didn’t matter, she thought. Whether the Rose Killer had removed 160 strips of skin total, or 155, or 161. What mattered was the precise number left behind for the investigators to find and catalogue. One hundred fifty-three.
A numeric homage to Harry Day. As predicted by his daughter Shana.
“I absolutely, positively will not let this mess with my head,” she muttered. Then: “Shit.”
Chapter 22
WHAT DID IT FEEL LIKE to open your eyes in the middle of the night and find a killer standing in the middle of your bedroom? The split second when you blinked your eyes owlishly, because such a thing, the silhouette of a man now at the foot of your bed, couldn’t be. It just . . . couldn’t be.
Did you scream? Or did the terror squeeze your throat, compress your chest just as quickly and easily as his hands would soon do. Denial. An innate inability to process. This couldn’t be happening. Not to me. Not here. I’m not this kind of person, I don’t lead this kind of life, I wasn’t meant for this kind of death.
Then the gleam of the finely honed blade moving in the dark . . .
My thoughts scattered. Jumping and leaping as I roamed the overbright shopping mall, surrounded by a sea of humanity and judiciously avoiding all eye contact as I clutched my oversize purse and went about my business.
At the Ann Taylor store. Dutifully trying on a new cream-colored blouse, a pair of camel-colored wool pants. Glancing once at the name tag of the chirpy young sales clerk. Then noticing her pale left hand, devoid of rings, and wondering if she had her own place, a confident single woman with her own apartment. She had brown hair like me, a quick smile.
I wondered if she was the Rose Killer’s type. I’d never thought to ask about hair color, physiology. Ted Bundy had preferred blondes. And my sister’s possible friend?
I fled the store to the women’s restroom, which was thankfully empty. In the end stall. Metallic-blue water bottle out. Clear formaldehyde solution pouring into the toilet. Flushing.
Then back at the sink, rinsing out the bottle more energetically than most. A mother walked in, juggling three large shopping bags and two young kids. She gave me a weary smile, then disappeared into the handicap stall with her charges.
I made a show of refilling my water bottle just in case. Then tucked it in my purse, nestled against a gallon-size bag of crushed glass. Or maybe it was the quart-size bag of human skin.
I left the mall, drove to Target, where at least I had a shopping list.
Six P.M. now. The sun gone, the evening biting. Huddling along with the rest of the postwork commuters, head down, as we performed our final errands before marching home.
The ladies’ room in Target was much more crowded. I had to wait in line for a stall, feeling increasingly self-conscious. Finally, one opened up. I stood before the toilet, fumbling with my purse, then realized belatedly that the waiting patrons would notice my feet facing the wrong way; in that stance, I couldn’t possibly be sitting.
Rearranging myself quickly, purse now on my lap. Waiting for someone to flush so the noise would cover the sound of me working the zipper. I stood at the last minute, dumping half the bag’s contents into the toilet. The bloated strands of flesh had become one congealed mass, floating on top of the water and looking almost exactly like a dead goldfish, before sinking to the bottom of the toilet.
I thought I might vomit. A curious sensation, so far removed from myself, it occurred to me that while harvesting human skin somehow allowed me to sleep better at night, disposing of evidence made me ill.
Another sign of genetic mutation? My adoptive father had had it all wrong. He’d studied me for signs of pain, when he should’ve been analyzing me for signs of violence.
I flushed the toilet. The bowl emptied, refilled.
And three tendrils of human flesh floated back to the top.
I nearly scre
amed. Had to catch myself, bite my lower lip.
Hands shaking, breath panting, I flushed again. Control, control. Nothing here that couldn’t be managed . . .
Second time was the charm. The toilet bowl emptied, then refilled devoid of human tissue.
I turned, carefully composed my features, then unlocked the stall door and proceeded to the sink.
Not a single waiting female so much as glanced at me. At least, I didn’t think so.
I washed my hands twice. Just . . . because.
I wondered, not for the first time, how my father had done it.
Was he so cold that he felt nothing when either targeting his victims or, inevitably, cleaning up afterward? Or was the difference that this was the only time he felt anything at all? It was the nervous energy, combined with the corresponding adrenaline rush, that urged him on. Oh, and of course, his need to inflict misery. A miswired sexual circuit board that made him feed off pain instead of pleasure. Until doing the worst felt the best to him.
I often thought if my father were still alive, he would be the first to tell you it wasn’t his fault. He’d been born that way. It was simply his nature. Which he’d graciously handed down to his older daughter, Shana, while apparently saving some pieces for me.
Except I didn’t want to be Harry Day’s daughter. I didn’t want to be Shana Day’s sister.
And I wondered about my mother again. A mere shadow of a woman, who didn’t even exist on paper, and yet had been the one to take our father’s life.
Dad is love. Mom is worse.
As D. D. Warren and I had discussed, in any relationship there could be only one alpha. In my family, clearly my father had called all the shots. Meaning if my mother had fed him aspirin before slitting his wrists, it was only because he’d told her to. He’d commanded, and she’d obeyed.
Which Shana held against my mother, because she had sensed the submissive in her, the weak female, which Shana despised. Shana identified with our father, the alpha hunter, living on his own terms. I often wondered if she envied his decision to die rather than be captured.
If Shana and I had still been in the same home, like true sisters, when the police had come for her thirty years ago, would she have climbed into the tub, then silently handed me the razor?
And me?
Maybe I would’ve accepted the razor. Then leaned forward and delicately removed a single strip of skin before running away.
My sister was wrong. I was not our mother, any more than I was our father. Somehow, I was both. A submissive predator who both harmed and felt remorse. A terrible person some nights, while holding strong even more nights.
We can all be both good and bad. Heroic and evil. Strong and weak.
I shivered again, seeing things in my mind I didn’t want to see, and unable to shake the relentless feeling of dread. My sister had spoken. She’d given us a number tying our long-dead father to a new and improved killer.
My sister, all these years later, still determined to make me bleed.
From Target, I went to the grocery store. Another stop in the restroom. The last of the human skin flushed down the toilet. On the first try, this time. Apparently, the grocery store had better water pressure.
I crumbled up the bag in my fist, then deposited it beneath a pile of crushed paper towels in the trash, along with the rubber stoppers.
More hand washing. My skin dry and chapped from such stringent cleaning. I couldn’t feel it, of course. Just note the red, inflamed skin stretched over my knuckles. I made a mental note to apply Aquaphor later tonight. I should also take a magnifying glass and inspect myself for slivers and broken bits of vial. In my earlier rush, it was possible I’d somehow maimed myself, and the wound was even now starting to fester. It wasn’t as if I would know.
After all, what would I feel if I woke up in the middle of the night and found a killer standing in the middle of my bedroom? It wasn’t as if he could cause me pain. Surprise, yes. Shock, rage and even shame. But no pain.
Never any pain.
And I thought, rather wildly, that my father had to have known. I bet he did cut me when I was a baby, because why would he have cared about my mother’s pleas? No, I bet one night he casually reached over and sliced a razor across my pudgy fist.
Except I hadn’t reacted. I’d remained rooted in the same spot, little arm still outstretched, blood welling, staring at him with perfectly solemn, baby eyes. Practically daring him to do worse.
I bet I’d unnerved him. I might have even sparked fear in the heart of the alpha. Until he’d picked up my baby carrier and stuck me in the closet. Anything to keep me from studying him with my all-knowing gaze.
I was not my mother. I was not my father. I was not my sister.
I was my family’s conscience.
No wonder they’d kept me in the closet.
All alone.
Eight P.M. The temperature had fallen even further, and I shivered inside my wool coat as I trudged back to my car, two grocery bags in hand. I wanted to go home, but I still had the crushed vials. Where could you dispose of broken glass and no one would notice?
Then, it came to me. Recycling. Of course. Glass recycling.
I loaded my twin bags into my car, then returned to the front of the grocery store and its blue-plastic recycling center. Sure enough, one bin marked glass. I glanced around, waiting for a lull in pedestrian traffic.
Then I quickly opened my purse, grabbed the gallon-size bag, yanked it open and dumped out the glass. One, two, three, done.
Mission complete, I headed once more for the automatic doors, looking up only at the last minute to spot the security cameras directly overhead. Pointed at the recycling bin.
Go, go, go, I instructed my suddenly frozen muscles. Move!
Back outside into the bitter night. Nearly fleeing to my car, where I put it in gear and raced out of the parking lot. Two, three, four blocks down before I got my breathing under control and forced myself to focus.
Grocery stores had security cameras to protect against shoplifting. I hadn’t taken anything illegally; ergo, I had nothing to fear. In fact, I’d dumped glass into glass recycling, so I really hadn’t done anything wrong.
Just go home, I ordered myself. It had been a long and trying day, dealing with my sister, the riddle of 153 and the terrible possibilities that now loomed ahead.
But time was on our side. The Rose Killer had struck only two days prior. Given the cycle of six weeks between first and second victim, odds were the police had at least another month before the killer attacked again. Plenty of time to figure out the best way for handling Shana and her manipulative games.
Plenty of time for me to get my head on straight.
Nine P.M. Finally entering my condo, where I dropped various shopping bags on the floor.
I walked straight into my bedroom. Turned on a lone bedside lamp. Stripped off my clothes.
Then moved into my closet, where I curled up on the floor, huddled in the pitch black, arms wrapped tight around my knees, as I gazed at the faint sliver of light formed along the edge of the door.
And finally succumbed to wave after wave of nameless fear.
How would you feel? What would you do? If you woke up in the middle of the night and found a killer standing in the middle of your bedroom?
“Daddy,” I whispered.
While out in the bedroom, my phone began to ring.
Chapter 23
CHARLIE SGARZI LOOKED DESTROYED. Set jaw, obstinate chin, solid shoulders, all gone. Instead, he sat on his mother’s sofa, a gutted version of his former self, and regarded D.D. and Phil with red-rimmed eyes.
“You don’t understand,” he said thickly. “She never opened her door without first checking the peephole. And she sure as hell wouldn’t let a stranger into the house. Even in broad daylight. When do you think my cousin was killed?
”
D.D. nodded. She remembered Sgarzi having said that his mother basically lived as a shut-in.
And yet, sometime roughly between two and four this afternoon, according to the ME’s initial assessment, the Rose Killer had entered Janet Sgarzi’s home. At which point the killer had drugged Charlie’s ninety-pound cancer-ravaged elderly mother, carried her to a back bedroom and proceeded according to plan.
Charlie had discovered the scene shortly after seven, when he’d shown up at the house with dinner. Having Phil’s card from their earlier discussion, he’d dialed the older detective direct. In turn, Phil had summoned Alex to assist with the crime scene analysis and D.D. to serve as an “independent consultant.”
They’d been driving to Alex’s parents’ house to pick up Jack. Instead, they’d turned around, notifying his understanding parents as they’d headed straight to the Rose Killer’s latest crime scene. A tiny, perfectly appointed home in South Boston that reeked of old memories and fresh blood.
“It’s possible the killer poses as a security company employee, pest control, etcetera,” Phil said. “Would your mother have opened her door for a deliveryman, that kind of thing?”
“Why hasn’t that been in the paper?” Sgarzi exploded.
“Because we haven’t found any witnesses to corroborate our theory,” Phil supplied gently. “Right now, it’s just our best guess based on the ease with which the suspect is accessing his victims’ homes. You say your mother was cautious—”
“Yes!”
“Could she have been asleep in the middle of the afternoon?”
“She naps, yeah. Hell, she’s getting near the end now. More bad days than good and nothing the doctors can do . . . I mean, could’ve done. Ah geez. I need a fucking minute, okay?”
The tiny front parlor allowed little space for privacy. Sgarzi stalked over to the fireplace and stood staring at the mantel.
The house reminded D.D. of Sgarzi’s apartment. Small but well kept. Freshly dusted surfaces, vacuumed rugs. She wondered if Janet still maintained her own home or if it was something Sgarzi did for his mom. Most likely the latter, given the woman’s drastically declining health. Just like Sgarzi had brought his mother dinner tonight. Soup from one of her favorite local restaurants, he’d said, as swallowing solid foods was becoming increasingly difficult.