Fear Nothing: A Detective

by Lisa Gardner

  D.D. couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like to walk through the door, call his ailing mother’s name and receive no reply. Then, already starting to worry, moving to the back bedroom, only to discover his deepest, darkest fears had never been deep enough or dark enough to picture what he’d found there.

  Now Sgarzi’s hands clenched and unclenched spastically down by his sides. D.D. wondered if he was going to punch the brick fireplace or drive his fist through the aged yellow drywall. With obvious effort, the reporter seemed to pull himself together. One last shudder, then he turned, staring at them with a haggard expression.

  “Shana Day did this,” he stated, jabbing the air with one finger.

  “Now, Charlie,” Phil began.

  “Don’t ‘now, Charlie’ me. I’m onto her, and she knows it. I thought I was just sifting through old dirt when I started asking questions about her. Except first thing I learned is that she’s got eyes and ears beyond prison walls. And now she’s using them. Got herself a little killer puppet who can do all the work out here, while Shana sits in her cell pulling the strings. Perfect alibi, right? Shana couldn’t have killed my mother; she’s already locked up! But she did it. She slaughtered my mom to get back at me, and worse, she’s laughing her ass off because she knows there’s nothing you can do about it. This is what thirty years of incarceration has taught her—how to perfect her own goddamn crime.”

  “Would your mother have opened the door for a deliveryman?” Phil asked again.

  “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “Does she have a home security system?” D.D. spoke up.

  “Yeah, the house is alarmed.”

  “Cameras?”

  “No. Just wired the doors and windows.”

  “Name of the company?”

  Sgarzi supplied it; Phil wrote it down.

  “Did your mother mention noticing anyone new in the neighborhood? A stranger she’d spotted lurking around? New tenant on the block?”

  “No.”

  “Feeling as if she was being watched?” Phil asked.

  “My mom didn’t leave the house and kept the blinds down. How the hell could anyone watch her?”

  Fair enough, D.D. thought. “What about a visiting nurse, some other kind of health professional?” she spoke up.

  “Yeah. Twice a week, Nurse Eliot. My mom needed more help, course, but that’s all we could afford.”

  “Nurse Eliot? Male, female?”

  “Older woman. Nice enough. My mom liked her.”

  “And it was always the same nurse?”

  “Most of the time. But if Nurse Eliot couldn’t make it, they’d send someone else. But they always called and notified us ahead of time. Besides, Nurse Eliot worked Tuesdays and Fridays, so no one was due to show up until tomorrow. Did the neighbors see anything?” Sgarzi jumped ahead. “I mean, the guy would’ve had to stand on the front porch, in full view of the street. . . .”

  “We’re canvassing now,” Phil assured him, voice still soft.

  “Which means you got nothing!” Sgarzi accused. “One of your plainclothes had anything good, you’d have heard it by now. Son of a bitch!”

  He whirled back around, returned to staring at the fireplace.

  “You said you brought food back for your mom,” D.D. said. “What about lunch?”

  “She does one of those nutritional drinks for lunch. Ensure, something like that.”

  D.D. eyed the reporter’s back. “What about midafternoon snack? Because there are two plates and glasses in the sink.”

  “What?”

  Sgarzi turned around again, eyes wide. Before they could stop him, he barreled past them, into the kitchen.

  “Don’t touch anything!” Phil’s voice boomed behind him.

  The reporter’s arm froze right where he was already reaching into the stainless steel sink for the first glass.

  “Evidence,” D.D. chimed in more directly.

  Sgarzi returned his arm to his side. “She had a guest,” he said, and his voice sounded funny, almost confused.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ma hasn’t eaten much in weeks. Side effects of the drugs, pain, who knows. I bring her dinner, she has a little breakfast, then one of those drinks for lunch. But two plates, two glasses. And these are her good plates. She brought them out for special occasions. You know, like a guest.”

  “Charlie,” D.D. said quietly, “is it possible your mom knew who came to her door this afternoon? That’s why she let the person in?”

  “I don’t know,” Sgarzi said, and his voice sounded dazed, far from his certainty of before.

  “If she had a guest, what would she offer?” Phil asked.

  “Fig Newtons. Tea and cookies, you know?” Sgarzi opened a cupboard, pulled out a yellow cellophane package. It appeared to have been freshly opened, with two cookies missing.

  “Son of a bitch,” Charlie said again.

  “We’re going to need a list of your mother’s friends and acquaintances,” Phil began.

  “No, you don’t. My mother was dying of cancer. The people who knew her didn’t come here looking for cookies; they brought her food. This was a stranger guest, you know? The kind of person you’re still getting to know, putting your best foot forward, that kind of thing.” Sgarzi frowned down at the yellow package, as if the cookies could tell him something. “A friend of a friend would do it,” he murmured. “Someone who claimed to know me, or an old acquaintance returning to the neighborhood. Someone who knew Donnie,” he concluded abruptly. “Someone claiming to know something about Donnie.” He glanced at them. “She’d open her door for that person. Invite him in. Offer him refreshments on her nicest plates. She’d make an effort for someone who once knew Donnie. I’m telling you, Shana Day killed my mom. And you’re fucking idiots for not having stopped her sooner.”

  D.D. didn’t bother with a reply. Lack of evidence to support his theory, due process, investigative 101—these were not topics that interested Charlie Sgarzi. What he really wanted was the one thing they’d never be able to give him—his mother back.

  Phil got the man to return to the front parlor, while putting a crime scene tech to work fingerprinting the items in the sink, as well as everything else in the kitchen. Phil had just gotten Sgarzi started making a list of his mother’s friends and neighbors when Alex appeared.

  He had a look on his face D.D. had never seen before; not just very grave but also deeply troubled. He made a gesture for her to follow him.

  Not one word of warning. Not a single expression of encouragement.

  Which was how D.D. knew it was going to be awful before she ever entered the room.

  • • •

  THE BACK BEDROOM WAS VERY TINY, probably originally intended to be a rear study in the quaint Colonial-style house. Most likely the room had been converted when Janet Sgarzi’s health had deteriorated to the point she could no longer climb the stairs.

  A single hospital-style bed with metal railings dominated most of the space, pushed up against the far wall and blocking what was probably a rear exit. Next to the bed was an old oak nightstand, topped with a pitcher of water, numerous orange pill bottles and, of course, a champagne bottle and a single red rose.

  D.D. stared at the two items for a moment, because knowing what she was about to see didn’t make it any easier.

  “No fur-lined handcuffs,” she murmured.

  “No,” Alex said from beside her, where he currently blocked her view of the bed. The two of them were tucked tightly together, crammed into the remaining space in the room. For her to step forward, he would have to fall back, and vice versa. “There are some differences this time around,” he continued. “With both the victim and the MO. Though the differences in the MO may have to do with differences in the victim.”

  “Start from the beginning?”

 
“The victim is sixty-eight-year-old Janet Sgarzi, lived alone, also in the end stages of cancer. The living-alone part is consistent with our victim profile. Her age and health, however, make her distinct. We’ve gone from a predator who targets relatively young single women, to the murder of an ailing elderly mother.”

  “Daylight attack,” D.D. supplied. “Higher risk for our predator.”

  “Yes. Pat is getting bolder. Then again, this particular victim had a reputation for caution and probably wouldn’t have answered her door after dark. Also, while she lived alone, sounds like Charlie often stayed over, given the state of Janet’s health. Meaning a nighttime attack might have actually proved riskier in this particular case.”

  “The Rose Killer watched her first. Must have to account for all those variables.”

  “Which we figured,” Alex said. “Pat does his or her homework, plans ahead. That’s why we can’t get a bead on him/her, even after four break-ins.”

  “Four?”

  “Three murders, plus our own home. Which was also midday.”

  D.D. straightened. “Pat was practicing! I bet you anything the son of a bitch was practicing. Toying with us, yes, but also practicing! Pat had already selected the next victim, Janet Sgarzi, who would have to be approached during the day. So Pat worked on technique while scoping out and entering our house. Dammit!”

  Alex placed a hand on her right shoulder. Not to soothe but to still her.

  “D.D.,” he said, and there was a wealth of gravitas in that word.

  Immediately, she fell silent.

  “To continue our analysis,” he stated formally.

  “Okay.”

  “Pat plans ahead. In this case, the Rose Killer had to approach the victim during the day. Given the victim’s age and health, however, Pat probably wasn’t worried about overpowering her even if she was awake and fully conscious. Just to be safe, however, the killer appears to have brought a colorless, odorless and tasteless sedative; Ben recovered a vial from the trash can with traces of Rohypnol. Most likely, Pat drugged Janet Sgarzi first.”

  “There are dishes for two in the sink,” D.D. reported. “As if Janet shared refreshments with a guest beforehand. Fig Newtons.”

  Alex grimaced.

  “Chances are, Janet Sgarzi never felt a thing,” Alex said quietly. “Compared to what the cancer was doing to her body, perhaps you could argue this was . . . easier. At least, a less painful way to die. And yet . . .”

  He stepped back, revealing the oversize, metal-framed hospital bed. And despite herself, D.D. gasped.

  Postmortem, she reminded herself. Postmortem, postmortem, postmortem. And yet, as Alex had said, it didn’t help.

  True to the first two crime scenes, the Rose Killer had flayed the skin from Janet Sgarzi’s torso and upper thighs. Unlike the first two victims, however, young, relatively healthy females, Janet had already been wasting away from a terrible disease. She’d been nothing but skin and bones. Meaning once the killer had removed the skin . . .

  D.D. put a hand over her mouth. She couldn’t help herself. As crime scenes went, this one would leave a mark.

  “There are hesitation marks,” Alex said.

  “What?”

  “Along the edge of her outer thigh, and ribs. You can see . . . The skin is jagged, not evenly sliced. Third time out, a killer should have less internal resistance. He/she should be growing even more adept and elaborate with his handiwork. Instead, our killer struggled with this one.”

  “Her age?” D.D. guessed. “Harder to attack an elderly woman?”

  “No fur-lined handcuffs,” Alex said. “Which are the most blatantly sexual objects left behind at each scene. If we’re thinking a female killer obsessed with attacking young women in order to collect ribbons of unblemished skin—”

  “An elderly woman doesn’t fit. She’s not the Rose Killer’s type. Are we even sure this is the Rose Killer’s handiwork and not a copycat crime?”

  “Yes,” Alex said.

  “But the hesitation marks, lack of restraints—”

  “Janet Sgarzi is his third victim,” Alex interrupted her. “One hundred and fifty-three, D.D. That’s what I’ve been doing. Counting flayed strips of human flesh. And I hope to God I never have to do that ever again in my lifetime, but it did yield the magic number: one hundred and fifty-three ribbons of skin.”

  D.D. didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t swallow, much less talk. No wonder Alex had appeared so . . . somber. Of all the scenes he’d ever had to analyze . . .

  “I’m sorry,” she said at last.

  “Janet Sgarzi was the Rose Killer’s victim,” Alex continued steadily. “She wasn’t, however, the killer’s preferred victim type. Meaning something else must have made her a target.”

  “Charlie Sgarzi believes Shana Day did this,” D.D. supplied. “She ordered the Rose Killer to murder his mother to get back at him for investigating her. Or maybe to warn him off, in which case, I don’t think it worked, because he’s mostly vowed revenge.”

  “Or she knew something,” Alex said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Shana Day has been quietly sitting in solitary for nearly thirty years, yes?”

  “True.”

  “And now, suddenly, you believe she’s engaged in some kind of coded communication with a serial killer who’s magically appeared in Boston and seems to be emulating another long-dead predator, Harry Day.”

  “True.”

  “Except, returning to the question of the day, why now? What’s the inciting event? The thirty-year anniversary of Donnie Johnson’s murder? Because that seems rather arbitrary as anniversary dates go.”

  D.D. gave him a look. “We discussed this. And trust me, you doubted my intelligence just fine the first time.”

  “I’m not doubting your intelligence. I’m offering a theory. Janet Sgarzi wasn’t just Donnie Johnson’s aunt; she was Charlie’s mom—the reporter who, only a matter of months ago, started asking fresh questions about his cousin’s death.”

  D.D. looked up at him, frowning. “You mean . . .”

  “A thirty-year anniversary date is subjective. Reopening an investigation into an old murder, on the other hand . . . What if Shana really does have a friend from back in the day? And what if that person knows things, or did things, that all these years later, he/she/it still can’t afford to come to light?”

  “The Rose Killer’s true motive isn’t a macabre string of murders deliberately staged to recall shades of Harry Day,” D.D. murmured. “It’s a cover-up. Because there’s no statute of limitations on homicide. Pat’s still got everything to lose.”

  “And one very real weakness,” Alex offered grimly. “Shana Day.”

  Chapter 24

  SUPERINTENDENT MCKINNON CALLED just after 6:00 A.M. Having yet to fall asleep, I found it easy enough to pick up the phone, then murmur the appropriate words as McKinnon explained that my sister wanted to speak with me. But of course, I said. I could be there at eight.

  Then I hung up the phone and crawled out of the depths of my closet, where I’d spent the night after D. D. Warren’s phone call notifying me of the Rose Killer’s latest attack. I spent long minutes under the stinging spray of a lukewarm shower. I still didn’t feel quite human.

  What to wear for this latest battle of wits? I went with the fuchsia cardigan. It seemed the obvious choice. It felt that for years my sister and I had been engaged in a dance. One step forward, one step back, swaying side to side. The music was changing now. Speeding up, moving toward a pounding crescendo, where, at the end, only one of us would be left standing.

  I contemplated checking in with D.D. or Detective Phil as I drove south to the MCI. But I didn’t. I already knew what I would say to Shana, what I had to do. And when it came to my sister, I was the expert. It was only appropriate that I should be the one calling t
he shots.

  I entered the sterile, gray shaded lobby. Showed proper ID, then checked my purse into an available locker. I went through the tasks on autopilot, a ritual I’d performed too often lately. If my sister was the one who had committed the crime, then why did I feel like the one who was spending all of her time in prison?

  Superintendent McKinnon was already waiting for me. She escorted me through security, down a back hall, her low-slung black heels clicking briskly.

  “No BPD?” she asked.

  “The day is young. How is Shana?”

  “Same old, same old. That reporter, Charlie Sgarzi . . . Paper says his mother was murdered last night. Latest victim of the Rose Killer.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “You think Shana’s involved, don’t you?” The superintendent stopped walking, turning abruptly, arms crossed over her chest. Dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit, hair pulled tight, high, sculpted cheekbones pronounced, her intimidating look worked well for her. “I called an emergency meeting of my COs yesterday. Demanded to know if any of them had caught so much as a whiff of Shana communicating with anyone inside or outside of the prison. According to them, there’s no way, no how. Least they haven’t suspected a thing.”

  I kept my voice neutral. “Not the kind of thing the guilty party would admit to, though. As you mentioned yesterday, if a corrections officer is the one serving as the messenger, it would be for a price.”

  “Except no price is high enough to help your sister. She’s killed two of our own. Behind these walls, that kind of thing is taken personally.”

  “Are you sure? Those killings happened a long time ago, before many of your current COs started working here. For that matter, before you came here.”

  McKinnon stared at me, gaze hard. “What are you getting at, Adeline?”