by Lisa Gardner
“Who else knows this story?” D.D. asked.
The woman shrugged again. “I don’t know. I mean, I answered questions at the time. We all did. Bits and pieces. But did they hear? Did they care? You don’t know what it’s like. Inmates aren’t humans. We’re animals, baaing and bleating for all they care. Course they swept it under the rug. COs got their funerals, the widows got their pensions. We got new guards. Just another day in paradise.”
“And the superintendent?”
“You mean the boss? We never saw the boss. Not until Superintendent Beyoncé at least. She pretends to like us, even visits the units on occasion. But Boss Wallace? No way.”
Superintendent McKinnon, aka Beyoncé, had been at the MCI for only the past ten years, meaning Christi’s story had happened under her predecessor’s reign. Which might explain why McKinnon didn’t seem aware of all the grim details.
“You ever speak to Shana?” Phil asked now.
“Never saw her again. I got out of solitary while she was still recovering in medical.”
“But the guards,” Adeline spoke up, “Richie, Frankie, Howard, never targeted her? You’re sure about that.”
“Yep.”
“So why, then, do you think she chose to get involved?” Adeline asked.
“For Adeline,” Christi said. Her gaze focused on the doctor, expression openly curious. “You’re Adeline, aren’t you?”
Adeline nodded.
“You’re her sister?”
Another nod.
“You’ve never been in prison, though. You look too nice.”
A faint smile.
“I had a brother,” Christi said abruptly. “Five years younger. When I was a kid and our father had been drinking . . . I tried to make sure my father didn’t see Benny. Or if he did, then my father maybe got distracted, noticed me instead.”
“Did that work?” Adeline asked.
“For a bit. Then Benny turned twelve, started drinking himself, and it didn’t matter anymore. They were both mean-ass drunks.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I loved my baby brother. The before-twelve Benny. I would’ve died for him. Coupla times, I nearly did. When Shana looked at me, when she whispered, ‘Adeline,’ I knew what she meant. She was really saying ‘Benny.’ She was saving you.”
“Maybe.”
“Are you worth saving?” Christi asked intently. “Or are you the same ungrateful piece of shit my brother turned out to be?”
“I don’t know. Like most sisters, our relationship’s . . . complicated.”
“I’m glad she killed Frankie. I don’t care if that’s wrong or not. He was just like my father. Different man, different uniform, same son of a bitch. Shana knew that. She saw him for what he was, and she used it against him.”
“How did she know all those things about him?” Phil asked. “His divorce, kids, dog. Was that all true?”
“I don’t how she knew, but after Frankie’s death, we heard the COs whispering. According to them, his wife had left him two weeks before for another guard. That’s why he started spending the night.”
“But you never heard the gossip until after Frankie’s death?” Phil repeated.
Christi shrugged. “Not that I remember. Shana knew things about Richie, too. Like, like his own private thoughts, innermost secrets. I think that’s what she was whispering to him that night. She was telling him that everything he feared the most about himself was true. That’s why he wanted to die. I mean, once you understand that you’re not just a worthless piece of shit, but the whole rest of the world knows it, too? Dying doesn’t seem such a bad option. He walked straight into her arms and she was . . . nice about it. Almost tender. Girl’s got voodoo. That’s what I think.”
“You tell all this to Charlie Sgarzi?” D.D. asked.
“The reporter? Yeah, he came sniffing around, coupla months ago. Working on some big ‘bestseller’ involving Shana.” Christi used the term bestseller mockingly.
“You answer his questions?”
“He offered me dinner,” Christi said, as if that should explain things, “at the Olive Garden. Hey, a girl’s gotta eat.”
“He ask you about his cousin’s murder, Donnie Johnson?”
“Yeah, but I couldn’t answer those questions. Shana never spoke about it. Never even heard her say his name.”
“But you knew what she’d done, right? Her case was a big deal back in the day. Surely other girls must’ve asked her about it,” Phil pressed.
Christi looked at him in surprise. Then she laughed. “You’ve never even met her, have you?”
“I have.”
“Yeah? And how many questions did you survive? You can’t just . . . talk . . . to someone like Shana. She’s serious fucked-up shit. Not the cute kind of cuckoo, or the lights-on-but-nobody’s-home loony. She’s really, genuinely, sold-my-soul-to-the-devil crazy. She don’t care about me or anyone else in the place. I mean, sure, she killed Frankie. And maybe she wanted to save the rest of us or whatever. But mostly, she just plain wanted to kill him. I mean, she stabbed him like a zillion times. Then licked his blood. I don’t remember Wonder Woman ever doing that at the end of an episode.”
“But then she called you Adeline,” D.D. pointed out, because she found that curious. That Frankie’s assault of Christi had seemed to trigger something inside Shana. She’d slaughtered him; whereas, the death of the second guard, Rich, had been much more subdued, almost gentle, as Christi said.
“She’s Adeline; ask her.” Christi gestured to the doctor.
D.D. turned to Adeline.
“Basic projection,” Adeline supplied, her voice sounding rough, not quite her usual composed self. The doctor cleared her throat. “Shana spent four years in an abusive household before moving to a series of foster homes that probably offered little in the way of personal security. For such people, a younger sibling often comes to represents the person’s own inner child. In trying to rescue a younger sibling, the older child is really trying to go back and save herself. Shana fixated on guarding me as a proxy for protecting herself. Likewise, in prison, looking out for younger, less experienced inmates would be one way of trying to preserve some sense of self.”
“Yeah?” Christi asked. “And where does the blood licking come in?”
“Genetics,” Adeline said, and there was a grim smile around her lips.
“What did Sgarzi tell you about his book?” Phil asked.
“Not much. Shana killed his cousin. He was writing about it and he wanted to interview her and people like me in order to get the inside scoop.”
“What did he think of this story involving the corrupt COs?”
“Honestly? He seemed a little shocked. I mean, if the guy’s gonna write a true-crime book, don’t you think he’s got to get a better stomach for gore?”
“Was it news to him?” Phil asked.
“Seemed like it.”
“He asked you about friends, fans of Shana’s?”
“Yeah. But that’s a short answer. She doesn’t have any.”
“You keep in touch with her?” Adeline asked. “After you were paroled?”
“Nah. I hardly ever talked to her when we were both still in the joint. Why would I talk to her outside of it?”
“But inmates can communicate inside the prison.”
“Sure.” Christi squirmed in her seat, looking at her parole officer self-consciously.
The officer got the hint. “How about I fetch us a couple of bottles of water?” Candace suggested brightly.
“Sure.”
The moment the PO was out of earshot, Christi leaned forward. “People pass notes all the time. Between cells, between floors. Inmate to inmate, guard to inmate. Sometimes, just to have something to do. Other times, in return for favors, you know. Chocolate, sex, drugs. Depends on the message,
depends on the messenger.”
“But not Shana?”
“Guards don’t trust her. She killed two of them. And even if you weren’t a fan of Frankie or Richie, the way she did it . . .” Christi shivered slightly. “MCI’s own girly Hannibal Lecter,” she muttered. “You know she once cut her own finger and stirred the blood into her applesauce?”
D.D. and Phil shook their heads; Adeline didn’t.
“Now, maybe if she were into drugs,” Christi continued briskly, “then she’d have currency for bribing guards or paying for friends. Or if she weren’t so fucking scary, she could offer a quick BJ, something. But Shana is . . . Shana. Guards fear her. Inmates stay clear of her. Like hell anyone’s gonna pass notes on her behalf; they don’t even offer up a Hi, hey, how you doin’. That’s the truth of it, plain and simple.”
D.D. nodded. Sitting across from her, she could see Adeline’s strained expression. She wondered how much the doctor had ever fully contemplated her sister’s life behind bars. It was one thing to know your sister suffered from antisocial personality disorder. It was another thing to know your sister suffered due to her antisocial personality disorder.
“You think Shana’s smart?” Phil asked now. D.D. regarded him curiously, unsure where he was going with this.
“Sure.”
“Think she could catch a killer?”
“If she wanted to.” Christi shrugged. “But you probably wouldn’t get him back in one piece.”
“And she never spoke of Donnie Johnson?”
“Nope.”
“What about at night?” Adeline spoke up. “Did she suffer from nightmares, ever talk in her sleep?”
“Oh, I’m sure she had nightmares. We all do.”
“But did she say anything?”
“Only ever heard her whisper one name.”
“Which was?”
Christi regarded the doctor, her gaunt face intent. “Adeline. In the middle of the night, whatever your sister dreamed about, it always involved you.”
Chapter 28
YOU DON’T NEED TO FEEL SORRY FOR HER,” I said briskly. We’d departed the food court, leaving behind the queasy scent of deep-fried foods as we headed down the escalator and out of the Prudential Center. “My sister isn’t like you and me. She doesn’t bond, feel empathy or receive comfort from other human beings the way you and I would. Just because she’s alone doesn’t mean she’s lonely. Technically speaking, she would feel the same standing in a crowded room, or even in the arms of a man who claimed he loved her. It’s part of her personality disorder.”
“Meaning solitary confinement is hardly punishment for someone like her?” D.D. asked.
“Yes and no. It’s not the company of people she misses; it’s the stimulation. Shana may not feel lonely in her cell, but she does grow bored.”
“Not bored enough to change her ways,” Phil stated.
“The kind of change required is too deep-rooted. Bonding disorders are very challenging. Best odds of success are when the subject is younger than five. Given that Shana has spent her entire adolescence and now adult life behind bars . . .”
“She really stirred blood into her applesauce?” D.D. asked.
“Shock value,” I informed her. “Superintendent McKinnon had assigned Shana a new caseworker, which, given Shana’s limited social life, was basically the equivalent of handing her fresh meat. Shana told the man she was a servant of the devil, and mixing blood into applesauce revealed patterns that helped her foretell the future. For example, the caseworker would be dead by the end of the month. Then, when he had a heart attack just three weeks later . . .”
“No way!” D.D. stopped walking.
“Not a heart attack,” I assured her. “But a panic attack. Most likely brought on by spending three hours a week in the company of my sister. Needless to say, the caseworker retired. And my sister went back to plotting new ways to entertain herself.”
“Like contacting a killer?” Phil asked.
I didn’t know what to say anymore. I felt suddenly exhausted, worn-out. The things I understood professionally about my sister, versus the things I wanted to feel about her personally.
Such as, just because I couldn’t feel pain didn’t mean my family couldn’t hurt me.
She dreamed of me, whispered my name. My big sister. We’d spent only a few years together, one with our parents, two in various foster homes. And yet our lives seemed forever intertwined.
“Have you ever played the bar game?” I asked now.
Both detectives had stopped walking. We were outside the Prudential Center, standing in the middle of a bustling sidewalk, streams of humanity splitting around us. Midday in downtown Boston. Commuters, tourists, residents, all going about their very important business. While we discussed murder, with the late fall air sharp against our cheeks and the sun already contemplating its decline.
“The bar game,” I repeated. “We did it all the time as psych students. Go to a bar, gaze around the tables and deduce the life story of each of your fellow barflies. As soon-to-be-doctors, we prided ourselves on interpreting body language. You’re detectives; I imagine you’d be equally good.”
D.D. and Phil were frowning at me. “Okay. We like bar games, too,” D.D. said at last. “What of it?”
“Bet you could always pick out the fresh divorcé.”
“Sure.”
“And so can my sister.”
They paused as I watched the implication of this sink in.
“You think,” Phil said, “Shana guessed that Frankie was going through a divorce, simply by studying him.”
“It’s not so hard. He used to bring a bag lunch—packed by his wife—now does not. He used to wear a freshly cleaned uniform—laundered by his wife—now does not. Not to mention a change in pattern, such as staying all night at the prison during his time off. Someone as misogynistic as Frankie was reputed to be no doubt was married to a stay-at-home, see-to-all-of-my-needs wife. A woman who cleaned, cooked and otherwise tended him. Meaning when she escaped, the impact on Frankie’s world would be readily visible. In a crowded bar, I’d be able to read him, and so would you. Why not my sister, who had nothing better to do, day after day after day?”
They considered the matter. “But sounds like she knew more than the recent split,” D.D. said.
“Perhaps she gleaned choice tidbits from the prison rumor mill. Others dropped hints; she picked them up. Not to mention, it’s all about the delivery. Not knowing what you know, but sounding as if you know what you know. Christi called it voodoo. More likely, my sister is simply very adept at basic parlor tricks. She listens, she analyzes and then she strikes.”
“She listened and analyzed the second guard, Richie, into letting her kill him?” Phil asked dubiously, still looking troubled.
“I think she pegged him as having a conscience. After that, the rest wouldn’t be so hard.”
“Meaning you could do it,” D.D. said, her tone challenging.
“Except I have a conscience,” I reminded her. Reminded myself.
“You think Christi might be telling the truth,” Phil said. “Your sister outmaneuvered both those guards, maybe even got the third, Howard, to kill himself in a car accident, except it wasn’t because she had access to outside information. She simply manipulated them.”
“I think we shouldn’t imbue my sister with too many superpowers. She has enough superior attributes as it is.”
“Which leaves us with what?” D.D. asked.
I took a deep breath. “She didn’t do it.”
“Which it?” D.D., again, already disbelieving. “Kill Donnie Johnson, murder an inmate, shank two guards, manipulate the Rose Killer or all of the above?”
“She didn’t murder Donnie Johnson,” I said, and the moment the words were out of my mouth, I knew them to be true. “Basic projection, right? The three m
urders in the MCI, the crimes we know the most about, all had motive: to protect. That’s Shana’s trigger. Someone stronger attacking someone weaker. In which case, she identifies with the weaker victim and is driven to intervene. Save this kid today, save the child she used to be. Even the attack on herself, the inmate she killed in self-defense, fits that pattern. It was in the early days of Shana’s incarceration, and that inmate was larger and more experienced. Again, someone strong assaulting someone weak.”
“Except Donnie Johnson wasn’t someone strong,” Phil said.
“No. In fact, Donnie Johnson represents the kind of person she’d be driven to protect.”
“So what happened?” D.D. asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t know. Shana claimed self-defense, alleging that Donnie had tried to rape her. Frankly, it’s never made sense, then or now. Not given the size difference between her and Donnie, and certainly not given their character references. He was cast as a kindhearted, socially awkward science geek, while Shana became the hardhearted street kid who manipulated him into meeting her just so she could slaughter him. The first thrill kill, so to speak. Given the heinous nature of the crime, the jury took less than a day to sentence a teenage girl to life in prison. It was that kind of case. Shana was that kind of defendant.”
“You’re talking thirty years ago,” Phil said cautiously. “Your sister was a kid. Impulsive, hormonal, reckless . . . Maybe the reason that murder is different is because your sister was different.”
“Triggers are triggers,” I said simply. “We only wish we could change them so easily.”
“Then why didn’t she protest it more?” D.D. asked.
“Because she’s Shana. Because she really does suffer from antisocial personality disorder, meaning she doesn’t relate to people well, whether they’re her lawyer, a judge or a jury of her peers. It’s possible she already suffered from depression back then as well. I don’t know. I didn’t meet her for another ten years, so I don’t know the fourteen-year-old Shana. But if that’s the case . . . she would’ve expected the worst. Then when it happened, what’s the point in fighting it?”