Fear Nothing: A Detective

by Lisa Gardner

  Instant psychotic episode.

  My sister had never stood a chance.

  But the ear in her pocket?

  She could’ve taken it. Maybe even done the mutilation herself. At that point, she would’ve been on autopilot, the episode having triggered not only all of her deepest, darkest desires but also her deepest, darkest memories. Had my father ever removed some poor girl’s ear? I’m sure if I went through the files, I’d find at least one instance.

  Someone else had killed Donnie. Maybe even looked up in shock when Shana appeared. Except my sister hadn’t responded with outrage. Instead, she’d stepped forward, already captivated by the smell of blood. . . .

  That person had found his or her perfect patsy. One person to do the crime but another to serve the time. And my sister hadn’t been able to fight back, because she lacked all memory from that night. Not to mention, the murder looked exactly like something she knew, deep down inside, she would do.

  She was the daughter of a serial killer, accused of murder, who went on to become a serial killer. Destiny, I think Shana would say. She simply got tired of fighting it.

  So what did she want from me?

  And what could I realistically offer her?

  I stepped into my closet, seeking pajamas. I didn’t realize it until after I opened and then closed the top drawer of the bureau. Then it nagged at me. The closet wasn’t right. Something was off. Something . . .

  The movable cherrywood bureau. It wasn’t where it should be, safely positioned over my hidey-hole. Instead, it was forward at least a couple of inches. As if someone had moved it and not gotten it back in place.

  My heart, starting to accelerate.

  I could’ve done it. Last night, removing vials, my frantic bid to dispose of evidence. Except I always returned it precisely to position, a paranoid habit developed from years of trying to hide the worst of myself.

  He’d been here. In my closet. He’d . . .

  Then I knew.

  I moved the dresser myself, exposing the desired floorboards. On my hands and knees, prying up the first, then the second.

  My recently emptied hiding place wasn’t empty anymore. Instead, it contained a shoe box. A perfectly ordinary shoe box, just like one I used to have. Or the one I’d seen in my father’s crime scene photos.

  I knew. Even as I lifted it out. Even as I placed it on the floor.

  I knew what I would find inside. The true horrors that could lurk in the most ordinary of boxes, tucked beneath a closet floor.

  The Rose Killer inside my home. The Rose Killer bearing gifts. The Rose Killer bringing me the one thing he or she knew I would want most, hidden in a place no one, not even my sister, knew existed.

  I removed the lid. Set it aside.

  Then gazed down in horrified fascination at three brand-new mason jars filled with fresh ribbons of human skin, the replacement for my collection.

  I screamed. But there was no one around to hear.

  Chapter 31

  WE’RE BEING STUPID,” D.D. said.

  “We as in you and me, or we as in your case team?” Alex asked.

  “All of the above.”

  “Okay, what have we been stupid about?” They were sitting on the sofa in the living room. D.D. had returned home in time to put Jack to bed, a ritual she’d needed after all the intensity of her day. Now she had her feet on Alex’s lap and a large ice pack on her left shoulder.

  “For starters, we don’t have a killer. I was hoping by now we would.”

  “Well, you can’t just conjure up these things.”

  “Oh, I was prepared to use deductive reasoning. No conjuring required.”

  “Wanna catch me up?”

  “Okay.” D.D. repositioned the ice pack on her shoulder while composing her thoughts. “First question we had: Could Shana be communicating with an outside friend/ally/killer, and if so, how?”

  “Survey says?”

  “Probably not. The biggest evidence that suggested she did have an outside ally was the fact she seemed to know things she shouldn’t. However, Adeline believes Shana is simply more observant than most. Basically, Shana doesn’t possess special knowledge, as much as she’s adept at using social engineering skills to manipulate others. Turns out, she may have talked three corrections officers into their own deaths. At least they weren’t very nice corrections officers.”

  “Okay. But if she isn’t communicating with the Rose Killer, what is her relationship with the killer?”

  “That one is harder to answer. More and more, we think this all has to do with Donnie Johnson’s murder thirty years ago. Adeline doesn’t believe anymore that her sister killed the boy. I’m not willing to go that far just yet, but there’s definitely more to that night than came out at trial. Charlie Sgarzi earned the title of biggest loser of the day by revealing he most likely sent his own cousin to his death.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. Apparently, twelve-year-old Donnie served as the messenger between Charlie and Shana. Meaning when Charlie decided his girlfriend was too slutty or, possibly, too scary for him—I’m not sure which—he sent his younger cousin to deliver the news.”

  “Nice.”

  “Charlie agrees he is an asshole, but Shana is still the monster. Now, get this. Talking with the foster mom, we learned Shana was involved with two other boys. One was a twentysomething drug dealer called Shep, the other a seventeen-year-old kid who lived in the same house, named Samuel. Mrs. Davies apparently caught Shana and Sam together at least twice, and according to Charlie, Sam’s interest in Shana was intense. She might’ve been love ’em and leave ’em, but he considered her the real deal.”

  “Ooh, a wounded teenage boy. But still sounds like Shana is the only one with motive to murder Donnie. Kill the messenger and all that.”

  D.D. shrugged, then immediately wished she hadn’t. Melvin was currently quite annoyed. She’d tried speaking to him, but apparently her inner Exile was capable of having a snit. Maybe because she’d been a bad Self and pushed too hard today.

  Wow, D.D. sounded loonier all the time.

  “Adeline thinks Shana didn’t kill Donnie,” she continued, “but maybe saw what happened, which triggered a psychotic episode, erasing her memories from the evening and setting her up to take the blame.”

  “But Donnie didn’t have any enemies, right? He was the good kid.”

  “By all accounts. Only thing I can think, and it fits with your kill-the-messenger theory, is that this Sam was an even bigger dope than Charlie thought, and didn’t realize Shana was sleeping around. Then he’s passing through the shortcut with the lilac bushes, and he overhears Donnie breaking up for Charlie. But what Sam really hears is that Shana had another boyfriend in the first place. And that sends him into a frenzy.”

  “Did anyone see him that night?” Alex asked reasonably. “Witnesses that spotted Sam returning home bloody, or maybe the foster mom found blood-soaked clothes?”

  “Nada. Whereas, Shana wins on all those accounts. So again, I’m liking Shana for the murder of Donnie Johnson. However—”

  “Excellent. I enjoy a good investigative however—”

  “I think there’s something we still don’t know about thirty years ago. Hence, my problem, because I can’t know what I don’t know, right? But you raised an important question the other night.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Why now? What’s the inciting event? Shana’s been locked up thirty years, Harry Day’s been dead forty years. Why all this madness now?”

  “And the answer is?”

  “I think it’s Charlie Sgarzi. He decided to write this stupid book about his cousin’s murder, apparently to cleanse his own conscience, and as a result, he’s been dredging up old business. And that got someone’s juices flowing.”

  “Someone who never even met you but decided
to push you down a flight of stairs?”

  “I can’t know what I don’t know,” D.D. assured him.

  “Interesting alibi. Do you remember anything yet?”

  “No.” She rubbed her forehead. “Just Jack’s favorite lullabye, Rockabye, baby, on the treetop . . .” She started humming it; she couldn’t help herself. “I can hear it all the time, playing in the back of my mind. Like a radio song you get stuck in your head. Except I don’t think it came from the radio. I was humming it at the scene, and then . . . a sound. I heard something. Then I must’ve done . . . something? Maybe confronted the killer somehow. But my gun was out, right? I couldn’t have drawn after I started falling. The gun had to come first. Meaning I did see something that night, engaged in some kind of altercation. Rather than run away, however, the killer decided to give me a giant shove off instead.”

  Alex smiled at her sympathetically, massaged her feet. “How’s Melvin?”

  “Oh, we’re getting more used to each other. At least investigative work is distracting. I know they’d never clear me for duty yet, but I swear, Alex, if I didn’t have this case to occupy my mind . . .”

  She was thinking of his earlier point, that faint whiff of blame that while being pushed down the stairs might not have been her fault, her actions since had basically drawn a murderer even closer into their lives.

  Alex smiled at her now, blue eyes crinkling with understanding. “You are who you are, you do what you do. And you’re tougher than you think.”

  “Isn’t that from Winnie-the-Pooh?” she asked him.

  “Hey, I happen to like a tubby little cubby all stuffed with fluff. What do you think Jack and I do with our free afternoons?”

  She rolled her eyes. He smiled again, and for a moment, life was good.

  “All right, back to the case,” Alex said. “Male or female killer. Have you decided yet?”

  She made a face. “Tricky. Odds would still say male. Shana Day aside, not many female killers would engage in this level of postmortem mutilation. Of course, Shana Day is involved, meaning all bets are off.”

  “The use of chloroform strikes me as girly,” Alex said. “Not to mention, women arouse less suspicion than men, especially when walking a neighborhood late at night or visiting a cancer-stricken elderly woman. It might be one of the reasons your killer has been operating beneath the radar screen.”

  “True. But what motive? I like someone such as foster brother Sam, who was once involved with Shana, had some kind of attachment. Shana doesn’t have, and apparently has never had, any girlfriends. Only female bond in her life is with her sister.”

  Alex stared at her. “You mean the one who shares the same homicidal gene pool, not to mention a medical school background that must’ve involved scalpels?”

  “Yeah. That one.”

  “Have you looked at her?”

  “Please, she’s pretty much part of the case team. As tactics go, we’re keeping our friends close and our enemies even closer.”

  “Does she have alibis for the nights in question?”

  “Nope. Phil asked. Apparently, Dr. Glen spends most of her nights alone.”

  “Meaning . . .”

  D.D. shrugged, winced again. “It’s possible Adeline’s involved. It would be naive of me to assume otherwise. But . . . I think Adeline’s trying to figure this thing out, too. I think her sister is as much a mystery to her as to the rest of us, except in her case, it hurts more. Shana is her only living family, and while Adeline talks a good professional game, you can tell she’s vulnerable when it comes to her Shana. She does want some sort of relationship, even as the clinician in her understands that’s never gonna happen; Shana isn’t capable of it. Besides,” D.D. added more briskly, “if you believe this all has to do with Donnie Johnson’s murder thirty years ago . . . Adeline wasn’t around back then. Didn’t even know what had happened to her sister.”

  “Why the graphic nature of the murders?” Alex asked. “If this all has to do with covering up a thirty-year-old crime, why the postmortem mutilation?”

  D.D. didn’t have to think. The answer came to her immediately, from the back of her mind. “Because the murders are staged.”

  “What?”

  “Staged. Everything about the crime scenes, the rose, the champagne, the handcuffs, the flaying . . . It’s the killer making us see what the killer wants us to see. So we won’t notice the rest of the details. For example, the victims were asleep, their deaths quick. It’s not a crime of passion or bloodlust. It’s calculated. Staged. Frankly, I’m beginning to wonder if the first two murders weren’t simply a ruse to cover Janet Sgarzi’s death. To make it look like she was the random victim of a serial killer instead of a targeted prey.”

  “Except she was already dying of cancer.”

  “Maybe not fast enough. Charlie’s asking questions now, not later.”

  “I can tell you one winner from all of this,” Alex said with a sigh. He moved her feet off his lap, rose to standing.

  “Who?”

  “Harry Day. Thanks to Sgarzi’s blog comparing the Rose Killer to Harry Day, news stations are going nuts resurrecting details from Harry’s homicide spree. Frankly, he’s gone from a nearly forgotten serial killer to front-page news. Not bad for a guy who’s been dead forty years.”

  D.D. looked at him. “Told you we were stupid!”

  She scrambled off the sofa, jarring her shoulder, further aggravating Melvin. But he was gonna have to live with it, because she needed her computer tablet—now.

  Alex went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. By the time he returned, she was already Googling merchandise from murderers. Four sites popped up. She went with the top one on the list and started scrolling.

  Alex came to stand behind her, as she remained rooted in the middle of the family room.

  “What is that?” he asked in horrified fascination, as the page loaded up with images of skulls, bloody daggers and yellow crime scene tape.

  “A website for murderabilia. Incarcerated killers write notes, paint pictures, and other people hawk it to collectors online. Apparently, when the Night Stalker died last year, purchase prices tripled for a month.”

  “Are you buying or selling?”

  “Window shopping. Check it out. Handwritten confession letter from Gary Ridgeway, aka the Green River Killer. One hundred percent authentic, the seller assures. Or, get this, a letter from Jodi Arias. With sexually explicit details. Holy crap, that’s going for six grand from some seller in Japan with a five-star rating.”

  Alex made a face. “Seriously?”

  “Face it, the Internet is nothing but a giant shopping mall. Given these kinds of items are banned on eBay, they were bound to find another outlet.”

  “A signed confession letter, original art, Christmas cards,” Alex was now reading over her shoulder. “A dozen custom-designed cards from your favorite killers. Because nobody says Merry Christmas better than Charles Manson? How does someone even get such stuff?”

  “Ummm . . .” D.D. was still skimming. “Based on what I’m reading, a lot of these ‘vendors’ have forged relationships with the killers in question. I guess you establish trust, then request custom Christmas cards?”

  “But convicted killers can’t profit from their crimes, meaning there’s nothing in it for them.”

  “Not money but time, attention, diversion. According to Adeline, boredom is a major problem when you spend the rest of your life behind bars. Maybe for the killers, that’s what they get out of it. Someone who writes to them regularly as well as a small purpose to the week, paint this portrait, design this card. I don’t know. It all looks creepy to me. Hang on, here we go: Harry Day.”

  She clicked on his name, and a fresh page loaded.

  “Two items,” she announced. “One is an alleged floorboard from his house of horrors. Another a handwritten invoice he
gave to a neighbor, billing for custom bookshelves. He was a carpenter, remember? Now check this out.” D.D. tapped the screen. “Price for invoice has gone from ten bucks to twenty-five. The real winner, however, is the floorboard from his house, which has gone from one hundred to two thousand dollars in the past four hours. Now, there’s a happy seller.”

  “A floorboard from Harry Day’s house? Meaning a forty-year-old piece of wood?” Alex already sounded skeptical. “How does the seller authenticate such a thing? Why, that could be any old floorboard.”

  “As the website puts it, buyer beware. But, in this case, the seller claims the artifact comes with a corresponding police evidence entry log and detailed description.”

  “You mean some of these items are from cops? Police departments?”

  “Looks like it. That might explain the autopsy report I saw for sale on the home page.”

  “Oh my God.” Alex appeared ill.

  “Remember, I’m just window shopping.” But she didn’t blame him. Coercing a convicted killer into sketching a self-portrait was one thing. But many of the items listed seemed to be a clear violation of victims’ rights, not to mention the criminal justice system. Crime scene photos, a coroner’s report. From a cop’s perspective, it was nearly sacrilegious.

  “Maybe leaked by disgruntled employees,” she mused out loud. “I hope ex-employees, because God, some of this stuff just isn’t right.”

  “But Harry Day killed himself, right? No arrest, trial or incarceration. Meaning there shouldn’t be much for ex-employees to leak, and there’s no living serial killer to befriend.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’ve only found two items, where some of these killers have dozens of entries.” She paused, considering. “In other words, if you happen to be one of the lucky few owning anything related to Harry Day, this week is a good week to be you. The value of your sales inventory just jumped thousands of percent, and given the serious dollars attached to some of these items . . .” She eyed Alex. “Assuming our killer has a treasure trove of Harry Day items, maybe he or she had financial motive to make Harry Day front-page news again. Could it be that simple? The external motivation we’ve been looking for is financial gain. Cash, pure and simple.”