Fear Nothing: A Detective

by Lisa Gardner

  “Come on, man. This was all thirty years ago. I barely even remember those days.”

  “You two were an item?”

  “Says who?”

  “For one, your foster mom.”

  Hayes flushed, ducking his head. “Oh yeah, I remember now.”

  “Nothing like guilt to make it all come rushing back,” Phil assured him.

  “Okay. So. Shana came on to me. Totally initiated things. We had sex a couple of times, say a half dozen. But then Mrs. Davies ordered us to cool it. Shana might not have cared, but I did. Mrs. Davies was—she still is—the closest thing to a mom I’ve ever had. She accused me of disrespecting her and Mr. Davies. And that hurt, you know? So I cooled it. Not like Shana cared. She just wanted sex. If I wasn’t available, then she moved on.”

  “And how did that feel?” D.D. asked.

  Hayes took a moment to compose his reply. “When you’re a seventeen-year-old boy, to find out just how easily you can be replaced . . . That’s not the best feeling in the world. But it was classic Shana. She wasn’t interested in your feelings. Only her own. I might have been a kid, but I wasn’t totally stupid.”

  “Did she show up in your bedroom again?” Phil asked.

  “Couple of times. I continued to tell her no. She finally got the message.”

  “Very noble of you.”

  Hayes shook his head. “It wasn’t like that. Shana never claimed to have feelings for me or vice versa. I was merely convenient for her. That’s all.”

  “Oh yeah?” Phil drawled. “At which point did she gift you with items from her father, Harry Day?”

  Hayes stilled. Then, “Ah fuck.”

  “We saw the note listed on the Internet, Sam. Thanks to Harry’s meteoric rise to fame in the past twenty-four hours, looks to us you’re all set to score a major profit. Convenient, don’t you think, that Shana’s escape should bring her father back into the limelight, and here you are, holding items that once belonged to a notorious serial killer.”

  “Okay, okay.” Hayes sounded a little desperate. “It’s not what you think.”

  “What do we think?”

  “I mean, I didn’t get the items from Shana. I never even heard her talk about her father. All the kids in the neighborhood knew, of course, and we’d jaw about it, but only behind her back.”

  “How’d you get the letter, Sam?”

  “I found it.”

  “You found it?” Phil’s tone was dubious.

  “Yeah. Right before my fall. I was on the job, working a long day. Came home to a large manila envelope sitting in front of my door. I opened it to discover some old documents, the letter, that kind of thing. At first, I didn’t understand, but then, when I saw the name Harry Day . . . I did a little Internet research, confirmed the items probably belonged to him. As part of that, I also discovered some websites where you can sell this kind of crap—I mean, can you believe people wanting to collect anything once touched by a murderer? I didn’t do anything right away, but then, last week . . . I’m not exactly working these days, you know. If someone wants to send me money for a stupid note I found on my doorstep, who am I to judge?”

  “You found it?” Phil pressed again.

  “Yeah.”

  “Show us the envelope, Sam.”

  Hayes pushed his wheelchair back with obvious effort. His small living space was not meant for a person maneuvering in a large chair. It took several attempts to get the chair turned and headed toward a side table piled high with miscellaneous clutter. Samuel dug around, both Phil and D.D. keeping their gazes fixed on his hands, prepared for any sudden movements, because wheelchair or not, something about Sam Hayes just didn’t add up.

  “Got it.”

  He returned, equally laboriously. D.D. had to fight the urge to rush over and shove his chair back into position herself.

  Phil took a second to pull on a pair of latex gloves. First he inspected the eight-and-a-half-by-eleven manila envelope. No writing was on the outside, nor had the envelope been stamped or sealed. Just a plain envelope, looking like it’d come straight out of the box.

  Next, Phil opened the flap, then slipped out half a dozen pieces of paper.

  “Birth certificate,” he read out loud, for D.D.’s benefit. “In the name of Harry Day.”

  She raised a brow.

  “A personal letter to a customer, about some carpentry project he was working on. Three notes to his wife. And this.”

  The last item was a piece of faded yellow construction paper, folded in half to form a card. On the outside, it read in a small child’s script, Daddy. Inside, a more mature handwriting had written out Happy Father’s Day. The card was decorated with red and blue crayon forming various squiggles and what might have been a cluster of stars. Inside the card, in a large scrawl, the S turned backward, the card was signed: SHANA.

  A Father’s Day card. From a little girl to her daddy. From one killer to another.

  “Do you have any idea what this might be worth?” D.D. exclaimed.

  “Yesterday, not much,” Hayes said. “But now . . .” His voice trailed off. He seemed to realize the increased value of his cache wasn’t doing him any favors.

  Ten thousand dollars was D.D.’s first guesstimate. Then again, an item this rare and personal . . . For the right collector, it could be priceless.

  “You found this?” Phil pressed again.

  “Swear to God.”

  “And you didn’t question it? Ask your neighbors if they saw who dropped it off? Call the police to tell them you had just received items that once belonged to a murderer?”

  “Talk to my neighbors? I don’t even know who they are. Before this, I worked dawn to dusk. Now I’m a shut-in, except for my twice-weekly stair crawl. Either way, I’m not neighbor-of-the-year material. In this building, we do our own thing, and everyone is happy.”

  “But you must have wondered . . .”

  “Sure. I wonder why I didn’t better secure that fucking ladder. Or why I thought it was so important to work on the roof, even though it was drizzling out. I wonder about a lot of things, Detective. Doesn’t mean I get the answers.”

  “You understand how this looks,” Phil stated.

  “You mean, like I had thousands of dollars’ worth of reasons to help Shana escape and Harry Day become front-page news again? Except I haven’t even spoken to Shana in thirty years. Not to mention she scares the shit out of me. And, by the way, I can’t walk or drive. Some great accomplice I’d make.”

  “There are hand-controlled vehicles for people in a wheelchair,” D.D. said.

  Hayes gave her a look. “Does this look like the apartment of a guy who can afford a custom rig? You know why I listed that stupid note? Because I could use the cash. And the first thing I’d like to do is get myself into a building with an elevator. I’m not dreaming big these days, Detective. I’m just happy I still dream.”

  “Tell us about Donnie Johnson,” Phil said.

  Hayes blinked. “Huh?”

  “Donnie Johnson. Thirty years ago. What did you see that evening?”

  “Nothing. I was in my room doing homework. I didn’t come out until after all the commotion. Mrs. Davies yelling to Mr. Davies that something was wrong with Shana.”

  “Did you see Shana?”

  “No. Her room was on the third floor. After the um . . . incident . . . Mr. and Mrs. Davies moved my room to the second floor, closest to them. I remember walking out into the hallway, then realizing there was blood smeared on the stairs. But by then, the front door was banging open, Donnie’s father bursting into the house . . . It scared me. All these adults, looking so out of control. I retreated to my bedroom and stayed there.”

  D.D. decided to gamble. “That’s not what Charlie Sgarzi says. He claims you were jealous of his relationship with Shana. And you turned on his cousin in revenge.”


  Hayes frowned. “Charlie? Charlie Sgarzi? What does he have to do with any of this?”

  “We told you; we’re looking into all of Shana’s former associates. And given that she and Charlie were also once an item—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What?”

  Hayes’s voice had picked up. Hostility? Jealousy? D.D. and Phil exchanged another glance, Phil’s hand once more wavering near his holster.

  “Charlie Sgarzi claims he and Shana had a relationship of sorts,” D.D. said slowly. “He described them as being fuck buddies.”

  “Bullshit!”

  The word cracked around the tiny space.

  D.D. didn’t speak again, merely waited.

  Hayes ran his hand through his disheveled brown hair. Then again. “Hang on. I got something else to show you. It’ll just take a sec.”

  Once more he worked his chair around, back to the paper-strewn table. But this time, he leaned down, reaching for a battered old box. He couldn’t bend over far enough to reach it. Phil got up to assist, placing the box on Hayes’s lap. Beneath Phil’s close scrutiny, Hayes removed the lid.

  More papers. Hayes riffled through them before finally exclaiming, “Got it!” He waved a faded Kodak in the air.

  Phil returned the box to the floor, then helped Hayes back over. The man handed over the photo immediately, as if this should tell them something.

  D.D. saw four teenagers. The colors of the instant photo had run over the years, making the features of each boy appear slightly melted. She could pick out Hayes. Shaggy brown hair, a once-dark-green Celtics shirt that had become lime green with age. The two other boys weren’t familiar at all.

  Then, at the far left. Gangly-looking, nearly slender, with long black hair cut short in front, long in back, Metallica T-shirt and a black biker’s jacket covered in metal studs and silver chains.

  “Charlie Sgarzi,” she said.

  “The Great Pretender himself,” Sam assured her. “In one of his many disguises.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Charlie was the ultimate phony. I mean, these two boys, Tommy, Adam, they were into heavy metal. So when Charlie was around them, he was into heavy metal. Shana was Ms. Tough Shit, so around her, he jammed a pack of Marlboros into his back pocket. But you could also catch him in collared shirts, smiling sweetly up at his mom. Or with painted black nails and a long trench coat, hanging out with the Flock of Seagulls crowd. He adapted to his audience. Just as long as it got him a place with the in crowd.”

  Phil shrugged. “So he suffered from an identity crisis. He was a teenager; these things happen.”

  “But being a confused kid wasn’t what he was trying to hide.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “Charlie wasn’t fucking Shana. Charlie’s gay.”

  • • •

  ACCORDING TO HAYES, he had a radar for these things.

  “Trust me, you don’t make it through the foster system without learning how to spot the boys who like other boys. Especially the ones who are pissed off about it.”

  “Charlie was afraid of his parents’ reaction?” D.D. asked.

  “Hell if I know. I mean, his parents were conservative, sure. A happy homemaker married to the local firefighter? But I don’t think it was his parents. I think it was Charlie himself. He wanted to be just like everyone else. Except, he had this thing, you know. Nowadays, maybe not such a big deal. But thirty years ago, being a boy who liked boys in a place like Southie could get you killed. So he fought it. Spent all his time becoming someone else. He was good at it, too. A real actor. But, of course, I knew the truth.”

  “Because you possess the world’s best gaydar?” D.D. arched a brow.

  “Nah, because I caught him with Donnie.”

  “What?”

  “He had his hands down his cousin’s pants. I saw it, clear as day. Then Charlie looked up, spotted me and made a big show of pushing his cousin away, like they were just roughhousing or something. But I knew what I saw, and he knew it, too.”

  “How did Donnie appear?” Phil asked.

  “Upset. I don’t think he was happy about Charlie’s attention. But Charlie was bigger, stronger. What could Donnie do?”

  “And you didn’t tell this to the police thirty years ago?” D.D. demanded.

  Hayes shrugged. “No one asked. Besides, Shana was the one pulling a bloody ear out of her pocket. Even knowing Charlie had assaulted his cousin, I still think Shana was the killer. Charlie had a mean streak, sure, but he was direct. When he wore his leather jacket, Mr. Tough Guy, you looked out. But in a button-down shirt, Mama’s Boy, no problem. It was like he had a switch, flipping things on and off. Even violence was simply a matter of being in character.”

  D.D. felt as if her head was going to explode. “When did you last speak to Charlie?”

  “Shit. Another lifetime ago. I mean, I left the neighborhood just six months after Shana’s arrest. Haven’t seen him since.”

  “Do you know he’s working on a book on his cousin’s murder?” Phil spoke up.

  Hayes shook his head.

  “He hasn’t tried to contact you about it?”

  A smirk. “Like he’s really gonna ask me any questions about Donnie.”

  D.D. nodded. Which might lend some truth to Hayes’s story, as it seemed suspicious, or just plain conspicuous, that Charlie had contacted or interviewed everyone but Shana’s foster brother about the night of the murder.

  “If Charlie wasn’t sleeping with Shana, what was their relationship?”

  “I dunno. Frenemies? I mean, they hung out from time to time. In a neighborhood that small, beggars can’t be choosers. But Shana considered him to be a big phony. Threatened to slash his stupid coat on a number of occasions when he pissed her off. Charlie appeared to stay clear of her. Then again, I’d catch him watching her from afar. He seemed fascinated by her. You know, from a safe distance.”

  “You think he’d help her break out of jail?”

  “Charlie? Shana? They’ve kept in touch?”

  D.D. nearly said no, except that wasn’t the truth. Charlie had written to Shana. Several times in the past three months. She’d never replied. That was the big deal, right? He’d written but she wouldn’t answer his notes.

  Unless that was somehow the code. No reply was a reply.

  Because the truth of the matter was, there’d been a major change in Shana’s life starting three months ago. And that had been Charlie Sgarzi, aka the Great Pretender, supposedly working on his book. What were the odds that Charlie’s reappearance and Shana’s disappearance weren’t related?

  “You think Charlie would help her?” D.D. repeated.

  Hayes made a face. “The Shana I knew . . . She was crazy, and not in a good way. Whatever I might have thought about Charlie, he was never stupid. In fact, he was pretty fucking clever. So him, choosing to get involved with her . . . Nah, I don’t see it. Then again, people change.”

  “Have you changed?”

  Hayes nailed her with a look, gestured to the chair.

  “I mean since that night, what did you learn?”

  “Don’t let your foster sister play with sharp objects.”

  “Mrs. Davies misses you.”

  Hayes squirmed, the guilty flush back on his face. “Are we done?”

  “We’re going to take your Harry Day gift package.”

  “Fuck!”

  “But maybe, if we can corroborate your story, one day we’ll give the items back.”

  “Nah.” Hayes seemed to surprise even himself with his change of heart. “I don’t want them. The money, sure. But the actual stuff . . . Harry Day hurt people, you know. Ruined lives. Destroyed families. And so did Shana. Mr. and Mrs. Davies, they were really good people. And after that . . . You’re right; I should call Mrs. Davies more. I just . . . I never want
to bother her, when, of course, the thing she likes best is to be bothered. Guess I didn’t change. Thirty years later, I’m the same stupid shit.”

  D.D. didn’t have anything to add to that.

  She and Phil thanked Hayes for his time; then Phil collected the manila envelope and its enclosed documents. They gave Hayes the same spiel they’d given Mrs. Davies about keeping a low profile; then they were out the door.

  “Charlie Sgarzi,” Phil said, shaking his head as they quickly descended the stairs. “I don’t get it. First he tells us he blames Shana for ruining his family. When in fact he was preying on his own cousin. Then he claims to be having a vigil at the MCI to hold Shana responsible for his mother’s death, but a day later, returns to help break Shana out of prison? To what end . . . ? A better scene for his novel?”

  “I don’t understand Charlie’s relationship with Shana any better than you do,” D.D. assured him. “But as far as being the lead suspect for the Rose Killer murders . . . Forget some long-lost girl AnaRose Simmons or wheelchair-bound foster brother Samuel Hayes. Charlie Sgarzi’s looking good to me.”

  “You understand that means he killed his own mom. The same son who slept on her sofa every night, brought her favorite soup, tended to her every need? This is our lead suspect?”

  They had reached the bottom of the stairs, both of them panting lightly.

  “It’s because of his damn book,” D.D. said. “This all started when Charlie decided to write an instant bestseller in order to support his mother. Except . . .” She touched her left shoulder gingerly, as a new idea suddenly occurred to her. “Holy shit, Phil, we are Charlie’s novel! He’s not writing about his cousin; that’s yesterday’s news, and what have the murderabilia websites taught us about old crimes? They don’t pay nearly as well as nationally recognized murderers hot off the press. Hence, Charlie created the greatest New England predator since Harry Day: the Rose Killer. Guaranteed to terrify a population, capture major media attention and, one day soon, earn him that seven-figure advance for an insider’s account of the murderer who slaughtered his own mom. Charlie isn’t writing about Donnie and the old neighborhood anymore. He’s writing about us.”