Coakley granted her a look of compassion. “The article claims there have been two victims. The killer murdered them in their own beds, leaving behind a rose on their nightstands, like some kind of misguided lover.”
“Anything else?”
“You mean other than they were skinned alive?”
“Not alive!” Too late, D.D. realized she shouldn’t have responded. Then again, Coakley was a funeral director, not a reporter. “Wait, between you and me, I never said that. But the skinning occurred after the victims were dead. It’s one of the reasons I’m here. Without getting too particular, our murderer . . . Let’s just say, the majority of the time he spends with his victims is postmortem. It’s almost as if the killing part is incidental. Mostly, he—or she—wants a corpse.”
“Necrophilia?” Coakley murmured.
“No sign of sexual assault,” D.D. granted. In for penny, in for a pound.
“Which is why you thought of funeral directors. Because clearly people who spend their lives embalming have an unhealthy fascination with dead bodies.” Coakley stated the words calmly.
D.D. had the good grace to flush.
“I know,” she said. “Just like people who spend their lives investigating murder must have an unhealthy fascination with violence.”
“At least we understand each other.”
“We do.”
“Do you know what it takes to be a good funeral director, Detective Warren?”
“Probably not.”
“Compassion. Empathy. Patience. Yes, one piece of my job involves preparing a body for burial, a process that has required years of technical training, but also, to be honest, art. Good embalmers have opinions on the percentage of formaldehyde, as well as the most realistic pancake makeup. But we’re not working in abstract. Our goal is to take something sad, overwhelming and often frightening for a family, and make it cathartic. Every day, I deal with people at their most vulnerable. Some are prone to tears, but others are prone to rage. My job is to take each of these people by the hand and lead them gently through the beginning of their grieving process. Using a great deal of compassion, empathy and patience. Now, my comfort level with dead bodies aside, do I sound like a killer to you?”
D.D. flushed again. “No.”
“Thank you.”
“But—”
Daniel Coakley’s eyebrows rose. For the first time, the funeral director appeared not only surprised, but as close as he probably got to annoyed. “But what?”
“The traits you described. Those are what it takes to be a good funeral director. Maybe I’m looking for a bad one.”
Coakley frowned at her. “Or,” he said abruptly, “a failed one. I can’t say it happens often, but every now and then I’ve had an apprentice who clearly lacked the . . . interpersonal skills necessary for this job.”
“What did you do?”
“Terminated the arrangement.”
“Would you have records?”
“Please. I can only think of one such person, and last I knew, she’d changed to culinary school and was doing quite well. Given the scope of your investigation, I’d think you’d want to cast a wider net than going from funeral home to funeral home.”
“What do you suggest?”
“The mortuary schools. There are two in Boston. See if they’d be willing to share the names of the students who failed. I could ask around as well. We’re a close-knit industry. If there’s a particular name, or what do you call it—a person of interest—you’d like to learn more about, I could probably make some calls.”
“Thank you.”
“We are not a bunch of ghouls,” Coakley said quietly, as D.D. rose to standing.
“I didn’t mean to imply that.”
“But from time to time, we do attract those with ghoulish sensibilities.”
“Story of my life,” D.D. assured him.
Coakley smiled his faint smile, then quietly, but firmly, escorted her out the door.
Chapter 11
IN OUR ENTIRE TIME TOGETHER, my adoptive father and I had only one major argument: the day he’d discovered my sister’s letters.
“Don’t be an idiot!” he’d roared at me, clutching the stack of barely legible notes. “You’ve got nothing to gain from this and everything to lose.”
“She’s my sister.”
“Who attacked you with a pair of scissors. And you’re still luckier than her last few targets. Tell me you haven’t written back.”
I said nothing.
He thinned his lips, stern face radiating disapproval. Then, abruptly, he sighed. He returned the loose sheaf of papers to the top of my desk, then crossed to my pink ruffled bed and sat down heavily. He was sixty-five by then. A trim, gray-haired geneticist who’d probably been thinking he was too old for this.
“You remember there are two kinds of family,” he said, not looking at me.
I nodded. This was familiar territory, trod by most adopted children. There are two kinds of family: those that are given, and those that are made. Birth families are given. Adopted families are made. At which point, most adoptive parents launch into an enthusiastic sales pitch on how much better it is to be made. Other kids only wished they could pick their parents, their siblings, etcetera, etcetera. Look how good it is to be you!
My adoptive father had spent my formative years reading me many books on the subject. Child of My Heart. One-Two-Three-Family! Except my father had extra credibility when he said he couldn’t have loved me more if I’d been of his own blood; he didn’t have any birth children. Or a wife. Dr. Adolfus Glen had been not just a perfectly content bachelor, but a perfectly content loner till the day he met me. And while he might not have been the most demonstrative father in the world, I never doubted his love. Even as a child, I recognized his rare integrity, his quiet dignity. He loved me, genuinely. And for a man such as him, that was everything.
“You don’t have to choose her,” he argued that day. “Shana might be the family you were given, but for very good reasons, she was also the family who was taken away. If this note were written by your father, would you still be reading it?”
“That’s not the same!”
“Why? They’re both killers.”
“She was a just a little girl—”
“Who grew into a psychopathic adult. What’s her body count these days? Three, four, five. Have you asked?”
“Maybe what she did, who she is . . . Maybe it wasn’t her fault.”
He regarded me steadily. “Meaning maybe if she hadn’t been exposed to your father’s insatiable appetite for violence? Spent night after night witnessing his depravity, while you were shut away in a closet?”
“The first five years of a child’s life are the most important,” I whispered, having just completed my undergrad degree. “I was only in that house one year. She spent four. Meaning the majority of her key development phase . . .”
“Nature versus nurture. You received the advantage of a caring home, versus your sister, who remained in the foster system. Hence, you’re about to attend one of the most prestigious medical schools in Boston; whereas, your sister remains forever chained to the school of hard knocks.”
“That’s cruel.”
“And you’re lying to yourself, Adeline. This has nothing to do with nature versus nurture. It’s survivor’s guilt, pure and simple.”
“She’s my sister—”
“Who has a long history of committing acts of violence against others, not to mention yourself. Adeline, give me one good reason to choose Shana as family. One good reason, and I’ll let it go.”
I thinned my lips mutinously, looking away. “Because,” I muttered.
My father threw his hands up in the air. “God save me from know-it-all college students. Tell me, have you sent her money?”
More silence. A second father
ly sigh.
“She asked, didn’t she? Why not? She’s a master manipulator and you’re an easy target. She’s locked in the big house, and you’re living in one.”
“Or maybe she’s my older sister and I’m her little sister and this is the way sisters have always been.”
“Nice sentiment. She write that?”
“I’m not naive!”
“Fine. Stop sending her money. See how long before the letters dry up.”
“She wants to know me.”
“And you?” My father, for the first time sounding less certain.
“I’m . . . curious. We both know my dad is infamous.” I heard myself recite: “The sick and twisted Harry Day just wanted to find a good lay. Grab ’em, stab ’em, whack ’em, hack ’em. He told each one he loved her best. Then buried her bones with all the rest.”
I’d heard the rhyme for the first time in middle school. I’d never told my adoptive father, though. Because sometimes pain is knowing, and sometimes pain is sharing that knowledge with someone who loves you but can’t do anything to help.
My father’s shoulders came down. His brown eyes were kind. “True.”
“My sister, too. Right? I come from a family of killers.”
“Yes,” he agreed somberly. “That is your gene pool.”
“And despite what we would like to think, nature is a major factor in psychological behavior. Love alone cannot change the world.”
“You are too young to sound so cynical, my dear.”
I continued, “I don’t think I’m a killer.”
“Thank heavens.”
“But I think I should know what I don’t know, study what I can’t remember. Because my birth family is my legacy and you always taught me there’s nothing to be learned from denial. Confront, analyze, master—isn’t that what you recommend?”
“I believe I have also advised caution. There are many kinds of pain, remember, Adeline. And family”—he pointed to my sister’s handwritten letters—“any family, but particularly your family, Adeline, has a gift for inflicting pain. If you’ve read the file on Harry Day, if you truly looked at those photos, then you know that as well as I do.”
“We’re just exchanging a couple of notes,” I said, glancing at my sister’s letters. “Maybe once a month, like pen pals. It’ll be okay.”
“It won’t remain letters. Sooner or later, your sister will ask to see you. And you’ll go, Adeline. It’s times like this, I truly wish you could feel pain. Because maybe then, you’d have better instincts for self-preservation.”
“Everything will be all right, Dad. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”
Then I’d turned away from him. Conversation over. Conclusions made. Resolve strengthened.
And maybe I would’ve held out. Maybe I would’ve stuck to letters. Except then my father died. My family that had been made dissolved. I stood alone in the world, and even if I couldn’t feel pain, I felt the ache of loneliness just fine.
Six months later, I paid my first visit to the Massachusetts Correctional Institute, sitting across from my sister. It turned out, as always, my adoptive father hadn’t been wrong: My big sister did have a particular gift for inflicting pain.
But I liked to think, as most little sisters probably do, that I have my own special talents as well.
• • •
HAVING CANCELED OUT MY DAY upon receiving news of Shana’s incident, I was surprised to show up at my office and discover Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren standing before my closed door.
For a moment, walking out of the elevator, office key in hand, I paused, feeling a shiver of dread. The detective’s clothing, dark slacks and cream-colored sweater, were consistent with a woman on the job. And given the morning newspaper’s graphic article regarding the two recent Boston murders, my own family’s past . . .
Then I noticed the way Detective Warren stood, or really sagged against the wood-paneled wall, her pale face set in a grim mask of finely etched pain.
“Are you all right?” I asked carefully, resuming my approach.
“I’m here, aren’t I? What do you think?” Her tone was harsh, her left arm tucked protectively against her torso. I judged the detective to have had a bad night and a worse morning. Given that the best defense was a strong offense, apparently D. D. Warren had decided to be as offensive as possible.
I kept my own voice neutral as I drew to a halt before her. “Am I confused? I don’t remember us having an appointment. . . .”
“I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d take a chance, see if you were available.”
“I see. How long have you been waiting?”
“Haven’t. Just got up here myself. Saw the dark windows, figured I was out of luck, when the elevator doors dinged, and here you are.”
I nodded again, inserted the key in my office door, worked the lock. After another moment’s consideration—resignation?—I said, “Please, come in.”
“Thank you.”
“Tea, coffee, water?”
“Coffee. If it’s not a bother.”
“You showed up at my office unannounced. Too late to worry about being a bother.”
D.D. finally smiled, then followed me into the double-room suite as I snapped on the lights, hung up my coat, tucked away my purse.
“Where’s your receptionist?”
“I gave her the day off.”
“Don’t you normally work Wednesdays?”
“Something came up.”
D.D. nodded, walked around the space, seemed to study the framed degrees hanging on the walls while I got coffee brewing. I opened up the inner door that led to my space. D.D. sat down in the hard-back chair, sighing softly before catching herself. Her left hand was trembling. Discomfort, fatigue, hard to be sure, but I doubted the detective was the kind of woman who caved easily. That she’d actually sought out my services had to say something about her current level of physical distress.
“For insurance purposes,” I informed her, “I’m going to have to count this as an official appointment.”
“Okay.” Then, “What does that mean?”
I smiled, took my usual seat behind my desk. “It means you get the full hour to tell me why you really showed up unannounced at the office of a pain specialist who just two days ago you accused of preaching bullshit.”
“I didn’t mean you personally,” D.D. protested faintly. “Just, um . . . you know, the approach. Naming Melvin. Come on, I’m in real discomfort. How does a name change that?”
“Let’s find out. Catch me up. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain as of this moment?”
“Twelve!”
“I see. And for how long has it felt like that?”
“Since this morning. I got a little frustrated getting dressed. Wrenched hard when I probably should’ve tugged delicately. Melvin’s been pissed off ever since.”
“Okay.” I made a note. “What time this morning?”
“Ten A.M.”
I glanced at my watch. It was now two o’clock. “So you have been suffering for the past four hours. What interventions have you tried?”
D.D. stared at me blankly.
“How about pain meds? Over-the-counter ibuprofen, prescription narcotics? Have you taken anything?”
“No.”
I made another note, based on our last appointment, hardly surprised.
“Ice?” I asked next.
“Haven’t been home,” she mumbled.
“What about a topical pain-relieving ointment? Biofreeze, Icy Hot? I believe both products come in pads or gels for use on the go.”
She flushed, looked away again. “Hard to apply. And you know . . . smelly. Doesn’t go with the ensemble.”
“By all means,” I assured her, “let’s not sacrifice the outfit.”
She f
lushed again.
“What about nonpharmaceutical-based interventions? Have you tried talking to Melvin?”
“I’ve cursed him out a few times. Does that count as conversation?”
“I don’t know. Does it?”
The detective smiled wryly. “My husband would probably say that for me, the answer is yes.”
I put down my pen, regarded my patient steadily. “To recap, you’re in extreme discomfort. You’ve said no to ice, anti-inflammatories, pain pills, topical ointments and meaningful conversation. So. How is that working for you?”
D.D.’s chin came up, eyes finally sparking to life as she replied in a heated voice: “And there it is: the ultimate shrink speak. ‘How is that working for you?’ It hasn’t worked for me, obviously, or I wouldn’t be right here, right now, feeling like my arm was on fire and my life is over and I’m never going to return to my career, let alone carry my kid or hug my husband. This sucks. Melvin . . . sucks.”
“Which is why you came here. Because your life sucks, and frankly, you need someone to share that pain. How am I doing, Detective Warren? Why look in when you can lash out?”
“Don’t fucking crawl inside my head!”
“With all due respect, I’m a psychiatrist; climbing inside heads is what I fucking do best. Now, would you like to continue yelling, or would you like your discomfort to dial down a notch?”
D.D. stared at me. She was breathing hard. Agitated. Enraged. But also distressed. Genuinely physically distressed. I leaned forward, stating more kindly:
“D.D., you have suffered one of the most painful injuries there is. Your own tendon ripped away a chunk of bone. And instead of being allowed to rest your arm to heal the break, you’re being forced to move it every single day, because as I’m sure the doctors explained, immobilization could lead to a frozen shoulder and long-term physical disability. You’re subjecting your broken humerus to daily physical therapy exercises, not to mention wrenching it through shirtsleeves and wrestling with car doors and doing dozens of other small, unconscious movements all day long that lead to instantaneous, teeth-grinding, mind-screaming pain. Welcome to a day in the life of Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren. You hurt, and you hate hurting. Worse, you feel helpless, which in turn makes you feel hopeless, and you are not a woman accustomed to either emotion.”