“Sad to say,” Superintendent McKinnon, “some of the inmates’ communications are even assisted by the guards, in return for money, drugs, sexual favors. Now, Shana is hardly a favorite, as you can imagine, but the other inmate, the one she’s in contact with, might be. And there are inmates willing to assist with these kinds of transactions if only to relieve their boredom. Bottom line: We have only an hour or two a quarter to evaluate our policies and revise our procedures, while the inmates spend twenty-four/seven, three hundred and sixty-five days a year figuring out how to beat the system. Why, there are women in here clever enough and capable enough to run Fortune 500 companies, if only they’d focused their powers on good instead of evil.”
“Is there an inmate Shana’s close to? A friend, either past or present?”
Superintendent McKinnon frowned slightly. “Not that I’m aware of, which is the more surprising piece of this puzzle. Most inmates forge relationships. Even a female as hardened as Shana . . . there are younger, more vulnerable inmates who’d look up to that sort of thing. And whether she identifies herself as straight or gay, most lifers end up with a partner. But to the best of my knowledge, Shana has never had even a girlfriend.”
“She’s never mentioned anyone to me,” I spoke up.
“Nor to look at her commissary transactions—one of the first signs of a budding relationship is one inmate purchasing ‘gifts’ for another, just as you would see in the real world. A bottle of shampoo. A scented lotion. But Shana makes very few transactions, and they’ve been solely for herself. Nor has anyone sent her any gifts. If anything . . .” Superintendent McKinnon hesitated; her gaze slid to me.
I nodded my assent.
“I have been concerned about Shana’s nearly total social isolation,” Superintendent McKinnon continued. “Despite what you may think, unhappy inmates are not in our best interest. Depression leads to anger, which leads to an increased chance of violence. As I’ve discussed with Dr. Glen, I’ve been troubled about Shana’s state of mind for the past several months. It’s been clear to me that she’s been deteriorating, meaning yesterday’s suicide attempt wasn’t a surprise.”
“Hang on,” D.D. spoke up. “You mean there’s been a marked change in Shana’s behavior? Starting when?”
“Maybe three or four months ago? I’d assumed it had to do with the approaching anniversary of her first murder, but of course I can’t know for certain. While Shana is entitled to mental health resources, she’s refused all overtures.”
“Who manages her care?” Phil asked.
I raised a hand. “I do. I’m a licensed psychiatrist, as well as one of the only people Shana will speak with. While it’s not completely . . . kosher . . . to be diagnosing a relative, Shana and I hardly have a traditional relationship. For most of our lives, we haven’t even lived as family.”
“But she calls you her little sister,” D.D pushed.
“Only when she’s trying to push my buttons.”
“Which sounds like a sisterly thing to do.”
“Or a patient hostile to the possibility of change.” I regarded D.D. drolly. “Why, you’d be amazed some of the things my patients say and do in order to resist my efforts.”
She flashed me a grin, clearly unrepentant. Then she returned her gaze to the superintendent. “Does the number one hundred and fifty-three mean anything to you?”
Superintendent McKinnon shook her head.
“Do you think it’s possible Shana could be in contact with this so-called Rose Killer? Or the killer be in contact with her?”
“Oh, it’s possible. I’d like to know how, though. The thought of an active killer communicating with an incarcerated murderer doesn’t exactly make me sleep well at night.”
“If I may?” Three pairs of eyes turned to me. “Maybe now is not the time to worry about the how. Perhaps the more relevant question is why? Shana committed a horrible crime, but it was also nearly thirty years ago. The case hasn’t even been on the news, enabling Shana to maintain a pretty low profile for years. Maybe next week, the anniversary week, that will change, but to date . . .”
“She doesn’t have any pen pals or known admirers,” Superintendent McKinnon supplied. “Which is uncommon. Generally, the more infamous the killer—male or female—the larger the volume of mail. And/or,” she added dryly, “marriage proposals. As far as most notorious murderers go, Shana lives a quiet life.”
“What if it’s about Harry Day?” D.D. said. The detective focused on me. “If someone was, say, an admirer of your father, and he wanted more information on your father’s—”
“Harry’s,” I corrected. I couldn’t help myself.
“Harry’s techniques,” D.D. continued smoothly, “he wouldn’t very well ask you, would he? I mean, you’re a respected psychiatrist.”
“I get letters,” I heard myself say.
“What?” Two homicide detectives, gazes now fixed on me.
“I get letters,” I repeated slowly. “Not often, but from time to time. Harry’s crime spree was a long time ago, but as you can imagine, there are people who are fascinated by serial killers, regardless of time frame. Hence, the enduring mystique of Bonnie and Clyde. Given that my rare genetic condition has made me the subject of several write-ups, and in those articles, I’m identified as the daughter of Harry Day . . . I receive mail. Probably three or four letters a year regarding Harry. Sometimes it’s people who have questions—what was he like, how does it feel to be his child. More often, it’s requests for memorabilia. Do I still have any personal items of his and would I be interested in selling them.”
“Seriously?” D.D. asked, expression appearing half-horrified, half-fascinated. Which was Harry Day’s overall effect on people. One part terror, two parts morbid curiosity.
“There’s quite a market for serial killer memorabilia,” I informed her. “Several websites dedicated to selling letters from Charles Manson, or a picture painted by John Allen Muhammad. I looked them up when I received the first request. The big-money items are from the truly infamous—Manson, Bundy, Dahmer. Harry Day doesn’t carry the same level of name recognition. In a list of items ranging from ten dollars to ten thousand dollars, a signed letter from him would be much closer to the ten-dollar mark.”
“Do you keep the letters sent to you?” Phil asked.
“I shred them. They aren’t worth my time or attention.”
“Repeat writers?” D.D. pressed.
“Not that I recall.”
She turned to Phil. “What if our guy started by writing to Adeline? Then, when she didn’t reply, located Shana Day and contacted her next. She’s gotten some mail, right?” D.D. glanced at the superintendent.
“Sure. Shana has received some letters, just not a lot of them.”
“And in the past year maybe?”
“I’d have to ask.”
“Meaning it’s possible she got a letter. And maybe Shana even decided to reply. Except, she realized that the second she wrote back and finally adopted a pen pal after all these years, you guys would take an interest.”
“True.” The superintendent nodded.
“So she took it off-line, so to speak. Reached out through a different communications channel. Maybe with the help of another inmate or guard. Or her lawyer?” D.D. eyed both me and the superintendent questioningly.
“Shana has a public defender,” I supplied. “She doesn’t like him, and I don’t even remember the last time they met.”
“Two years ago,” Superintendent McKinnon provided. “Shana bit his nose. We took away her radio. She claimed it was still worth it.”
D.D. nodded. “All right. We’re getting somewhere now. We have a killer who identifies with Harry Day and who has possibly forged a relationship with Day’s equally homicidal daughter. Cool.”
“The daughter who’s already predicted that we’ll let her out of prison first
thing tomorrow morning,” Phil added more slowly. “I’m gonna guess that’s what’s in it for her.”
“Not gonna happen,” D.D. said.
“Agreed,” Superintendent McKinnon stated firmly. “My prisoner, my facility. Period.”
I gazed at both women. And I wished I could share their certainty. Instead, I heard myself murmur, “One hundred and fifty-three.”
“You figured out what that means?” Phil asked immediately.
“No. But knowing my sister like I do, I think we’ll be sorry soon enough.”
Chapter 18
Who am I? Someone who cares.
What do I look like? Nothing special, just myself.
Primary motivation: To offer help to someone in need.
Purpose of operation: It must be done.
Net gain: She won’t feel a thing.
Net gain: She won’t feel a thing.
Net gain: She won’t feel a thing.
Stop thinking. It’s time.
This would be tricky.
Taking a deep breath, practicing once more before the full-length mirror:
Slender glass vial tucked up the tight-fitting sleeve. Then sliding it down into the palm of the hand. Uncorking and pouring as a single deft motion. Then slipping the vial away into left pocket . . .
Too slow. Stupidly slow. Her back would need to be turned, her attention distracted for at least a full minute.
Couldn’t count on that. Not with this target. She would be the most ambitious to date. A woman who trusted no one and suspected everyone. Life had already hurt her once. She wasn’t planning on giving it a chance to smack at her again.
No, this latest endeavor would demand perfection. Genuine smile, steady eye contact, all the right words. Then, when the opportunity arose . . . Fast and fluid. Palming the glass vial in no more than the blink of an eye, while stirring the contents into her drink in less than a heartbeat.
Then, even more challenging, sitting and waiting. Level out the natural adrenaline rush, control the breathing, while resuming a genuine smile, steady eye contact, all the right words, as the contents of the vial slowly but surely went to work.
More practice. Smile. Eye contact. All the right words.
Slip up, slide down, uncork, pour, dismiss.
Too slow, too slow, too slow.
Practice. Practice. Practice.
Who am I? A master of pain.
What do I look like? Anyone you’ve ever met.
Purpose of operation: I can do this!
Net gain: . . . We all have to die sometime.
Palm the vial, uncork the contents, quick pour, slip it away.
Smile, make eye contact, say all the right words.
Again and again and again.
Because any single misstep and she would know. She’d spent too many years expecting the worst not to recognize it the moment it happened. Everything had to be smooth, controlled, perfect. Right up until the final moment.
No fuss, no muss. Just the way murder should be.
Primary motivation: A painless death.
Net gain: The gift that keeps on giving.
Who am I? Harry Day’s legacy.
Who am I? Shana Day’s legacy.
Who am I?
Chapter 19
CHARLIE SGARZI WAS A SOUTHIE KID, born and raised. Had the wary expression and set jaw to prove it. Of course, somewhere along the way, he’d traded in calloused knuckles for the smooth hands of a guy who mostly attacked keyboards, not to mention the tough guy’s leather jacket for the classic reporter’s trench. He still maintained the shuttered expression of a former hood turned cynical journalist who’d seen it all. Then again, given what had happened to his cousin when they’d both been just boys, maybe he had.
They’d come upon him as he was exiting his third-floor apartment. He’d glanced up from locking his door, saw D.D. and Phil approach from down the hallway and grunted in acknowledgment.
“Took you long enough,” he said.
“For what?” Phil asked.
He’d tried to get D.D. to wait in the car. Actually, he’d tried to convince D.D. to let him take her home. It had been a big morning, she should be resting her shoulder, focusing on recuperation.
Like hell. She was pumped up, feeling the best she had in weeks. They were onto something. She could feel it in her bones. Shana Day held the key to finding their killer, and Charlie Sgarzi was yet another link to the puzzle that was Shana Day. No way she was sitting this one out.
“Dr. Glen call you?” Sgarzi asked, hand still on his doorknob. “Accuse me of harassing her? Because I’m not. I just want what’s owed to me and my family.”
Fun, D.D. thought, and practically skipped down the hallway.
“So you didn’t threaten Dr. Glen?” she asked now.
While Phil added, “How about we go inside, Mr. Sgarzi. Talk where it’s more private.”
Sgarzi sighed heavily, then unlocked his door and led them inside.
Cramped one-bedroom, D.D. observed. Definitely a bachelor abode, given the ratio of TV size to non–garage sale furniture items. Tidy enough, though. Sgarzi might be living lower on the economic ladder, but he’d made some effort with the space. Countertops were clean; no dirty underwear littered the floor.
State-of-the-art Mac laptop was set up on a TV tray in front of the threadbare brown sofa. His office, she was guessing. Where he could brave the new frontiers of digital reporting, while keeping up on the Bruins.
“You talk to Shana Day yet?” he demanded to know, coming to a halt in the middle of the living space.
“Why don’t you take off your coat and stay a while?” Phil suggested.
Sgarzi shrugged. “Sure, I got nothing to hide. Fact, you guys want something to drink? Water, beer? Hell, let’s hang for a bit. We can talk crime. You know my uncle was a cop? At least till he ate his gun. Does Shana Day get that mark on her record? Still killing, after all these years.”
Sgarzi shed his coat. Then, true to his word, he crossed four steps to the kitchen, banged on the faucet and poured two glasses of tap water. He handed them over without ceremony, then stared at them expectantly.
Without his coat, he shrunk in size, like Superman without his cape. Not a tall guy, probably just a hair over five-nine, but he still carried himself a certain way. Like he was steeling himself for a blow that had yet to come, and was determined not to flinch. Had he always been like this? D.D. wondered. Or was this what losing most of one’s family did to a man?
“How old were you when your cousin died?” she asked.
He shot her a glance. “You mean was murdered? Fourteen. I was fourteen.”
“Same age as Shana Day.”
“Are you asking if I knew her? Because of course I knew her. I lived in the same neighborhood as Donnie. That’s how it was back then in Southie. Families, even extended families, lived close. Grew up together. Took care of one another.”
Sgarzi’s tone was intentionally flat, but D.D. still caught a faint trace of emotion. Nostalgia. Regret. Back in the day when he’d felt secure in his place in the world. His family, his neighborhood, his world.
“You hang out with Shana?” Phil asked evenly.
“Nah. She was trouble. Everyone knew that. And not the good kind of trouble, either, you know, a reputation worthy of street cred. Shana . . . She was freaky scary. Like a dog gone bad. Kids . . . Most of us who had any sense stayed clear.”
“Except Donnie.”
Sgarzi grimaced, shrugged. “Donnie was . . . different. He liked books, science, math. Hell, if he’d survived, he probably would’ve become another Bill Gates and my mother wouldn’t have any worries now. But a twelve-year-old geek in Southie? The other kids were hard on him. If I heard of things, or if I was around, I made them knock it off. He was my cousin, you know. I tried to take car
e of him. But he didn’t fit in. And Shana may be freaky, but she was clever. Even back then . . .” Sgarzi shook his head. “My cousin never stood a chance.”
“You follow the trial?” Phil asked.
“Nah, my parents wouldn’t let me. I got my news the way the rest of the neighborhood did, by listening to gossip. Besides, this was a long time ago. Not like today, where there’s twenty-four-hour cable and constant media blitzes. The local news followed the case, of course, particularly when the DA announced he was trying Shana as an adult. But her defense didn’t put up much of a fight. Whole thing was over and done with pretty quick. Then everyone went back to their everyday lives. Except for my aunt and uncle, of course.”
“And you?” D.D. asked curiously. “Thirty years later, still writing letters to your cousin’s killer? Stirring the pot?”
“Still?” asked Sgarzi in clear bewilderment. “Who says still? Letters I sent three months ago were the first time I’ve initiated contact. I mean, Donnie was a good kid, but so was I. Hell, I had bigger plans than spending my life as a murdered boy’s cousin. I got out of the neighborhood. Went to NYU, majored in communications, became a reporter. I’m no schmuck.”
“And yet, here you are . . . ,” Phil prodded.
“I returned to look out for my mom,” Sgarzi replied sharply. “Or didn’t Dr. Glen tell you that part? My mom’s dying of cancer. She needs hospice, a home health aide, someone more capable than her journalist son. Which costs money. And given how financially lucrative it is to be a writer these days, I don’t have a whole lot. Then it occurred to me, digital reporters might not make much money, but some of these true-crime books . . . I mean, we’re talking six-figure, seven-figure advances. I’m capable of doing the work. I just need the right material. You know, such as an exclusive interview with a notorious female killer. Now, you tell me, is that too much to ask? Thirty years later, maybe Shana might even like a chance to make amends. Course, given how she’s never replied to a single letter, I’m gonna guess not.”