Fear Nothing: A Detective

  Then I washed my hands. Again and again and again. And I watched my fingers tremble and I told myself it was okay, I was doing the right thing, I did not have to be this person; I would not be this person.

  Anyone could change. Even the deepest compulsion could be overcome with time and effort.

  Then I walked into my bedroom, sat on the edge of my bed and cried.

  Because my collection was gone and I didn’t know what would ever fill me up, get me through the bad nights, quite like that again.

  I was alone.

  A baby, strapped into a car seat and trapped in a dark closet, the entire world reduced to nothing but a thin sliver of ominous light . . .

  Nothing to see but plenty to hear.

  Understanding little but absorbing all, like little hobgoblins now stuck in the back of my mind.

  Please, Harry, not the baby.

  Suddenly . . . I scrambled up off the edge of my bed. Raced into my home office. Knocking over a book, yanking open the filing cabinet, searching, searching, searching.

  There. The binder my adoptive father had compiled so many years ago on Harry Day’s case. Quickly flipping through the pages, the photos, hastily skimming the various detective notes. Until I found it. A report from the coroner’s office.

  One hundred and fifty-three.

  Just as my sister had predicted—remembered?—known.

  Our father’s own collection. One hundred and fifty-three preserved strips of human skin contained in nearly three dozen mason jars.

  I picked up the phone and dialed Detective Warren.

  Chapter 21

  YOU THINK SHANA DAY, an inmate who’s been locked up for nearly thirty years, is somehow connected to this so-called Rose Killer? In fact, Shana may even be the one calling the shots?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though she’s in solitary confinement? Has no fan base? No pen pals. Not even a fellow prisoner who claims to like her?”

  “Exactly.”

  “All right.” Alex took a seat across from D.D. at the kitchen table, where she was currently icing her shoulder. “I might be just a lowly crime scene analyst, but color me confused.”

  D.D. had just returned home from the morning interview with Shana, followed by her and Phil’s chat with reporter Charlie Sgarzi. Glancing around the house it was clear Alex had been equally busy while she was out. Brand-new state-of-the-art locks gleamed on the front door, while the windows had been reinforced and a wooden dowel now effectively blocked the back sliders. He’d also taken the liberty of updating their home security system with several motion-activated cameras they could access from their smartphones. D.D. felt a little bit like a contestant on a new reality TV show, but given that they were due to bring Jack home in just a matter of hours . . .

  “Okay,” was all she’d said.

  Alex had nodded in satisfaction.

  So this was their new world order. Living like prisoners/TV show contestants till they caught the murder suspect who’d broken into their home to personally deliver a get-well-soon card.

  “Of course you’re confused,” D.D. stated now. “You’re an evidence junkie, and at the moment, that’s kind of what we’re lacking. Actual, you know, evidence.”

  “Yes,” Alex agreed.

  “Here’s the deal: The obvious smoking gun would be a note from Shana Day to our murder suspect, the supposed Rose Killer. Based on what Superintendent McKinnon told us, however, written correspondence is hardly necessary for open and honest communication from behind prison walls. Chances are, Shana has developed some kind of coded system based on library books, or socks in her window, or the number of bites left on her food tray. Beats me. It’s been done, though, many times and by many inmates. Given how smart Shana is, no reason to assume she’s not able to reach beyond her cell door.”

  “Fair enough,” Alex granted. “But . . . who? You’re saying this reporter guy claims she has a helper from before her life in prison. Meaning a thirty-year-old never-before-seen friendship?”

  D.D. shrugged. “By all accounts, Shana hasn’t made any contacts while in prison. Thus, it makes some sense her lone ally is from before her life behind bars.”

  Alex shot her a look, obviously skeptical. “And this person spies for her?”

  “We have numerous reports of Shana knowing things she shouldn’t.”

  “So Shana gets information and power. And her imaginary friend? What’s in it for him?”

  D.D. pursed her lips. “Shits and giggles? Thrills and chills? How am I supposed to know? I’m sane. The kind of people who form attachments to incarcerated murderers, not so much so.”

  Alex rolled his eyes. “How’s Melvin?” he asked, gesturing to her icy shoulder.

  “Oh, you know, he’s his normal cranky self. It’s possible I might have pushed it too hard today.”

  Alex shot her a glance.

  “Then again, turns out playing head games with one of the most notorious female killers in Massachusetts is very distracting, which has at least helped me ignore the pain. Who knew?”

  Her husband sighed heavily. Chances were, right about now he was wishing he’d married a cupcake baker, or maybe a very nice librarian who ran amazing programs for educating kids. Then again: “All right,” he said briskly. “Have it your way. As long as Melvin isn’t too cranky and you’re not too tired . . . I have another issue with your theory of the crime.”

  “Which is?”

  “Why now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why now?” Alex repeated. “Assuming Shana and her mysterious partner have had a relationship for thirty-plus years, why was the first murder only seven weeks ago? Don’t all killers have—what do you call it?—an inciting incident? What then, basically three decades later, elevated their relationship to this whole new level?”

  “The upcoming thirty-year anniversary of Donnie Johnson’s murder,” D.D. guessed.

  “Really? Because what about the ten-year anniversary of the boy’s murder? Or the twentieth, or the twenty-fifth? What makes thirty the magic number?”

  “How am I supposed to know?”

  “And why you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Exactly. The Rose Killer, the supposed protégé of Shana Day, who’s now spent thirty years learning from a master, finally graduates, kills his first victim and targets you, Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren. Pushes you down a flight of stairs. Delivers love tokens to your home. That’s deliberate, D.D., don’t tell me that’s not deliberate—”

  “I’m not saying—”

  “So why you?” he insisted. “You weren’t even a cop thirty years ago, when Donnie Johnson was murdered. You have no connection to him or Shana Day. Why bring you into this mess? Why bring any investigator into this mess?”

  D.D. scowled. “If you’re going to keep grilling me, I’m going to require take-out Chinese.”

  “Deal.”

  “Okay, then. First off, it’s not like we’re done investigating. We know the theory has more unanswered questions than answered ones. Which is why Phil is contacting the parole officers of any released inmates who once shared a unit with Shana Day. Who knows? Maybe one of them was released three months ago and, having spent quality time talking shop with Shana, has decided to embark on her own reign of terror, collecting skin. Maybe I even have a connection to that inmate. It’s possible. I’m already guessing it’s going to be a long list of interview subjects.”

  Alex stilled. Across from her, his eyes took on a thoughtful gleam. “We’re back to the possibility the Rose Killer is a woman. Which takes on additional weight, given the number of female criminals who’ve come into contact with Shana Day over the years. If Shana is the key and has brought someone under her wing, so to speak, it seems most probable you’re looking for another female inmate, now out in the free world.”

/>   “Again, lack of sexual assault, compression asphyxiation as COD . . . We’re still looking for Pat, not Bob,” D.D. agreed. “As for why target me . . . maybe we’re back to our first theory. I was there at the first crime scene, I surprised the killer, and even after being shoved down the stairs, I keep turning up. If our killer is a supervillain, well obviously I’m a supercop. We’re meant for each other.”

  Alex gave her a look.

  She ignored it. “Finally, you’re right about an inciting incident. There must be a reason these murders are happening now. Parole, frankly, of a female inmate who’s familiar with Shana Day is as good a one as any.”

  “Timeline,” Alex stated. “I want timeline, I want motive, I want evidence. Then I want my wife to be safe. And not necessarily in that order.”

  “Fine. Now, I want General Tso’s chicken. If not for me, then for Melvin.”

  “Fucking Melvin,” he said.

  She smiled, said softly, “I love you.”

  He didn’t say it back. He didn’t have to. He kissed her, full on the lips.

  Then picked up his keys and departed for take-out Chinese.

  • • •

  THE PHONE RANG five minutes later. D.D. was surprised to see that it was Adeline calling.

  “Hey, I have a question for you,” D.D. stated immediately.

  “About your shoulder?”

  “No, your sister.”

  The line was silent for a moment. When Adeline spoke again, her tone was more cautious. “Yes?”

  “We’ve been operating under the assumption that your sister has some kind of partner beyond prison walls. And this partner has now taken up murdering victims in a style reminiscent of your father, Harry Day.”

  “It’s a theory.”

  “Why now? Your sister has been incarcerated for three decades, but the murders only started seven weeks ago. What was going on in between?”

  “Shana met someone new?” Adeline spoke up slowly but didn’t sound convinced. “Or . . . this Rose Killer . . . his or her homicidal instincts have been brewing for quite some time. The killer finally reached out to Shana, and her response lit the fuse.”

  “But how do the Rose Killer and Shana find each other to even begin communicating? Her only visitor is you, right? And her only new mail has been from Charlie Sgarzi, to which she never replied. That’s why he tracked you down.”

  “True.”

  D.D. waited a heartbeat. She was curious if Adeline would pick up on the point that she was Shana’s only visitor. A woman who shared the same twisted gene pool. A psychiatrist who’d attended four years of medical school.

  When Adeline said nothing, D.D. moved on, voice still brisk, asking for information, not sharing suspicions.

  “When Superintendent McKinnon was talking,” she continued, “she mentioned that Shana’s mood changed a few months ago. She grew more depressed. Do you know why?”

  “No, but Shana is hardly the type to sit around and talk about her feelings. From a clinical point of view, my sister suffers from depression. The condition is ongoing. Some periods of time are simply better than others.”

  “But given that she suffers from depression, something could have happened that triggered the down cycle?”

  “That’s possible.”

  “But you don’t know what?”

  “No. Her life is very . . . contained. Though”—Adeline’s voice picked up—“the thirty-year anniversary of Donnie Johnson’s murder is approaching, combined with Charlie Sgarzi reaching out and demanding an interview . . . That certainly could’ve triggered an emotional response in Shana. Despite what you might think, her feelings regarding Donnie are very tangled. She won’t talk about him, even now, which is almost a sure sign that day still bothers her. If she was truly remorseless, she would speak of him and/or what happened that day easily and often. But she doesn’t.”

  “Okay.” D.D.’s mind was still churning. Alex had raised a good point. Timeline mattered. All killers had an inciting incident. So two, three months ago, what had happened to suddenly spring the Rose Killer onto the world?

  “What do you know about so-called partner killings?” D.D. asked now, given that she was speaking to a trained psychiatrist. She continued: “Such relationships are rare. There have been a handful of husband-and-wife or otherwise ‘romantically linked’ killing teams. Couple of male cousins who killed together. Either way, there’s always one partner who’s the alpha, and one who’s the submissive.”

  “You think Shana and the Rose Killer are partners?” Adeline asked sharply. “She gives the commands, he performs the deed?”

  “Maybe she performs the deed,” D.D. said, then waited again.

  Adeline simply sounded confused. “My sister? She’s the one behind bars.”

  “No, the Rose Killer. What if he is a she?”

  “That’s extraordinarily rare,” Adeline said immediately. “Most serial killers are male, as men are much more likely to externalize their rage than women. The few women who have been serial predators mostly fall into the category of black widows—they aren’t motivated by sex or violence but by financial gain, making hired killers or poisons their MO of choice. The Rose Killer, personally assaulting, then skinning victims, well . . .”

  “Sounds more like your sister?”

  Silence. Then: “In fact . . .”

  “No sexual assault,” D.D. provided. A risk. That detail hadn’t been revealed in the paper; she was now officially releasing privileged information to someone outside the case team. But D.D. was fishing, and she had to use something for bait.

  “I see.” Adeline’s tone relented, turned more contemplative. “So maybe the Rose Killer is a fellow inmate. That’s how she got to know Shana, where they came into contact. It would certainly explain how Shana could meet someone without having had new visitors or fresh pen pals. Then again . . .”

  D.D. waited. Adeline sighed heavily.

  “I just can’t picture it,” the doctor said at last. “And not just because my sister is so antisocial, but because if such a thing had happened—Shana took a friend, even had a lover—Superintendent McKinnon would know. Don’t let her modesty from this morning fool you. As directors of major incarceration facilities go, McKinnon is more than up to the task. There’s nothing going on behind those walls she doesn’t know about. Meaning if such a relationship had happened, she would’ve told us about it.”

  “Unless she didn’t want anyone to know,” D.D. said. Couldn’t help herself. The words just came out.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if it wasn’t an inmate? What if it was a guard? Male guard, female guard, it wouldn’t matter. Such a thing wouldn’t look good for anyone, especially for Superintendent McKinnon. She obviously takes a great deal of pride in the fact that Shana hasn’t killed any more COs on her watch. If word got out that’s because Massachusetts’s most infamous female killer had taken to sleeping with them instead . . .”

  Adeline sighed heavily. “I don’t know. I suppose, when it comes to my sister, the honest reply is, anything is possible.”

  “Let’s assume there is a relationship. Male, female, guard, inmate, whatever. For someone like Shana, how would that work?”

  “Shana would be the alpha,” Adeline provided without hesitation. “She has no empathy, no ability to bond with others. Meaning if she’s in a relationship, the other party would have to do all the work to keep her happy. Without ongoing incentive, Shana would simply end the relationship.”

  “Does that include her relationship with you?” D.D. asked curiously.

  “Actually, she made the initial contact. She wrote me a letter.”

  “When?”

  “A long time ago, Detective.”

  “So . . . she does pursue some relationships?”

  “Given that lone example over a span of three deca
des . . .”

  “But she’s into you, Adeline. Anyone can see that. If you suddenly stopped visiting, ceased all contact, do you think she’d simply accept your absence, sit quietly in her cell?”

  The phone line was silent for a long time now. “No,” Adeline said finally. “Shana would do something. Act out, most likely, in an egregious manner until I returned again.”

  “She’s manipulative. She can leave you, but you can’t leave her?”

  “Exactly. It’s a matter of power. As the older sister, she considers herself the alpha in our relationship. She would not permit me to walk away without her permission. That would be perceived as a slap in the face.”

  “I don’t suppose, three months ago, you threatened to stop visiting?”

  “No. I don’t make such threats to my sister, Detective. That would only reduce myself to her level. We have our . . . squabbles. But I try to keep us on a more typical sisterly level of engagement, and not disintegrate into needless power plays.”

  D.D. nodded. “So Shana needs to be the alpha in a relationship. Meaning if she has a relationship with someone beyond prison walls, she’s the one calling the shots. But how? She’s living in solitary confinement. How does she keep the other party in line, ensure the person is following her orders, etcetera?”

  More silence. “She would have to have something the other party wants. Something she could hold over him or her. The threat of exposing the relationship. Or maybe just plain threats. My sister can be very scary. It’s possible, this other person, the Rose Killer, is in her sway. She’s doing what she promised to do because Shana both frightens and fascinates her that much.”

  “Your sister is Charles Manson,” D.D. filled in.

  “Heaven help us all.” Adeline sighed. “But no. Shana is not charismatic. Far from it. But that doesn’t preclude, in the way love works, that one person out there isn’t entranced by her. And one is all it would take.”

  D.D. nodded, digesting.

  “I’ve made progress,” Adeline continued now, “on the number one hundred fifty-three. I went through Harry Day’s file. According to the coroner’s report, all told in his collection of mason jars, he had harvested one hundred and fifty-three strips of human flesh.”