Fear Nothing (19 page)

D.D. scowled at him.

“Did you say she was a psychiatrist or a psychologist?” Phil spoke up.

“Psychiatrist.”

“So she’s a doctor, right? Went to medical school, with full medical training,” he continued, the skills-with-scalpel part being implied.

D.D. wanted to argue. She liked her new doctor. Adeline Glen was intelligent, tough, challenging. She was also . . . compelling. For all her composure, there was a sense of aloneness to the woman, of resigned isolation. D.D. would’ve thought not being able to feel pain would be the greatest gift in the world, especially lately. But having talked to Dr. Glen this afternoon, having had a rare glimpse into the woman’s world . . . The doctor was forever set apart, studying her fellow man but never truly able to walk in anyone’s footsteps.

And the woman knew it.

“Can we back up for a second?” Neil asked, raking a hand through his mop of red hair. “Our killer could be male or female. Possibly an embalmer, comfortable with dead bodies, or a hunter, comfortable with skinning, or even a licensed psychiatrist with a full medical background. Why not? What’s throwing me is that you’re saying these murders might have something to do with a guy who’s been dead for forty years. Or, I guess, to be more precise, his surviving daughters?”

Phil nodded. “Gotta say, you lost me on that one, too.”

“I’m not saying anything yet,” D.D. clarified. “More like, here are some questions worth asking. Look, ViCAP exists to catch similarities in MO. According to it, our current killer has a match—Harry Day. Now, given that Day has been dead for four decades, I don’t think we need to be concerned about him personally assisting our predator. Then again . . . in this info-mad day and age, where hundreds if not thousands of websites exist to idolize the careers of various serial killers . . . I wonder if it’s as simple as our antisocial killer is a big fan. He researched Harry Day, and the way things work in the twisted mind of a psychopath, he read about jars of preserved flesh and his brain went ding, ding, ding. I want that!”

“He recognized Harry Day,” Alex clarified. “Or at least, related to him.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” D.D. observed, thinking again about Dr. Glen’s point: Given enough pieces of warped wood, at least some were bound to be warped the same way.

“Does Harry Day have his own website?” Neil asked.

“I don’t know. Haven’t had time to look it up. But here’s my second thought. If our killer researched Harry Day, his daughter Shana’s name is bound to come up. And while he can’t ask Harry any questions about his technique, Shana, on the other hand . . .”

“He might have reached out to her in prison,” Phil supplied, making a quick note.

“More questions worth asking.”

“What about your doctor?” Alex spoke up, laser focused. “Have any of her father’s fans contacted her?”

“According to her, no. Her last name isn’t Day, however, but Glen, meaning the killer would have to dig deeper to find the family connection. Plus, if the killer’s inspiration is the personal . . . appeal . . . of preserving human skin, there’s no reason for him to reach out to Adeline. Shana, on the other hand, would be a better source, having infamously sliced and diced during her first murder. Now, Dr. Glen says her sister doesn’t receive visitors or respond to correspondence. But I don’t know how much she’s pushed the issue, either. Or how much her sister would admit to her.”

“We need to interview Shana,” Phil said.

“Dr. Glen said she’d be willing to assist with that,” D.D. provided.

“You’re going to be there, aren’t you?” Alex stared at her, not really saying it as a question.

“If Horgan allows it, I’d like to be.”

“Why?”

“Because. It’s what I do. What I know best. And given I can’t remember what happened that night, or if it was a man or woman or an asexual space alien who shoved me down the flight of stairs. And now
two
women are dead and I’m still stupid while the killer is walking through our home and thumbing his/her/its nose at us.” Her voice picked up, though she didn’t intend it to. “What if next time it’s not champagne? What if next time, he/she/it leaves crime scene trophies on our pillows? Or ribbons of skin in the middle of our bed? It’s going to get worse, Alex. What’s the number one rule of serial killers?”

“Their crimes escalate.”

“That’s right. Their crimes escalate. Now, look at me! Look at my stupid fucking shoulder. Look at our house, where, let’s face it, we both know we won’t be sleeping tonight. This is my life. My family. And I can’t even load my gun. I can’t do anything and it’s all my fault . . . Dammit!” Her voice broke roughly. “God dammit.”

“I’ll be posting a patrol car outside,” Phil offered stiffly.

She nodded but didn’t look up.

“And we got a lot to go on now,” Neil offered. “These are good avenues of investigation. Given the publicity, you know Horgan will approve expanding the team. Pressure will be on to get to the bottom of this quick.”

D.D. nodded again, her gaze still on the carpet.

Alex moved. He crossed the space, placing his hand on her right shoulder. The motion jarred her left arm, but she willed herself not to wince.

“
Our
family, D.D.,” he said firmly. “
We
will handle this. Together. Side by side. Three good arms taking on the he/she/its of the world. Because this is what both of us do best.”

“I still can’t move my arm,” she whispered.

He didn’t talk anymore. He kissed her on top of the head. She closed her eyes and willed it to be enough.

Except it wasn’t.

A killer had walked through D.D.’s home. And she didn’t want her husband’s love or her squad’s protection.

She wanted revenge.

Chapter 15

I
ENTERED THE SANCTUARY
of my luxury high-rise condo building, oversize leather purse slung over my left shoulder, thoughts a million miles away as I considered my sister’s latest suicide attempt, not to mention my discussion with Detective Warren regarding my homicidal family tree. One family, two killers, an infamous legacy of death and destruction. And I heard my adoptive father’s voice once more in my head:
Any family, but particularly
your
family, Adeline, has a gift for inflicting pain.

I wished I could talk to him now. I don’t think I ever appreciated how much his crisp, analytic presence anchored me. Then he died, and I became adrift, a well-adjusted aspiring psychiatrist suddenly visiting her older sister in prison. A successful young woman, suddenly hanging out at the airport, armed with a scalpel and a collection of slender glass vials.

The two recent murders. A killer obsessed with removing human skin. Did it mean anything? Could it mean anything?

I stepped into the elevator, thoughts still churning. The car rising. Myself, contemplating things I didn’t want to contemplate. The doors sliding open. Now telling myself I would not head straight for my walk-in closet, pry up the loose floorboards and check on my precious collection. Instead, I would take up yoga, pour a glass of wine, something, anything more befitting a woman of my education and success.

Finally arriving before my front door, still wanting what I knew I shouldn’t have.

As a shadow peeled away from the far wall and a man suddenly materialized before me.

“Dr. Adeline Glen?”

Reflexively, I grabbed my purse strap, stifled a gasp.

“How did you get up here?”

He smiled, but it was a grim expression on his face. “Judging by the news this morning, that’s about to be the least of your concerns.”

 • • • 

H
E INTRODUCED HIMSELF
as Charlie Sgarzi. The reporter who, according to Superintendent McKinnon, had been calling and writing to my sister for the past few months. He was also the cousin of Shana’s twelve-year-old victim, Donnie Johnson. Though interestingly enough, Sgarzi wasn’t volunteering that information to me.

“I have a few questions,” he stated now. “About your sister, Shana Day, and Donnie Johnson’s murder, thirty years ago.”

“I can’t help you.”

He gave me a look. He wasn’t a large man, but heavyset, with a swarthy complexion and small dark eyes. I imagined he could be quite intimidating when he wanted to be. The question was, did he want to be?

“Oh, I think you can,” he stated bluntly. “A professional shrink who meets with her sister at least once a month at the MCI? I bet you know all sorts of things.”

I shook my head. “No. Not really.”

“Aren’t you gonna at least invite me in?”

“No. Not really.”

He frowned, starting to look angry. Frustrated as well, because clearly this conversation wasn’t going as he’d planned. But something else. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but another emotion, dark and potent, stirring the pot.

Now he huffed, taking his hands out of his oversize Dick Tracy trench coat and making an imploring gesture.

“Come on. Cut a guy a break. Your sister was one of the first fourteen-year-olds ever prosecuted as an adult. Nowadays, it seems the news is filled with depraved teenaged killers. But Shana, what she did to twelve-year-old Donnie . . . that was a bad case. Can’t tell me you don’t think about it. Can’t tell me, having her for an older sister, hasn’t affected your life.”

I said nothing, simply readjusted my hand on my purse. If I grabbed my apartment keys, then went for his jugular, or jabbed at his eyes, would that be seen as a woman protecting herself? Or would it simply prove that I was just as violent as the rest of my family?

“You care about your sister that much?”

I said nothing.

“I mean, it’s not like you grew up with her. Nah, you were the lucky one.” He rocked back on his heels. Giving me space, I realized, as if he knew what I’d just been thinking.

“I read all about you,” he continued, voice matter-of-fact. “In a gene pool of freaks, you still managed to outfreak ’em all. Rare genetic condition, snagged yourself a rich doctor to play Daddy Warbucks. Way to go, Adeline. Bet your sister hates you for that alone.”

He stared at me. I said nothing.

“Is it true you can’t feel pain?”

“Hit me and find out.”

His eyes widened. I’d called his bluff, and for the first time, he appeared uncertain. His shoulders came down, expression puzzled. I could nearly watch the wheels spin in his head as he rapidly reassessed. Then he steeled himself and I caught his look of resolve once again. One way or another, he was determined to speak to me. Because my sister had repeatedly blown him off? Because I was as close to her as he was going to get? Or then again, was there something darker, more potent, driving him?

“Were you relieved the prison guards got to her in time this morning?” he asked, going with a friendlier tone as if we were neighbors, meeting over coffee. “Or maybe a tad disappointed? You can tell me the truth, Adeline. I mean, a woman as accomplished as you, saddled with a sister as troubled as Shana. People understand these things. I’ll understand.”

“How are your aunt and uncle?” I asked quietly. “The thirty-year anniversary of their son’s murder I imagine must be very difficult for them.”

Sgarzi’s face froze. For all his efforts, I’d hit the mark first, and he knew it. A spasm moved across his face. Faint but telling. And I got it then, the undercurrent of emotion swirling around the man as tangibly as his reporter’s trench coat: grief. Charlie Sgarzi wasn’t angry. He was grieving. Thirty years later, that night, my sister, still haunted him.

I felt myself falter.

“They’re dead, thanks for asking.” His voice, once again matter-of-fact.

“And your own family?”

“I’m not here about them. I’m here about your family. Stop avoiding the question.”

“My question is equally relevant. I didn’t know my sister when she killed your cousin. But you did. Meaning chances are my sister’s actions have had a greater impact on your life than on my own.”

“Donnie was a good kid.”

I waited.

“He liked her, you know. She ever tell you that? During your sessions together, does she even talk about him?”

I remained patient. Charlie was just getting started. Sure enough . . .

“I found letters!” the reporter nearly exploded, his expression suddenly coming alive. Rage, sorrow, disbelief. Stages of grief, stamped into a man thirty years later, because pain can do that to a person. My sister can do that to a person. “Half a dozen letters I discovered stashed in the bottom of my uncle’s bureau, and you know what they are?
Love letters.
Love letters your sister wrote to my cousin. He was twelve years old, just a lonely little guy without a friend in the world, and here comes this older, streetwise new girl saying what a cool bike he has, maybe they can get together sometime. Course he met her by the lilac bushes. She didn’t just murder him. She lured him to his death.”

“Blood is love,” I murmured, but Sgarzi wasn’t in the mood to listen anymore. He’d shoved himself away from the wall, pacing restlessly.

“My aunt never got over it. She spent the next ten years drinking herself to death, and there was nothing my mom could do to stop her. Because that’s the lie they tell families of the victims; that it’ll get better. Time heals all wounds. Blah, blah, blah. Thirty years. Thirty fucking years, and six months ago, my uncle got out his service revolver and shot himself in the head. Your sister didn’t just kill my cousin. She destroyed my entire family. Now I have a few questions. Think you can pay me the courtesy of answering?”

“Why?”

“
Why?
” He stared at me, dark face nearly frozen in shock. “
Why?
”

“It’s been thirty years, Mr. Sgarzi,” I said gently. “There is nothing I can tell you that changes what happened to your family.”

“Please. I know my cousin is dead. I know my aunt and uncle are gone and my mom has turned into a shut-in who won’t even order takeout pizza because you never know about those delivery boys. I want access, okay? I want an exclusive interview with one of the most notorious female killers in the state of Massachusetts. After what Shana did to my cousin, hacking off his ear, slicing up his arms . . . At the very least, I think I deserve a seven-figure book deal. Maybe then, we’ll call it even.”