by Lisa Gardner
“Mrs. Davies,” I spoke up, “were you present when they searched Shana’s room?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember if they found any letters, any communication between Shana and Donnie? Maybe personal notes, love letters.”
Mrs. Davies made a funny face. “Shana and a twelve-year-old boy? I don’t think so. Frankly, the twenty-four-year-old dope dealer was much more her style.”
“Could she have simply befriended him? Taken him under her wing, like her relationship with Trevor?”
“I don’t know. She kept to herself, that one. But . . . maybe. I always thought there was more to Shana than met the eye. Which maybe simply proves I’m naive after all.”
“What about the Sgarzis?” D.D. asked. “Sounds like Donnie’s murder was hard for them, too.”
“Sure, Janet and Martha, the two sisters, had always been close. I heard Janet stayed over for long periods afterward, as Martha took up trying to drown her sorrows. Couldn’t have been great for Janet’s own marriage or family. Unfortunately, it didn’t save Martha either, who drank herself to death sooner versus later.”
“Meaning Janet Sgarzi lost her nephew, then her sister, then her brother-in-law,” D.D. filled in quietly. “What about Janet’s husband, Mr. Sgarzi?”
“I don’t know much about the husband,” Mrs. Davies said. “Being a fireman, he kept odd hours. But, now, Charlie, their son, he got himself in some trouble in the years that followed. I don’t know if it was the shock of his cousin being killed like that, or his mother disappearing to tend her sister, but he got involved in petty theft, vandalism, that kind of thing. His parents finally arranged for him to get away. New York, maybe. Must have worked; last I heard, Janet was bragging about him becoming a reporter, making something out of himself. I think he’s back these days, taking care of Janet. Her health isn’t good, you know. Cancer. Bad, I’m afraid.”
We all nodded, realizing belatedly that Mrs. Davies hadn’t heard of Janet Sgarzi’s murder. Maybe she didn’t know anything about the Rose Killer at all. It seemed kinder to leave things that way.
“Anyone else you can think of who was directly affected by Donnie’s murder?” Phil asked.
“Not that comes to mind.”
“Friends of Donnie’s? The kids from back then who knew him best?”
Mrs. Davies shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that much about Donnie. He was just one of the kids. You should ask Charlie; he’d remember the younger crowd better than I.”
Phil nodded. He asked for the full names of the other children who’d been staying in the home while Shana was there. Samuel Hayes, AnaRose Simmons, Trevor Damon.
We rose to standing, the orange tabby leaping gracefully from my lap.
For all the strain and remembered sorrow of our conversation, I could tell that Mrs. Davies was sad to see us leave. I wondered what it must feel like, still living in the same neighborhood after all these years, and still feeling like a pariah.
I leaned over instinctively and kissed her on her papery-thin cheek.
She squeezed my hand.
Then she escorted us back down the long, narrow hallway to the front entrance. The last I saw was her deeply lined, sorrowful face, right before she closed the door.
Chapter 29
HOW’S YOUR SHOULDER?”
“Fine,” D.D. grumbled, though in fact, her shoulder was killing her and she knew she had to be moving even more stiffly than usual. She should be at home, resting, icing, delivering impassioned soliloquies to Melvin. Instead, she’d pushed it too hard today, and now her shoulder, arm and neck were paying the price.
She didn’t care. At least, she didn’t want to care; she was a detective on a case. And things were finally getting interesting.
She glanced over at Adeline, who was walking on one side of her, Phil on the other, as they headed back to Phil’s car. Parking was a bitch in Southie; they had a ways to go.
“Do you know you’re bleeding?” she asked the doctor now.
“What?” Adeline stopped walking.
D.D. regarded the doctor curiously as Adeline took a quick inventory of her body, finally discovering the three gouge marks on her wrist, probably left by the cat as it’d leapt down from her lap.
“Are you allergic to cats?” D.D. asked, because in addition to bleeding, the scratches appeared swollen.
“I don’t know. I don’t spend time around animals. For just this reason.”
“You can’t feel that?” Phil spoke up.
The doctor’s features remained expressionless. She shook her head.
“I have a first aid kit in my car,” he offered.
“Thank you.”
“I bet if we clean the marks with an antiseptic wipe, that’ll do the trick.”
“Thank you,” Adeline repeated. They continued walking, the doctor appearing more troubled than before.
“You still think Shana didn’t kill Donnie?” Phil asked. “I mean, that whole arriving home covered in blood, then pulling the boy’s ear out of her pocket. Sounds pretty convincing to me.”
“I think my sister doesn’t honestly know what happened that night. Hence, her terrible job defending herself. She may have killed Donnie. She may not have. She doesn’t know, which is the other reason she probably never speaks of that night. She doesn’t remember it.”
“Umm . . .what?” Phil asked.
“The symptoms Mrs. Davies described are consistent with a psychotic break—an episode of acute primary psychosis when reality becomes unbearable and the brain shuts down. Probably Shana had been suffering symptoms for a while, but no one put the pieces together. Most psychotic breaks are triggered by extreme or sudden stress. Say, a battlefield experience, new parenthood or trauma.”
“Such as killing a twelve-year-old boy,” Phil said.
“Or witnessing his murder.”
“Hang on,” D.D. interjected. “Why didn’t Shana’s defense lawyer figure this out? I mean, the way you describe it, a psychotic episode would be the perfect defense. She wasn’t in her right mind.”
Adeline shrugged. The night had fallen, the air fulfilling its earlier promise of icy chill. The doctor, in only a thin sweater, wrapped her arms around her waist.
“Shana wouldn’t be in a position to say what happened. Most people suffering psychotic episodes can’t remember them. Given her troubled past, maybe her lawyer felt such a defense wouldn’t hold up. Shana already had a history of violence. Why would the jury believe this single incident was different than all the rest?”
“But that means she could’ve killed Donnie Johnson,” Phil said. “And the reason he doesn’t fit the profile of her other victims is that she was out of her mind at the time. I mean, how else to explain the bloody knife, the ear in her pocket? That sounds like she did a bit more than stumble upon a murder in the neighborhood.”
Adeline didn’t answer, but D.D. had the impression the doctor’s mind was already made up. She didn’t believe her sister had killed the boy. Wishful thinking from someone who really should know better? Or something else she wasn’t willing to share with them yet? It bothered D.D. still, Charlie Sgarzi’s offhand observation. That if skinning was the signature element for both Harry Day and Shana Day, and if they couldn’t be the Rose Killer for obvious reasons, well, there was one family member left.
“You said you and your sister didn’t grow up together,” D.D. said. “So when did you meet again?”
“About twenty years ago. She wrote me a letter.”
“She initiated contact?”
Adeline’s voice was dismissive. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Because she was bored? Because I’m the only family she has left? You’d have to ask her.”
“She wrote to you because she wanted something,” D.D. deduced.
Adelin
e smiled. “Now you sound like my adoptive father.”
“But you’ve hung in there with her. All these years, various suicide attempts later. You’re her single longest relationship. Right?”
“True.”
“To what end? According to you, your sister doesn’t feel empathy, doesn’t bond, doesn’t even understand a real relationship. So what does she want from you, Adeline? You and she have been talking for two decades, for what?”
“We haven’t been talking regularly for that long. It was only six or seven years ago that Superintendent McKinnon started permitting the monthly meetings.”
“Still, why? What does Shana want from you? I mean, this is a woman who’s destroyed how many families, how many lives? No repentance, no remorse. Biggest emotion she sounds capable of is boredom. So why keep you coming back? Two decades later, what does she need from you?”
“She needs to keep me safe, Detective. It’s a promise she made to our father forty years ago. And if you don’t have family, you don’t have anything.”
“Seriously? Keep you safe? Seriously?”
Adeline kept her gaze fixed down on the sidewalk, her footsteps quickening, as if she could outwalk the skepticism in D.D.’s voice. It occurred to D.D. that when it came to her sister, Adeline suffered a giant blind spot. She didn’t think she did. She dished up clinical evaluations, offered frank statements to the likes of Mrs. Davies: Don’t worry about me. I harbor no illusions about my sister.
But Adeline did. All these years later, some part of her still wanted a big sister.
Making her the perfect victim-in-waiting for Shana Day. Question was, what was Shana waiting for?
“Sounds like Janet Sgarzi was close to her sister, Martha Johnson,” Phil spoke up. “Meaning if there was something more to Donnie’s murder, some relationship or secret friend his mother knew about but never thought to mention after Shana pulled her son’s ear out of her pocket . . .”
“Janet Sgarzi could’ve known something about the crime,” D.D. agreed, “whether she realized she held the key or not. Which leaves the Rose Killer feeling a need to dispose of her after all these years.”
“I think we should check out Samuel Hayes,” Phil announced as they finally reached his vehicle. “Seventeen-year-old boy at the time of the murder. Clearly had some kind of relationship with Shana given that the foster mom caught the two of them together. Probably has his own past, being a teenager in the system. Definitely old enough and big enough to kill a twelve-year-old. And maybe still thinking about Shana after all these years. His first girl, the one who got away, the one he can never forget. He researches her obsessively, learns everything there is to know about her infamous father, Harry Day. . . . Embarks on his own crime spree. Hell, maybe the rose and champagne aren’t for the victims at all. Maybe they’re really for Shana. These murders are his love letters to her.”
“That’s creepy!” D.D. said, but she was shivering, and from more than the night air.
Phil’s phone rang. He paused in the process of unlocking the doors to take the call. D.D. and Adeline waited patiently on the curb, as Phil nodded, listened, nodded some more, then exclaimed, “Shit!”
D.D.’s eyes widened. Family man Phil hardly ever swore. That was generally her contribution to their squad.
“Charlie Sgarzi has organized a protest in front of the MCI,” Phil announced, ending the call and pocketing his phone. “Apparently, he wrote some blog this afternoon, giving away all the details from his mother’s murder—”
“Shit,” D.D. moaned.
“Including the removal of skin, the possible homage to Harry Day, a serial killer no one could even recall until about four P.M. this afternoon. Except now, thanks to Sgarzi, all the major news stations are leading with we have a copycat predator, imitating a legendary serial killer as he picks off vulnerable women all over Boston. And, oh yeah, Harry’s equally infamous daughter Shana Day seems to have insider’s knowledge of the crime, including knowing ahead of time how many strips of skin had been removed from the bodies—”
“How did Charlie know that?” D.D. exploded. “We never told him that.”
Phil shrugged. “He’s a reporter. I imagine he did some investigating. And you know the ME’s office . . .”
“Shit!” D.D. said again. Because lately, the ME’s office had been leaking like a sieve. Ben Whitley hadn’t pinpointed the leak yet, but he’d better figure it out soon, before the higher-ups had all their heads.
“Well, Charlie’s now at the MCI, and apparently he’s whipped into quite a frenzy demanding justice for the victims. Are you up for one last field trip?” Phil asked Adeline, as they’d left her car downtown.
“I’ll go.”
“I fucking hate reporters,” D.D. muttered as she climbed gingerly into the car.
“Shit,” Adeline agreed.
• • •
CHARLIE SGARZI APPEARED TO HAVE ORGANIZED a candlelight vigil. A crowd of maybe 100 or 150 people had gathered outside the main building of the MCI, bearing poster-size photos of the three murder victims, including Charlie’s mother, beneath the glare of the prison’s perimeter lights.
When Phil pulled in, the crowd was singing “Amazing Grace,” while a line of heavily padded corrections officers stood between them and the facility. When Charlie Sgarzi spotted Phil and D.D. getting out of the vehicle, he grabbed the bullhorn and started a chant of “Justice, justice, justice!”
Phil sighed heavily. D.D. didn’t blame him. Moments like this, policing wasn’t fun. Taking on violent offenders, good. Confronting grieving loved ones . . . not so much so.
She let him take the lead. Finally, her injured shoulder was useful for something.
Adeline brought up the rear. What the doctor thought of this circus, D.D. could only guess.
“Charles,” Phil said, greeting the reporter.
“Did you come here to arrest Shana Day?” the reporter demanded. His eyes appeared bloodshot, almost glazed over, as if he’d been drinking.
“Would you like to talk about that?” Phil suggested graciously. He’d always been good at this.
“Damn right!”
“All right, let’s take a quick walk. Get on the same page.”
“No.”
“No?”
“You got something to say, tell it to all of us. Have you met Christine Ryan’s parents? Or Regina Barnes’s grandparents? Their families, neighbors, friends. We all deserve answers. We all demand justice.”
“Shit,” D.D. muttered. She just couldn’t help herself.
Charlie’s gaze swung wildly to her. “What’d you just say? What? What?”
“Hey, Charlie,” she said, all done with diplomacy. “Hear you got some letters Shana wrote to your cousin. We got a search warrant for them in the car.” Small lie, but effective. “Now, hand them over.”
Charlie lowered the bullhorn. He regarded her blearily. “Huh?”
“The letters, Charlie. The letters you claim Shana wrote thirty years ago to your cousin. We want them. Now.”
He swayed on his feet.
“There aren’t any letters, are there, Charlie?”
“This isn’t the time—”
“Search warrant.”
“But—”
“Search warrant.”
He glared at her.
“Let’s take that walk, all right, Charlie?” Phil interjected soothingly. “We’re here to help. So come on, let’s have a chat and figure things out.”
Charlie handed over his bullhorn to a bystander.
He fell in step with them, his gaze not totally focused. Up close, D.D. couldn’t detect any smell of alcohol. So maybe he wasn’t drunk after all. Just completely emotionally devastated.
Phil waited till they were fifty yards from the madness. “Why didn’t you tell us about the letters, Charlie?” he asked. “You cl
aim to want justice, but you’re the one holding back.”
“I need them,” Charlie mumbled, not making eye contact. “For my book. Gotta have original material. You know. Exclusive content.”
“Are you really writing a book?” D.D. pressed.
“Yeah!”
“But you don’t have letters. We know that, Charlie. Because Shana wasn’t into your cousin. She was into you.” D.D. had been contemplating the theory ever since leaving the foster mom’s house. No way a girl with Shana’s reputation would be attracted to a geeky twelve-year-old. But Charlie, leader of the local pack, with his firefighting father and cop uncle . . .
Charlie stared at them. Then his face melted. His body sagged, and for a moment, she thought he might collapse from the weight of the guilt he’d been carrying on his shoulders.
“I liked her. So help me God, I knew she was trouble. But I was fourteen and stupid and trouble sounded good.”
“Were you two dating?”
He grimaced. “These days, I think the proper term would be fuck buddies. We got together. You know, when the mood struck.”
“Are there letters? Ones she wrote to you.”
“No. I lied.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably, glanced at Adeline. “I was just trying to get your attention. I mean, seriously. After everything my family’s been through, first your sister, then you, blow me off. Is wanting to know the truth about what happened to my cousin really asking too much?”
His voice picked up again, his rage straightening his frame, lending him strength.
“Donnie was your go-between,” Adeline said, her gaze boring into Charlie’s. “That’s the truth, isn’t it Charlie? You used your younger cousin to relay messages to Shana. Where and when to meet. That way, you wouldn’t be seen with her—the crazy girl—too often.”
D.D. thought he might deny it, then Charlie muttered hoarsely: “Yes.”
