Fear Nothing (17 page)

D.D. studied Adeline. The doctor’s gaze remained direct, her expression controlled. But there was a tightness to her jaw that hadn’t been there before. The good doc was holding it together. But it was costing her.

D.D. asked the next logical question: “And you?”

“According to the hospital admittance papers, not a mark on me.”

“Harry abused her but not you.”

“Harry Day died one week prior to my first birthday. It might have proved interesting to see if the same still held true eight days later.”

“You think your age saved you. You were a baby. Whereas, the moment you turned one . . .”

Adeline shrugged. “We’ll never know.”

“Could it have been your condition?” D.D. wondered. “Maybe he did cut you. But you wouldn’t have cried, right? And that wouldn’t have been very satisfying to him.”

Adeline appeared surprised. “In all the years, I’ve never considered that.”

“Really? Seems an obvious thought.”

“It’s possible, I suppose, but not probable. We didn’t know about my condition yet. It wasn’t discovered until I was three. Then it was my sister who did the honors. She cut me.”

D.D. blinked. “Your sister, the six-year-old, cut you?”

“It’s what she knew. A learned behavior drilled into her night after night: Blood is love. And in her own way, my sister loves me.”

“I’m not attending any of your family reunions.”

“She took scissors to my arms. When I didn’t cry out, she cut deeper. Which might be further evidence my father couldn’t have known. I have a feeling his first instinct would’ve been to cut deeper as well, and I don’t bear those kinds of scars.”

“Okay.”

“So question of the day, Detective: Is evil born or made?”

“Nature versus nurture.”

“Exactly. What do you think?”

D.D. shook her head. “No need to choose; I’ve seen both.”

“Me, too. A good person can be warped into evil, and an evil person can be tempered by good.”

“So your point is?”

“None of that matters when it comes to my sister; she got screwed by both.”

“The daughter of a serial killer,” D.D. filled in, “already subjected to years of ritualistic abuse, then turned loose in the foster care system.” At which point, the light finally went on, and D.D. closed her eyes, not believing she hadn’t connected the dots sooner. To give herself some credit, the case was thirty years old, meaning she’d been a teenager herself at the time and not a work-obsessed detective. Still, given the notoriety . . .

“Shana Day,” D.D. stated out loud. “Your sister is Shana Day. Youngest convicted female murderer in Massachusetts, tried as an adult when she was only fourteen. Has spent the decades since picking off corrections officers and fellow inmates in the MCI. That Shana Day.” Then, another lightbulb moment: “She mutilated him, right? It’s been years since I thought about the case, but right after she strangled the kid, she worked him over with a knife. Removed an ear. And
strips of skin
 . . .” D.D. stared at Adeline, nearly dumbfounded by the implications. “Where’s your sister now?”

“Still a resident of the MCI, where she’ll spend the rest of her life.”

“I want to speak with her. Immediately.”

“You can try. She’s currently recovering in the prison’s medical ward, however. Recovering from her latest suicide attempt.”

“What’s her condition?”

“Stable. For now.” Adeline paused. “Next week will be the thirty-year anniversary of Donnie Johnson’s death. I gather Shana’s getting some unwelcome attention from it. At least one reporter has contacted the prison, wanting an interview.”

“Does she talk about the case?”

“Never.”

“What about friends, associates?” D.D.’s mind was already racing ahead. Shana might be behind bars, but it boggled D.D.’s mind how many convicted murderers carried out active social lives while supposedly imprisoned. They fell in love, got married. Why not seduce some burgeoning wannabe killer into finishing Daddy’s—or her own—life’s work?

But Adeline was shaking her head. “My sister suffers from severe antisocial personality disorder. Don’t get me wrong; she’s exceptionally smart and disturbingly clever. But she is not like my father. No elderly widow would ever let Shana inside the front door to repair a broken window. Nor does Shana herself have any interest in friends or followers.”

D.D. couldn’t help herself. “So your father is a serial killer, your sister is a proficient murderer—wait, she’s passed the triple victim mark, making her a serial killer in her own right—and you suffer from a rare congenital condition making it impossible for you to feel pain. That’s quite some gene pool.”

“Every bell curve has its outliers.”

“Outliers? Please, your family can’t even be on the graph.”

Adeline shrugged; D.D. switched gears.

“Your sister jealous of you?”

“You would have to ask her.”

“But you two have a relationship?”

“I visit once a month. She’ll tell you I come because I feel guilty. And I’ll tell you she accepts my visits because she’s bored. Detective.. You seem to think this so-called Rose Killer might have a direct connection to my family, may even be inspired by them. Speaking as a psychiatrist with some experience in deviant personalities, I wouldn’t be so sure.”

D.D. gave her a skeptical look.

“If you compare enough pieces of warped wood,” Adeline continued, “some are bound to be warped the same way. Same with abnormal psyches. Many share the same obsessions, rituals and fantasies. Is it that this killer has read about Harry Day, or visited Shana? Or is it enough that he shares their primary belief?”

“Which is?”

“Blood is love. My sister took sewing shears to my arms not to hurt me but to demonstrate her affection. As for twelve-year-old Donnie Johnson, I think it’s possible Shana’s never spoken of that night for the same reason: She didn’t hate the boy. She simply loved him too much and has missed him ever since.”

D.D. arched a brow. “Your sister killed a twelve-year-old boy as a display of her affection?”

“I don’t know. But something happened that night, Detective. Something powerful enough, or maybe simply personal enough, that not even a pure psychopath such as my sister has been able to speak of it since.”

Chapter 13

Who am I?
Average security company employee.

What do I look like?
Nothing special. Tan pants, blue button-down shirt, baseball cap pulled low
.

Primary motivation?
Just doing my job.

Purpose of operation:
Distract investigative efforts, confuse the issue.

Net gain:
Everyone loves a villain.

The nondescript security company employee drove straight to the target.

No other vehicles in the driveway. No signs of life in the home. The security company employee parked on the street, grabbed a black computer bag from the passenger’s seat, then pressed a navy-blue baseball cap lower onto head.

The khaki pants were baggy, same with the faded blue shirt. Flea market finds, hence the lack of perfect fit. But cheap clothes were disposable clothes. And excess fabric further distorted one’s size, which would come in handy later, when nosy neighbors were inevitably called upon to provide a description.

Deep breath in and out. Hands flexing and unflexing on the steering wheel. This was it. Not a time to think but a time to do. Research had been done, plans debated, decisions made. Now the moment was at hand.

The first time, lurking outside the target’s town house. Realizing after months and weeks of consideration that this was finally it . . . Then carefully positioning the package in the center of the walkway, far enough that she’d have to leave the doorway to retrieve it. Ringing the doorbell, then ducking behind the fake ficus tree in the corner of the front porch. The target opened the front door. The target sighed, spotting the delivery fifteen feet away. The target set out to retrieve her prize. Making it so easy to slip inside, taking up position in a hall closet until late that night, when the lights were finally out . . .

Who am I?
Nothing. Nobody. No one. Or maybe I am just like you. The outsider, looking in.

What is my motivation?
Financial security. Personal success. Call of the wild. Or maybe, just like you, I want to be someone. To finally feel as if I belong.

Now, the nondescript security company employee exited the van and headed straight for the home’s front door.

Body angled, counting on bulky clothes to help further obscure the view, the nondescript security company employee picked the twin locks. Which, of course, triggered the home security system into its first round of wails.

Not rushing. In fact, now relaxing. Because with the alarm came further justification for the presence of a security company employee. All, in fact, was proceeding according to plan.

Striding into the house. Heading for the stairs. Locating the master bedroom.

Thirty seconds and counting now. Because while it might appear to nosy neighbors that the proper person was already on scene, a posse of security company operators were immediately placing calls to the local police as well as the responsible homeowner. Time mattered.

Now the nondescript security company employee studied the bed. Right-hand-side nightstand held a glass of water, faintly smudged with pink lipstick. Upon closer investigation, the pillow revealed several blond curls. Definitely her side of the bed. Did she sleep well? Or did she still remember that night, standing in the darkened hallway all alone, so completely vulnerable . . .

Rockabye, baby, on the treetop,
the nondescript security company employee hummed.
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock . . .

Attacking a homicide detective had not been part of the plan. But she’d heard, coming out of the bedroom, leading with her gun. Returning to the crime scene had been a rookie mistake, the nondescript person understood now. Giving in to the temptation to see it again, review each detail, had everything really gone just so? Plus, from the outside, the town house had appeared dark, empty, safe.

Then, the detective, suddenly appearing in the hallway. And a choice had to be made. Fight or flight. Really, it hadn’t been so hard after all. Just as others had claimed, once you kill the first time, the rest really does come easy.

Improvisation. It had worked even better than imagined. So now, here stood a nondescript security company employee improvising again. While continuing to count the seconds:
Eighteen, nineteen, twenty . . .

Time was a taskmaster. Must stay on plan.

Unzipping the computer bag, producing the first item. The bottle of champagne. Then, of course, the handcuffs, delicately lined with fur. Followed by a single red rose, placed directly upon her pillow.

Finally, the card. Purchased just this morning and the winning touch.

Stepping back. A final assessment of the scene.

Purpose of operation:
Intimidate, scare, antagonize. Because then again, maybe I don’t want to be you. I want to be better than you.

Net gain:
Adrenaline rush.

Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three . . .

The nightstand phone started to ring. No doubt the security company, checking to see if it was the homeowner who’d accidentally triggered the alarm, and could now silence the system by magically uttering the secret password.

Nondescript security company employee turned, walked steadily down the stairs, out of the house and back to the waiting van. A quick show of speaking rapidly into a cell phone, conscientious employee on the job. Face down, gaze averted, back to the nosy neighbors, who were now starting to look actively out their windows.

The home alarm continued to shriek.

As the nondescript security company employee climbed back into the vehicle. And drove away.

Leaving behind the tokens of affection for Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren. Including a very thoughtful card, which read:

Get well soon.

Chapter 14

A
LEX PACED.

D.D.’s squad was assembled in their family room. Crime scene techs had arrived, inspecting their front door, dusting for prints, bagging the various tokens of the killer’s affection. Uniformed officers had canvassed the area. Other detectives had interviewed the neighbors, establishing that a nondescript person in a nondescript white van bearing the name of a major home security firm had appeared in their driveway in response to their home alarm. Or maybe it had been there right before the activation of the alarm? But one way or another, Alex and D.D.’s home security system had activated, and an employee from their security company had been right there to handle it. Male, female, young, old, black or white, no one was sure. But a company employee. Definitely a company employee had been immediately on scene. Good thing, too, right?

Alex paced.

He’d been the one to find the note. Came home from work, pulled in the drive with Jack strapped into his car seat. He’d opened his car door and registered the screech of the alarm right about the same moment his cell phone had buzzed with their real security firm calling to check in with them.

Not having seen anything amiss from the outside, Alex entered their home. They’d had false alarms before. These things happened. And given the undisturbed front door, intact windows, quiet downstairs . . .

He’d just relaxed, he’d told D.D. tersely. Jack in his left arm, security company on the phone tucked against his right ear as he’d popped upstairs for one last, quick inspection . . .

The security company had contacted the Boston PD, while Alex had headed straight back out of the house with three-year-old Jack in his arms and driven him to his parents.

They would keep him for the night.

While the crime scene technicians processed Alex and D.D.’s home.

And Alex paced.

His hands were clasped behind him. He wore his academy clothes, khaki pants, a navy-blue shirt embroidered with the Massachusetts State Police logo on his chest. The hard line of his shoulders spoke of tension. Otherwise his set face remained expressionless, nearly impossible to read. If D.D. was an expert on externalizing her rage, then Alex was a master of internalizing his, maintaining a tightly reined control.