Fear Nothing (22 page)

While the interview with my sister had wrung me out, D.D. seemed almost giddy.

“You played her,” she said now. “First you were all cold clinician, then suddenly you were on the attack, belittling her memories, stealing her glory. Acting all, well, sisterly. Then, that whole bit, waving around Phil’s blood on your fingertip. Pure genius.”

I didn’t say anything, but tucked my red-stained finger into my fist. The problem with talking to my sister was never her obsession with violence; it was the way her appetites called to my own. Beast to beast, family member to family member, until I really did want to lift my finger to my lips, take a quick, delicate taste . . .

We arrived at a single unisex bathroom, complete with a windowed door that eliminated any chance of an inmate’s—or visitor’s—privacy. I’d been hanging around the prison long enough to know the facilities. I stuck to washing my hands and nothing else.

D.D. waited in the corridor.

“Do you think she really knows something?” she asked when I reemerged. “A connection between your father’s forty-year-old crimes and these recent killings?”

I hesitated. “Do you know a reporter by the name of Charlie Sgarzi?”

The detective shook her head. We worked our way back to Phil and Superintendent McKinnon.

“He’s the cousin of Shana’s twelve-year-old victim, Donnie Johnson,” I explained as we walked. “He’s been writing to Shana for the past three months now, requesting permission to interview her for a book he’s writing on his cousin’s murder. Given how much damage Shana did to his family, he feels she owes him one.”

“Okay.”

“Shana never replied to his letters, so he showed up on my doorstep last night in order to plead his case in person. He also claims to have interviewed other inmates who once served time with Shana. According to him, they say she knows things she shouldn’t know. As if she still has connections to the outside world and can manipulate things from behind bars.”

“Like a crime boss?” D.D. asked, frowning.

“Possibly. Except here’s the issue: Shana doesn’t bond with fellow inmates, exchange notes with pen pals or entertain during visiting hours. I am her sole guest each month. Otherwise she spends twenty-three hours a day locked in the isolation of her cell. I can’t picture her having the capability, let alone the opportunity, to forge the kind of complex social network required to reach beyond the prison walls. And yet . . .” My voice trailed off.

“Yet?”

“She does know things. Small, random things, say, the color of a new sweater I recently purchased. The kind of details that are slightly worrisome, but not significant. And easy enough to explain away. Maybe I mentioned the sweater purchase and just forgot. Except . . . There have been more and more of those kinds of observations lately. The past few months, each time I’ve visited, my sister has known something about me that, in theory, she shouldn’t.”

“You think she’s watching you? Or, more accurately, having someone else watch you?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“One hundred and fifty-three,” D.D. prodded.

I shook my head. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Nothing about that number that reminds you of Harry Day?”

“No. I’ll have to check the case files.”

“That’d be great. God knows Phil wasn’t lying in there; it takes about a pound of paperwork and a lifetime of patience to get old case files pulled from the city’s archives. If we’re lucky, we’ll get access to the same info in a mere six weeks or so. Meaning it would be very helpful if you could just look the info up, at least for now.”

“First thing when I get home.”

“Perfect. In the meantime, let’s speak with the superintendent. If anyone knows how your sister might be making contact with the outside world, it’s gotta be her.”

 • • • 

S
UPERINTENDENT
M
C
K
INNON WAS BLUNT
on the subject:

“Communicate with the outside world? Please, most of these inmates are having sex in a no-contact facility. Talking is the least of our concerns.”

According to the superintendent, the methods used for communication between inmates were numerous and ingenious. While Shana was confined to a maximum-security cell, she regularly checked out books from the roving library cart, ordered items from the prison commissary and received food trays three times a day. In prison life, each transaction was an opportunity to send or receive a message, whether a handwritten note, a hastily whispered word or a carefully crafted code.

“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.