Fear Nothing (38 page)

She rolled her eyes. He smiled again, and for a moment, life was good.

“All right, back to the case,” Alex said. “Male or female killer. Have you decided yet?”

She made a face. “Tricky. Odds would still say male. Shana Day aside, not many female killers would engage in this level of postmortem mutilation. Of course, Shana Day is involved, meaning all bets are off.”

“The use of chloroform strikes me as girly,” Alex said. “Not to mention, women arouse less suspicion than men, especially when walking a neighborhood late at night or visiting a cancer-stricken elderly woman. It might be one of the reasons your killer has been operating beneath the radar screen.”

“True. But what motive? I like someone such as foster brother Sam, who was once involved with Shana, had some kind of attachment. Shana doesn’t have, and apparently has never had, any girlfriends. Only female bond in her life is with her sister.”

Alex stared at her. “You mean the one who shares the same homicidal gene pool, not to mention a medical school background that must’ve involved scalpels?”

“Yeah. That one.”

“Have you looked at her?”

“Please, she’s pretty much part of the case team. As tactics go, we’re keeping our friends close and our enemies even closer.”

“Does she have alibis for the nights in question?”

“Nope. Phil asked. Apparently, Dr. Glen spends most of her nights alone.”

“Meaning . . .”

D.D. shrugged, winced again. “It’s possible Adeline’s involved. It would be naive of me to assume otherwise. But . . . I think Adeline’s trying to figure this thing out, too. I think her sister is as much a mystery to her as to the rest of us, except in her case, it hurts more. Shana is her only living family, and while Adeline talks a good professional game, you can tell she’s vulnerable when it comes to her Shana. She does want some sort of relationship, even as the clinician in her understands that’s never gonna happen; Shana isn’t capable of it. Besides,” D.D. added more briskly, “if you believe this all has to do with Donnie Johnson’s murder thirty years ago . . . Adeline wasn’t around back then. Didn’t even know what had happened to her sister.”

“Why the graphic nature of the murders?” Alex asked. “If this all has to do with covering up a thirty-year-old crime, why the postmortem mutilation?”

D.D. didn’t have to think. The answer came to her immediately, from the back of her mind. “Because the murders are staged.”

“What?”

“Staged. Everything about the crime scenes, the rose, the champagne, the handcuffs, the flaying . . . It’s the killer making us see what the killer wants us to see. So we won’t notice the rest of the details. For example, the victims were asleep, their deaths quick. It’s not a crime of passion or bloodlust. It’s calculated. Staged. Frankly, I’m beginning to wonder if the first two murders weren’t simply a ruse to cover Janet Sgarzi’s death. To make it look like she was the random victim of a serial killer instead of a targeted prey.”

“Except she was already dying of cancer.”

“Maybe not fast enough. Charlie’s asking questions now, not later.”

“I can tell you one winner from all of this,” Alex said with a sigh. He moved her feet off his lap, rose to standing.

“Who?”

“Harry Day. Thanks to Sgarzi’s blog comparing the Rose Killer to Harry Day, news stations are going nuts resurrecting details from Harry’s homicide spree. Frankly, he’s gone from a nearly forgotten serial killer to front-page news. Not bad for a guy who’s been dead forty years.”

D.D. looked at him. “Told you we were stupid!”

She scrambled off the sofa, jarring her shoulder, further aggravating Melvin. But he was gonna have to live with it, because she needed her computer tablet—now.

Alex went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. By the time he returned, she was already Googling
merchandise from murderers
. Four sites popped up. She went with the top one on the list and started scrolling.

Alex came to stand behind her, as she remained rooted in the middle of the family room.

“What is that?” he asked in horrified fascination, as the page loaded up with images of skulls, bloody daggers and yellow crime scene tape.

“A website for murderabilia. Incarcerated killers write notes, paint pictures, and other people hawk it to collectors online. Apparently, when the Night Stalker died last year, purchase prices tripled for a month.”

“Are you buying or selling?”

“Window shopping. Check it out. Handwritten confession letter from Gary Ridgeway, aka the Green River Killer. One hundred percent authentic, the seller assures. Or, get this, a letter from Jodi Arias. With sexually explicit details. Holy crap, that’s going for six grand from some seller in Japan with a five-star rating.”

Alex made a face. “Seriously?”

“Face it, the Internet is nothing but a giant shopping mall. Given these kinds of items are banned on eBay, they were bound to find another outlet.”

“A signed confession letter, original art,
Christmas cards
,” Alex was now reading over her shoulder. “A dozen custom-designed cards from your favorite killers. Because nobody says Merry Christmas better than Charles Manson? How does someone even
get
such stuff?”

“Ummm . . .” D.D. was still skimming. “Based on what I’m reading, a lot of these ‘vendors’ have forged relationships with the killers in question. I guess you establish trust, then request custom Christmas cards?”

“But convicted killers can’t profit from their crimes, meaning there’s nothing in it for them.”

“Not money but time, attention, diversion. According to Adeline, boredom is a major problem when you spend the rest of your life behind bars. Maybe for the killers, that’s what they get out of it. Someone who writes to them regularly as well as a small purpose to the week, paint this portrait, design this card. I don’t know. It all looks creepy to me. Hang on, here we go: Harry Day.”

She clicked on his name, and a fresh page loaded.

“Two items,” she announced. “One is an alleged floorboard from his house of horrors. Another a handwritten invoice he gave to a neighbor, billing for custom bookshelves. He was a carpenter, remember? Now check this out.” D.D. tapped the screen. “Price for invoice has gone from ten bucks to twenty-five. The real winner, however, is the floorboard from his house, which has gone from one hundred to two thousand dollars in the past four hours. Now, there’s a happy seller.”

“A floorboard from Harry Day’s house? Meaning a forty-year-old piece of wood?” Alex already sounded skeptical. “How does the seller authenticate such a thing? Why, that could be any old floorboard.”

“As the website puts it, buyer beware. But, in this case, the seller claims the artifact comes with a corresponding police evidence entry log and detailed description.”

“You mean some of these items are from
cops
? Police departments?”

“Looks like it. That might explain the autopsy report I saw for sale on the home page.”

“Oh my God.” Alex appeared ill.

“Remember, I’m just window shopping.” But she didn’t blame him. Coercing a convicted killer into sketching a self-portrait was one thing. But many of the items listed seemed to be a clear violation of victims’ rights, not to mention the criminal justice system. Crime scene photos, a coroner’s report. From a cop’s perspective, it was nearly sacrilegious.

“Maybe leaked by disgruntled employees,” she mused out loud. “I hope ex-employees, because God, some of this stuff just isn’t right.”

“But Harry Day killed himself, right? No arrest, trial or incarceration. Meaning there shouldn’t be much for ex-employees to leak, and there’s no living serial killer to befriend.”

“Yeah. Well, I’ve only found two items, where some of these killers have dozens of entries.” She paused, considering. “In other words, if you happen to be one of the lucky few owning anything related to Harry Day, this week is a good week to be you. The value of your sales inventory just jumped thousands of percent, and given the serious dollars attached to some of these items . . .” She eyed Alex. “Assuming our killer has a treasure trove of Harry Day items, maybe he or she had financial motive to make Harry Day front-page news again. Could it be that simple? The external motivation we’ve been looking for is financial gain. Cash, pure and simple.”

Alex frowned. “But who would be in a position to have personal mementos from a serial killer dead and gone for the past four decades?”

“His surviving heirs. Shana and Adeline were just kids, though. The house probably sold at auction. Maybe money was put aside for their care or future college funds. Someone might have set personal items aside for them. Maybe a social worker or even the DA. I’ve seen it in other cases where a small child is the lone survivor.”

“Did the foster mom mention anything?”

“No, and I can’t see her hanging on to any of Shana’s personal belongings. Not after what happened. Adeline claims she’s kept far away from her father’s legacy. She’s mentioned a case file her adoptive father made for her but no family heirlooms.”

“So, again . . . ?”

“It’s not Shana and Adeline. Can’t be. But what if . . .”

D.D. turned to Alex. “What if Shana, the older daughter, once had a few of her father’s belongings? Items she’d dragged from foster home to foster home. She’s the one who apparently worshipped him.”

“Where’d they go?”

“She gave them away? A friend? A boyfriend? Or someone knew about them. She bragged or confided in another person in the neighborhood. Who, after the police took her away, snagged the items out of her room. Quick, let’s check the other websites.”

D.D. pulled up all four murderabilia sites, with their various disclosures. Second site didn’t even list items by Harry Day, but on the third site, they got lucky. Two letters, so-called love notes, written from Harry to his wife. Both items had gone from twenty bucks to more than a thousand in the course of the day.

“If you were trying to salvage something for a couple’s surviving daughters?” she murmured to Alex.

“That would be the kind of thing to stash away,” Alex agreed.

She clicked on the seller. Instead of a name, however, she got a list of random numbers attached to a Gmail account.

“Trying to cover his tracks,” Alex said. “If I was hawking things to people who were obsessed with serial killers, I’d do the same.”

“Can you trace it for me?” D.D. implored. “I could have Phil run it through the department experts, but you know that’ll kill at least twenty-four hours; whereas, if memory serves, you have a friend at the academy. . . .”

“Who is the very best at computer forensics. All right, I’m in.”

Alex made the call. Given the late hour, Dave Matesky was at home. Alex read off the e-mail address. Matesky did whatever it was computer techs did, and within a matter of minutes, they had a name.

Samuel Hayes.

Shana’s former foster brother.

“Hot damn.” D.D. got on the phone with Phil.

Chapter 32

I
STARTED MY PREPARATIONS
as the sun first peeked over the horizon. I hadn’t slept, but the gaunt look of my face, the deep bruises under my eyes, would only help in the hours to come.

I began with my hair, wrenching it back in the most severe hairstyle I could imagine. No foundation, powder, mascara. Dr. Glen would be unpolished this morning. Showing her true face to the world. Given my current level of stress, I didn’t think anyone would question this new look. If I appeared on the verge of a breakdown, well, I had a couple of things worth breaking over, didn’t I?

Three mason jars. Set inside a shoe box. And fitted neatly into the hidey-hole where just the day before I’d emptied out my own collection of human skin.

Sometime yesterday, the Rose Killer had graciously refilled my supply. The victims’ flesh hidden neatly in my condo. A murderer’s atrocities in my closet.

Had the Rose Killer imagined me sleeping there? Harry Day’s daughter, once more curled atop precious trophies?

It had taken me another fifteen minutes to find the cameras, little electronic eyes. One in my closet, one in my bedroom, one in my living room. That was how the killer had known about the hiding space. Because the killer hadn’t just been visiting my condo; the killer had been spying on me. He or she must’ve been in my unit more often than I’d realized to set up such an elaborate system.

In the middle of the night, I didn’t try to understand it. I simply placed strips of masking tape over each tiny lens, blinding the eyes. Then I sat on my sofa, armed with only my rage, and waited for the killer to come do something about it.

I didn’t call the police. I didn’t notify D. D. Warren or Detective Phil. Yes, I had evidence in my house. Items they most likely needed for pursuing the Rose Killer, from the skin collection to the home electronics. But it didn’t matter anymore. This game wasn’t about cops and robbers.

It was business. Family business.

Now I chose my wardrobe with care. Basic brown slacks, long-sleeved black shirt, dark-brown loafers. Plain and simple. Next I packed a bag filled with an assortment of casual clothes, then lined it with cash before adding makeup, scissors and a couple of hats.

No breakfast. I couldn’t eat.

Seven
A.M.
I was on the phone with Superintendent McKinnon. I needed to speak to my sister immediately. About our father. Please, if she would just permit . . .

She agreed I could visit after nine.

That gave me plenty of time for the drive to Walmart. Disposable cell, disposable razors, a few other necessities. I finished with more than an hour to spare. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I sat in the parking lot, flinching at every noise. Was the Rose Killer watching me, even now? Had the murderer followed me from my condo building? I tried to pay attention to the vehicles around me, but I was no 007. I was merely an exhausted, stressed-out psychiatrist, engaging in a one-way ticket to self-annihilation.

Rigging my shoe took longer than I’d expected. Finally, the clock hit eight thirty and I drove to the Massachusetts Correctional Institute, hands trembling on the wheel.