The Keepsake (22 page)

TWENTY-NINE

“It’s Josephine’s,” said Jane.

Maura sat at her kitchen table, staring down at the evidence bag containing a thick mass of black hair. “We don’t know that,” she said.

“It’s the right color. The right length.” Jane pointed to the envelope that had contained the note. “He practically tells us he’s the one who sent it.”

Through the kitchen window, Maura saw the flashlights of the CSU team that had spent the last hour combing her backyard. And on the street three police cruisers were parked, rack lights flashing, and her neighbors were probably peering out their windows at the spectacle. I’m the woman you don’t want in your neighborhood, she thought. My house is where police cruisers and crime scene units and news vans regularly turn up. Her privacy had been stripped away, her home exposed to those TV cameras, and she wanted to fling open the front door and scream at the reporters to get off her street and leave her alone. She imagined how that would play out on the late-night news, the enraged medical examiner shrieking like a madwoman.

The true object of her fury was not those cameras, however, but the man who had drawn them here. The man who had written the note and had left that souvenir hanging on her pear tree. She looked up at Jane. “Why the hell did he send this to me? I’m just a medical examiner. I’m peripheral to your investigation.”

“You’ve also been present at almost every death scene. In fact, you were the very first person on this case, starting with the CT scan of Madam X. Your face has been on the news.”

“So has yours, Jane. He could have mailed that souvenir to Boston PD. Why come to
my
house? Why leave it in
my
backyard?”

Jane sat down and faced her across the table. “If that hair had been mailed to Boston PD, we would have handled it internally and quietly. Instead cruisers were dispatched and now you’ve got criminalists tramping around your property. Our boy has turned this into a public spectacle.” She paused. “Which may be the point.”

“He likes the attention,” said Maura.

“And he’s certainly getting that attention.”

Outside, the CSU team had wrapped up their search. Maura heard the closing thud of van doors, the fading growl of departing vehicles.

“You asked a question earlier,” said Jane. “You asked,
Why me?
Why would the killer leave the souvenir at your house, instead of sending it to Boston PD?”

“We just agreed it’s because he wants attention.”

“You know, there’s another reason I can think of. And you’re not going to like this one.” Jane turned on the laptop computer that she’d brought in from her car, and navigated to the
Boston Globe
website. “You remember reading this story about Madam X?”

On the monitor was an archived
Globe
article:
MYSTERY MUMMY’S SECRETS SOON TO BE REVEALED.
Accompanying the article was a color photo of Nicholas Robinson and Josephine Pulcillo, flanking Madam X in her crate.

“Yes, I read it,” said Maura.

“This piece was picked up by the wire services. It ran in a lot of newspapers. If our killer spotted this story, then he’d know Lorraine Edgerton’s body had just been found. And that there’d be excitement to come after the CT scan. Now look at this.”

Jane clicked on a saved file on her computer, and an image appeared on the screen. It was a head shot of a young woman with long black hair and delicately arching brows. This was not a candid shot but a formal pose in front of a professional backdrop, a photo that might have been taken for a college yearbook.

“Who is she?” asked Maura.

“Her name was Kelsey Thacker. She was a college student who was last seen twenty-six years ago, walking home from a neighborhood bar. In Indio, California.”

“Indio?” said Maura. And she thought of the crumpled newspaper that she had pulled from the head of the
tsantsa
—a newspaper that had been printed twenty-six years ago.

“We reviewed the missing persons reports for every woman who vanished from the Indio area that year. Kelsey Thacker’s name popped front and center. And when I saw her photo, I was sure of it.” She pointed to the image. “I think this is what Kelsey looked like before a killer cut off her head. Before he peeled off her face and scalp. Before he shrank it down and hung it on a string like a fucking Christmas ornament.” Jane took an agitated breath.

“Without a skull, we have no way of matching her dental records. But I’m positive this is her.”

Maura’s gaze was still fixed on the woman’s face. Softly she said, “She looks like Lorraine Edgerton.”

“And like Josephine, too. Dark-haired, pretty. I think it’s clear what kind of woman attracts this killer. We also know that he watches the news. He hears that Madam X has been found in the Crispin Museum, and maybe all the publicity thrills him. Or maybe it just annoys him. The important thing is, it’s all about
him.
And he spots Josephine’s photo in that article about the mummy. Pretty face, black hair. Identical to his dream girl. The kind of girl he seems to kill again and again.”

“And that draws him to Boston.”

“No doubt he saw this article, too.” Jane pulled up yet another news article from the
Boston Globe
archive, this one about Bog Lady:
BODY DISCOVERED IN WOMAN’S CAR.
Accompanying the story was a file photo of Maura, with the caption: “Medical examiner says cause of death still undetermined.”

“It’s a photo of another pretty woman with black hair,” said Jane. She looked at Maura. “Maybe you never noticed the resemblance, Doc, but I did. The first time I saw you and Josephine in the same room, I thought you could be her older sister. That’s why I’ve asked Newton PD to keep an eye on your house. It might not be a bad idea for you to leave home for a few days. Maybe it’s also a good time to think about getting a dog. A great big dog.”

“I have an alarm system, Jane.”

“A dog has teeth. Plus, he’d keep you company.” Jane stood to leave. “I know you like your privacy. But sometimes, a woman just doesn’t want to be alone.”

But I am alone, thought Maura later as she watched Jane’s car drive away and vanish into the night. Alone in a silent house without even a dog for company.

She armed her security system and paced the living room, as restless as a caged animal, her gaze returning again and again to the telephone. At last she could resist the temptation no longer. She felt like a junkie in withdrawal as she picked up the receiver, her hand trembling with need as she punched in Daniel’s cell phone number.
Please answer. Please be there for me.

His voice mail picked up.

She hung up without leaving a message and stared down at the phone, feeling betrayed by its silence. Tonight I need you, she thought, but you’re beyond my reach. You’ve always been beyond my reach, because God is the one who owns you.

The glare of headlights drew her to the window. Outside a Newton PD cruiser crawled slowly past her house. She waved, acknowledging the faceless patrolman who watched over her on a night when the man she loved did not and could not. And what did that patrolman see as he passed her house? A woman with a comfortable home and all the trappings of success who stood alone at her window, isolated and vulnerable.

Her phone rang.

Daniel
was her first thought, and by the time she’d snatched up the receiver, her heart was pounding as hard as a sprinter’s.

“Are you all right, Maura?” said Anthony Sansone.

Disappointed, she gave a response that sounded more curt than she intended. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I understand there was some excitement at your house tonight.”

She was not surprised that he already knew about it. Sansone always managed to sense every disturbing tremor, every shift in the wind.

“It’s all over now,” she said. “The police have left.”

“You shouldn’t be alone tonight. Why don’t you pack a bag and I’ll come get you? You can stay here on Beacon Hill, as long as you need to.”

She looked out the window, at the deserted street and considered the night ahead. She could spend it lying awake, listening anxiously to every creak, every rattle in the house. Or she could retreat to the safety of his mansion, which he’d made secure against a universe of threats that he was convinced stood arrayed against him. In his velvet-cloaked fortress, furnished with antiques and medieval portraits, she would be protected and safe, but it would be a refuge in a dark and paranoid world, with a man who saw conspiracies everywhere. Sansone had always unsettled her; even now, months after she’d made his acquaintance, he seemed unknowable, a man isolated by his wealth and by his disquieting belief in humanity’s enduring dark side. She might be safe in his house, but she would not feel at ease.

Outside, the street was still deserted, the police cruiser long gone. There’s only one person I want here with me tonight, she thought. And he’s the one person I can’t have.

“Maura, shall I come and get you?” he asked

“There’s no need to fetch me,” she said. “I’ll come in my own car.”

The last time Maura had set foot in Sansone’s Beacon Hill mansion, it had been January and there’d been a fire blazing in the hearth to ward off the winter chill. Though it was now a warm summer night, a chill still seemed to cling to the house, as though winter had permanently settled into these dark-paneled rooms, where somber faces gazed from the portraits on the walls.

“Have you had supper yet?” Sansone asked, handing her overnight bag to his manservant, who discreetly withdrew. “I can ask the cook to prepare a meal.”

She thought of her grilled cheese sandwich, of which she’d taken only a few bites. It hardly counted as supper, but she had no appetite, so she accepted only a glass of wine. It was a rich Amarone, so dark it appeared almost black in the parlor’s firelight. She sipped it under the cool gaze of his sixteenth-century ancestor, whose piercing eyes stared down from the portrait hanging over the hearth.

“It’s been far too long since you’ve visited,” he said, settling into the Empire armchair facing hers. “I keep hoping you’ll accept the invitations to our monthly suppers.”

“I’ve been too busy to make your meetings.”

“Is that the only reason? That you’re busy?”

She stared into her glass of wine. “No,” she admitted.

“I know you don’t believe in our mission. But do you still think we’re a group of crackpots?”

She looked up and saw that his mouth was tilted into an ironic smile. “I think the Mephisto Society has a frightening view of the world.”

“And you don’t have the same view? You stand in that autopsy room and watch the homicide victims roll in. You see the evidence carved into their bodies. Tell me that doesn’t shake your faith in humanity.”

“All it tells me is that there are certain people who don’t belong in civilized society.”

“People who can hardly be classified as human.”

“But they
are
human. You can call them whatever you want. Predators, hunters, even demons. Their DNA is still the same as ours.”

“Then what makes them different? What makes them kill?” He set down his wineglass and leaned toward her, his gaze as disturbing as that of the portrait over the hearth. “What makes a privileged child warp into a monster like Bradley Rose?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s the problem. We try to blame it on traumatic childhoods or abusive parents or environmental lead. And yes, some criminal behaviors can probably be explained that way. Then there are the exceptional examples, the killers who stand apart for their cruelties. No one knows where these creatures come from. Yet every generation, every society, produces a Bradley Rose and a Jimmy Otto and a host of predators just like them. They’re always among us, and we have to acknowledge they exist. And protect ourselves.”

She frowned at him. “How did you learn so much about this case?”

“There’s been a great deal of publicity.”

“Jimmy Otto’s name was never released. It’s not public knowledge.”

“The public doesn’t ask the questions I ask.” He reached for the wine bottle and refilled her glass. “My sources in law enforcement trust me to be discreet, and I trust them to be accurate. We share the same concerns and the same goals.” He set down the bottle and looked at her. “Just as you and I do, Maura.”

“I’m not always certain of that.”

“We both want that young woman to survive. We want Boston PD to find her. That means we have to understand exactly why this killer took her.”

“The police have a forensic psychologist consulting on the case. They’re already covering that territory.”

“And they’re using the conventional approach.
He behaved this way before, so that’s the way he’ll behave again.
But this abduction is completely different from the earlier ones, the ones we know about.”

“Different how? He started by crippling this woman, and that’s precisely his pattern.”

“But then he deviated from that pattern.”

“What do you mean?”

“Both Lorraine Edgerton and Kelsey Thacker vanished without a trace. Neither abductions were followed by taunts of
find me.
There were no notes or souvenirs sent to law enforcement. Those women simply disappeared. This victim is different. With Ms. Pulcillo, the killer seems to be begging for your attention.”

“Maybe he’s asking to be caught. Maybe it’s a plea for someone to finally stop him.”

“Or he has another reason to want all this publicity. You have to admit, courting publicity is exactly what he’s done by staging high-profile incidents. Putting the bog body in the trunk. Committing the murder and abduction in the museum. And now the latest—leaving a souvenir in your backyard. Did you notice how quickly the press showed up in your neighborhood?”

“Reporters often monitor police radios.”

“They were tipped off, Maura. Someone called them.”

She stared at him. “You think this killer’s that desperate for attention?”

“He’s certainly getting it. Now the question is, whose attention is he seeking?” He paused. “I’m concerned it’s yours he wants.”

She shook her head. “He already has mine, and he knows it. If this is attention-seeking behavior, it’s directed at a far larger audience. He’s telling the whole world,
Look at me. Look at what I’ve done.
”