Fear Nothing (Detective D.D. Warren #7) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,100
early days of Shana’s incarceration, and that inmate was larger and more experienced. Again, someone strong assaulting someone weak.”
“Except Donnie Johnson wasn’t someone strong,” Phil said.
“No. In fact, Donnie Johnson represents the kind of person she’d be driven to protect.”
“So what happened?” D.D. asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t know. Shana claimed self-defense, alleging that Donnie had tried to rape her. Frankly, it’s never made sense, then or now. Not given the size difference between her and Donnie, and certainly not given their character references. He was cast as a kindhearted, socially awkward science geek, while Shana became the hardhearted street kid who manipulated him into meeting her just so she could slaughter him. The first thrill kill, so to speak. Given the heinous nature of the crime, the jury took less than a day to sentence a teenage girl to life in prison. It was that kind of case. Shana was that kind of defendant.”
“You’re talking thirty years ago,” Phil said cautiously. “Your sister was a kid. Impulsive, hormonal, reckless . . . Maybe the reason that murder is different is because your sister was different.”
“Triggers are triggers,” I said simply. “We only wish we could change them so easily.”
“Then why didn’t she protest it more?” D.D. asked.
“Because she’s Shana. Because she really does suffer from antisocial personality disorder, meaning she doesn’t relate to people well, whether they’re her lawyer, a judge or a jury of her peers. It’s possible she already suffered from depression back then as well. I don’t know. I didn’t meet her for another ten years, so I don’t know the fourteen-year-old Shana. But if that’s the case . . . she would’ve expected the worst. Then when it happened, what’s the point in fighting it?”
Phil nodded. He appeared troubled. Locking away my forty-four-year-old psychotic sister didn’t bother him. Contemplating who she’d once been, the young girl with a troubled past. That was harder. As it should be.
“What about her lawyer?” D.D. asked. “He must’ve put up a fight, a fourteen-year-old client.”
“The best no money could buy,” I assured her.
D.D. rolled her eyes.
“Now, Charlie Sgarzi claims he found love letters from Shana to his cousin, but I don’t believe that, either. Shana abhors submissive types. No way she’d be attracted to a smaller, younger, weaker boy.”
“He has letters?”
“Found them after his uncle’s suicide.”
“Think he made them up? Maybe to sell a novel?”
I shrugged. “Or there really are notes, but he misunderstood them. The letters are really a form of coded communication or not intended for Donnie at all. He was the delivery boy, or . . .” I paused thoughtfully. “Donnie was smart, a bookworm, right? Maybe he was helping Shana write them. Shana wasn’t exactly a model student. To this day, her handwriting, spelling . . . Let’s just say, a handwritten note from her doesn’t do her natural intelligence justice.”
D.D. was still frowning.
“You think she planned this?” she spoke up suddenly. “I mean, all of this.” She made a churning motion with her hand. “You heard Christi. Shana’s basically rotting away in the MCI with no hope of ever seeing daylight. She’s clever, she’s bored, she’s got plenty of time on her hands. Why not concoct an elaborate series of murders, then position herself to emerge as the hero. It’s been more than a decade since she got to save the day by stabbing Frankie what’s-his-name a hundred times. Now she can take on the Rose Killer. Like you said, fresh meat.”
I shook my head. “I think you were right this morning: There is a connection between the Rose Killer and my sister. But it’s not Harry Day; it’s Donnie Johnson. It’s what really happened thirty years ago. It’s whatever secret the Rose Killer doesn’t want Charlie Sgarzi to dig up.”
“So we return to Charlie Sgarzi,” D.D. stated, looking at Phil.
“No,” I corrected her, earning a hard glance. “He hasn’t learned the secret yet; that’s the whole point. We need to find the person who has. And I might be able to help with that. Shana’s foster mother from back in the day. They lived by the Johnsons. Chances are, she remembers a thing or two about the kid. And I happen to have her name and phone number.”
• • •
BRENDA DAVIES STILL REMEMBERED ME. We’d met only once, nearly six years ago, when I’d first started taking over my sister’s mental health care and had interviewed Brenda as part of basic fact-finding into my patient’s history. At that time, our conversation had