Fear Nothing (Detective D.D. Warren #7) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,66
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