strained. “When I read the details of these latest two murders in the paper, first image that flashed through my mind was the picture of Donnie’s arm, his stomach. I . . . I knew what had been done to those women. Because I’d seen it before. In the photos of my cousin’s body. Tell me I’m wrong, Detectives. Look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong.”
D.D. and Phil couldn’t do it. For once, they were the ones to glance away. Because both had reviewed Shana’s thirty-year-old handiwork in the past twenty-four hours, and Charlie Sgarzi was right. The parallels between what she’d done to her victim, what her father had done to his victims and what the Rose Killer was doing now . . .
“Shana Day didn’t kill those women,” Sgarzi continued now. “And obviously, Harry Day didn’t kill those women. But if skinning is the signature mark of the crime as well as the calling card of both father and daughter . . .”
Sgarzi paused. D.D. already knew what he was going to say next.
“Well, there’s one family member left. . . .”
Chapter 20
MY FIRST ISSUE WAS properly disposing of the formaldehyde solution.
After the interview with Shana, I’d called my receptionist and told her to cancel my remaining appointments for the week. Pessimistic? Preparing for the worst? My adoptive father had been right; just because I didn’t feel pain didn’t mean my family couldn’t hurt me.
My sister knew something. The interview request, the Boston detective’s questions, none of them surprised her. That was my biggest impression from the morning. The police could pat themselves on the back, even congratulate me for getting Shana to “volunteer” the mystery number 153. But I knew my sister better than that. This was a game for her. And she had willingly shown up to play, which already told me it was her match after all. We were the ones catching up.
I’d been honest; I didn’t know what 153 meant. But Shana did, and if she said we would be letting her out of prison in the morning, at which time she’d be staying in my condo, sleeping in my bed and wearing my clothes, I believed her. The prediction was too specific to simply dismiss.
And it terrified me.
Formaldehyde. I possessed an entire collection of vials filled with the preserving agent and single strips of skin. It all had to go. Now.
Would the fact I kept my “collection” tucked beneath the floorboards of my closet surprise you? I can tell you as a professional that even the smartest people are driven by forces more powerful than logic. Compulsion. Obsession. Addiction.
Now I headed into my massive walk-in closet. The left-hand bureau, made of cherrywood and appearing built-in, in fact pulled straight out. I squeezed myself behind it, then went to work on the exposed floorboards, each with telltale scratches around the edges. I’d created this hidey-hole myself, the first weekend after I’d moved into my new, luxurious high-rise apartment. My first homeowner’s project. Does that tell you something?
Tucked beneath the floorboards was an ordinary shoe box. Nothing special. Black lid, faded gray-blue sides, brand name long since worn off. The kind of battered old box that might contain faded photographs or other precious family mementos. I pulled it up, holding it in two hands, then weaseled my way back out, clutching my treasure tight against my chest.
In my bathroom now. A modern white marble, chocolate cabinets, gray and blue glass-tiled affair. I placed the box on the creamy marble countertop, next to the second sink, the one that should be used by my husband or live-in companion, or the long-lost love of my life. The sink that for the entire time I’ve lived in this unit has never had a drop of water in it.
Now I removed the black top of the shoe box to reveal a padded, silk-lined interior completely at odds with the exterior. Vials. Numerous slender glass vials, each one the approximate size of a test tube, each with a rubber-stoppered top. No mason jars for this daughter of Harry Day. The gene pool had been moving on up.
It occurred to me I’d never counted the vials. Even now, I had a tendency to take it in as a whole. The collection. I didn’t count individual pieces, amassed on and off over nearly ten years. The psychiatrist who didn’t want to know what she didn’t want to know.
I closed my eyes. Pretended I was my own patient. How many