Fear Nothing (Detective D.D. Warren #7) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,83
see . . . The skin is jagged, not evenly sliced. Third time out, a killer should have less internal resistance. He/she should be growing even more adept and elaborate with his handiwork. Instead, our killer struggled with this one.”
“Her age?” D.D. guessed. “Harder to attack an elderly woman?”
“No fur-lined handcuffs,” Alex said. “Which are the most blatantly sexual objects left behind at each scene. If we’re thinking a female killer obsessed with attacking young women in order to collect ribbons of unblemished skin—”
“An elderly woman doesn’t fit. She’s not the Rose Killer’s type. Are we even sure this is the Rose Killer’s handiwork and not a copycat crime?”
“Yes,” Alex said.
“But the hesitation marks, lack of restraints—”
“Janet Sgarzi is his third victim,” Alex interrupted her. “One hundred and fifty-three, D.D. That’s what I’ve been doing. Counting flayed strips of human flesh. And I hope to God I never have to do that ever again in my lifetime, but it did yield the magic number: one hundred and fifty-three ribbons of skin.”
D.D. didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t swallow, much less talk. No wonder Alex had appeared so . . . somber. Of all the scenes he’d ever had to analyze . . .
“I’m sorry,” she said at last.
“Janet Sgarzi was the Rose Killer’s victim,” Alex continued steadily. “She wasn’t, however, the killer’s preferred victim type. Meaning something else must have made her a target.”
“Charlie Sgarzi believes Shana Day did this,” D.D. supplied. “She ordered the Rose Killer to murder his mother to get back at him for investigating her. Or maybe to warn him off, in which case, I don’t think it worked, because he’s mostly vowed revenge.”
“Or she knew something,” Alex said.
“What do you mean?”
“Shana Day has been quietly sitting in solitary for nearly thirty years, yes?”
“True.”
“And now, suddenly, you believe she’s engaged in some kind of coded communication with a serial killer who’s magically appeared in Boston and seems to be emulating another long-dead predator, Harry Day.”
“True.”
“Except, returning to the question of the day, why now? What’s the inciting event? The thirty-year anniversary of Donnie Johnson’s murder? Because that seems rather arbitrary as anniversary dates go.”
D.D. gave him a look. “We discussed this. And trust me, you doubted my intelligence just fine the first time.”
“I’m not doubting your intelligence. I’m offering a theory. Janet Sgarzi wasn’t just Donnie Johnson’s aunt; she was Charlie’s mom—the reporter who, only a matter of months ago, started asking fresh questions about his cousin’s death.”
D.D. looked up at him, frowning. “You mean . . .”
“A thirty-year anniversary date is subjective. Reopening an investigation into an old murder, on the other hand . . . What if Shana really does have a friend from back in the day? And what if that person knows things, or did things, that all these years later, he/she/it still can’t afford to come to light?”
“The Rose Killer’s true motive isn’t a macabre string of murders deliberately staged to recall shades of Harry Day,” D.D. murmured. “It’s a cover-up. Because there’s no statute of limitations on homicide. Pat’s still got everything to lose.”
“And one very real weakness,” Alex offered grimly. “Shana Day.”
Chapter 24
SUPERINTENDENT MCKINNON CALLED just after 6:00 A.M. Having yet to fall asleep, I found it easy enough to pick up the phone, then murmur the appropriate words as McKinnon explained that my sister wanted to speak with me. But of course, I said. I could be there at eight.
Then I hung up the phone and crawled out of the depths of my closet, where I’d spent the night after D. D. Warren’s phone call notifying me of the Rose Killer’s latest attack. I spent long minutes under the stinging spray of a lukewarm shower. I still didn’t feel quite human.
What to wear for this latest battle of wits? I went with the fuchsia cardigan. It seemed the obvious choice. It felt that for years my sister and I had been engaged in a dance. One step forward, one step back, swaying side to side. The music was changing now. Speeding up, moving toward a pounding crescendo, where, at the end, only one of us would be left standing.
I contemplated checking in with D.D. or Detective Phil as I drove south to the MCI. But I didn’t. I already knew what I would say to Shana, what I had to do. And when it came to my sister, I was the expert. It was only appropriate that I should be the one calling the shots.