when he had a heart attack just three weeks later . . .”
“No way!” D.D. stopped walking.
“Not a heart attack,” I assured her. “But a panic attack. Most likely brought on by spending three hours a week in the company of my sister. Needless to say, the caseworker retired. And my sister went back to plotting new ways to entertain herself.”
“Like contacting a killer?” Phil asked.
I didn’t know what to say anymore. I felt suddenly exhausted, worn-out. The things I understood professionally about my sister, versus the things I wanted to feel about her personally.
Such as, just because I couldn’t feel pain didn’t mean my family couldn’t hurt me.
She dreamed of me, whispered my name. My big sister. We’d spent only a few years together, one with our parents, two in various foster homes. And yet our lives seemed forever intertwined.
“Have you ever played the bar game?” I asked now.
Both detectives had stopped walking. We were outside the Prudential Center, standing in the middle of a bustling sidewalk, streams of humanity splitting around us. Midday in downtown Boston. Commuters, tourists, residents, all going about their very important business. While we discussed murder, with the late fall air sharp against our cheeks and the sun already contemplating its decline.
“The bar game,” I repeated. “We did it all the time as psych students. Go to a bar, gaze around the tables and deduce the life story of each of your fellow barflies. As soon-to-be-doctors, we prided ourselves on interpreting body language. You’re detectives; I imagine you’d be equally good.”
D.D. and Phil were frowning at me. “Okay. We like bar games, too,” D.D. said at last. “What of it?”
“Bet you could always pick out the fresh divorcé.”
“Sure.”
“And so can my sister.”
They paused as I watched the implication of this sink in.
“You think,” Phil said, “Shana guessed that Frankie was going through a divorce, simply by studying him.”
“It’s not so hard. He used to bring a bag lunch—packed by his wife—now does not. He used to wear a freshly cleaned uniform—laundered by his wife—now does not. Not to mention a change in pattern, such as staying all night at the prison during his time off. Someone as misogynistic as Frankie was reputed to be no doubt was married to a stay-at-home, see-to-all-of-my-needs wife. A woman who cleaned, cooked and otherwise tended him. Meaning when she escaped, the impact on Frankie’s world would be readily visible. In a crowded bar, I’d be able to read him, and so would you. Why not my sister, who had nothing better to do, day after day after day?”
They considered the matter. “But sounds like she knew more than the recent split,” D.D. said.
“Perhaps she gleaned choice tidbits from the prison rumor mill. Others dropped hints; she picked them up. Not to mention, it’s all about the delivery. Not knowing what you know, but sounding as if you know what you know. Christi called it voodoo. More likely, my sister is simply very adept at basic parlor tricks. She listens, she analyzes and then she strikes.”
“She listened and analyzed the second guard, Richie, into letting her kill him?” Phil asked dubiously, still looking troubled.
“I think she pegged him as having a conscience. After that, the rest wouldn’t be so hard.”
“Meaning you could do it,” D.D. said, her tone challenging.
“Except I have a conscience,” I reminded her. Reminded myself.
“You think Christi might be telling the truth,” Phil said. “Your sister outmaneuvered both those guards, maybe even got the third, Howard, to kill himself in a car accident, except it wasn’t because she had access to outside information. She simply manipulated them.”
“I think we shouldn’t imbue my sister with too many superpowers. She has enough superior attributes as it is.”
“Which leaves us with what?” D.D. asked.
I took a deep breath. “She didn’t do it.”
“Which it?” D.D., again, already disbelieving. “Kill Donnie Johnson, murder an inmate, shank two guards, manipulate the Rose Killer or all of the above?”
“She didn’t murder Donnie Johnson,” I said, and the moment the words were out of my mouth, I knew them to be true. “Basic projection, right? The three murders in the MCI, the crimes we know the most about, all had motive: to protect. That’s Shana’s trigger. Someone stronger attacking someone weaker. In which case, she identifies with the weaker victim and is driven to intervene. Save this kid today, save the child she used to be. Even the attack on herself, the inmate she killed in self-defense, fits that pattern. It was in the