Fear Nothing (31 page)

Killing her had been hard.

That had been the risk, of course, from the very beginning. The first two subjects had been easy, selected at random from local coffee shops. That recon work had been conducted as Everyday Average Person, the role that had been practiced the longest and was the easiest to pull off. Everyday Average Person had actively sought out two pretty single women. The victims had to be arbitrary; that would be the key. With no connection to each other or Everyday Average Person. It had actually taken more than a dozen tries. Women selected, then carefully followed, only to discover they lived with a husband or roommates or two-point-two kids. It took time and effort, as the research had suggested.

Murder was not for the faint of heart.

But eventually, the hard work had paid off. Two victims selected, fully vetted, then officially targeted. The first phase of operations had launched, marking the transition from Everyday Average Person to Accomplished Killer. Even earned a nickname, the Rose Killer, which had yielded a surprising sense of accomplishment.

Who knew that of all the personas tried on and discarded over the years, the one of murderer might actually fit the best?

Who am I?
Your worst nightmare.

What do I look like?
Just like you.

Primary motivation:
Recognition, infamy, success. Fuck Harry Day. Fuck Shana Day. I will be the best.

Except, of course, last night’s murder hadn’t felt like that.

Last night’s deed . . .

Just thinking about it was agitating. Happy New Neighbor lost the hard-sought approachable vibe and started pacing restlessly instead.

Last night had been necessary. Logically it was understood. Rationally, the Rose Killer had proceeded according to plan. The quick slip of Rohypnol into her tea. Watching her eyelids grow heavy, her words slur.

When she’d slumped over, the Rose Killer had leapt into action, catching her gracefully, slightly surprised and impressed by the quick reflex. Then lifting her nearly weightless frame . . .

Her eyes had opened. She’d looked at her own killer. No, she’d stared
into
her killer’s soul. She’d seen her own death and acknowledged it.

And her gaze had held clear and open pity.

Then the drug had taken hold, conquering the last of her worn-out body’s defenses as she’d slumped unconscious. Hard part was over. Now carrying her to the back bedroom. Stripping off clothing, climbing aboard, scalpel in hand. Then . . .

The Rose Killer had faltered. Alone at last with the chosen target, most difficult part of the mission accomplished, the great and terrible killer had just wanted to flee the scene. Run away and never look back. She was dead; wasn’t that enough?

Except it wasn’t. Maybe the attending physician would assume she’d succumbed to her cancer, but maybe the doc wouldn’t. Meaning there’d be tests and tox screens, the finding of Rohypnol immediately muddying the waters.

Best to make everything consistent. Victim number three. An older victim, to be sure. Clearly not the Rose Killer’s usual type. But victim number three. Proving once and for all the Rose Killer’s terrible legacy, because what kind of monster attacks a cancer-stricken elderly lady? Not even Harry Day had been so merciless.

Once again, murder wasn’t for the faint of heart.

Who am I?
I don’t know. I’ve never known. How can any person really figure that out?

What do I look like?
A shell of normalcy. Because all kids learn quickly that normal is important, meaning if you’re
not
normal, you’d better go out of your way to look like it.

Primary motivation:
To feel just like everyone else. Which, of course, is the one thing I can never feel.

Purpose of operation:
If I can’t be like everyone else, I will be better than everyone else. I will hone my powers. I will be you. I will be me. I will be death. I will be salvation. I will be all things. And then I will finally have everything I want.

Net gain:
Freedom at last.

Happy New Neighbor turned away from the mirror. Happy New Neighbor had been fretting long enough. No more thinking. Time to do.

Happy New Neighbor moved into the closet, kneeling down, then working carefully to pry up the three loose floorboards. A minute later, the shoe box came into view.

Removing the lid, gazing down at the contents. Knowing what must come next. And feeling the strength that comes with resolution.

Purpose of operation:
To see what a pain specialist who couldn’t feel pain is really made of.

Net gain:
Winner takes all.

Chapter 27

C
HRISTI
W
ILLEY WAS EXACTLY WHAT
D.D. had pictured. It depressed her a little. There had been a time in her policing career when she’d promised herself the moment her job became a cliché, she’d hang up her hat. And yet here she was, at the Pru Center food court in downtown Boston, meeting with a former inmate and her parole officer, and yeah, Christi Willey was mostly what you’d expect, down to the overgrown bleached-blond hair, slumped shoulders and darting blue eyes.

Christi’s PO had called Phil while they were all still brainstorming in D.D.’s home. Per Phil’s request to meet with any parolees who’d once served time with Shana Day, the parole officer had a candidate: Christi Willey, released last year after serving twenty years in the MCI for a variety of offenses, including accessory to murder. The former inmate had agreed to answer their questions in return for one request: that Adeline be present.

Not Shana’s sister. Nor Dr. Adeline Glen. But Adeline.

The request had piqued D.D.’s curiosity. Fortunately, it had piqued Adeline’s as well. So here they were, Phil, D.D. and Adeline, sitting at two hastily combined cafeteria tables with PO Candace Proctor and her charge, Christi Willey, in the middle of a space that smelled overwhelmingly of fried food. In particular, spicy orange shrimp. It was making D.D. hungry.

So far, Adeline was playing it smart; she had yet to say a word, letting Phil and D.D. do all the talking.

Yes, Christi Willey had once shared a cellblock with Shana Day. They’d also spent some time together in solitary, after, you know, the incident.

Christi Willey’s rap sheet included half a dozen drug-related charges, including armed robbery to help fund her habit, assault to protect her habit, and accessory to her boyfriend killing a rival to further enable their habit. . . . Given the woman’s jittery movements and ping-ponging gaze, D.D. wasn’t convinced Christi had given up the lifestyle just yet, prison being one of the easiest places to score drugs. On the other hand, Christi was meeting with them of her own accord, with her parole officer present, and given the mandatory drug testing that was no doubt part of the terms of her parole . . .

Who knows? Maybe the woman was clean. Maybe this was simply your brain even after several years of no longer being on drugs.

It was possible.

“Yes, I knew Shana Day,” the twitchy informant was saying now. She wore a tank top, very much not in season, which showcased rail-thin arms. Candace, the PO, had brought over a large basket of fries, maybe to tempt her charge. Christi had yet to touch them.

D.D., despite her deep and abiding love for food courts, had restricted herself to a bottle of water. Phil as well. Adeline had splurged on a fruit smoothie. Something about having never eaten breakfast. So far, Christi wasn’t paying much attention to the doctor, for which D.D. was grateful. Technically speaking, Adeline shouldn’t even be present. Then again, neither should D.D.

“They had this game,” Christi was saying now, her gaze fixed on the table. “It was called the Hooker Olympics. Frankie, Rich and Howard would play it anytime they all worked together. They’d pick three girls, line us up in front of them, then unzip their flies. Whichever one of us got the guy off first won a prize. Maybe a bottle of lotion. Or a couple of extra minutes in the shower. Stupid shit like that.”

The PO reached over and patted her charge’s hand. D.D. had never worked with Candace before, but she seemed to genuinely care about her clients.

“So three COs were involved in this?” Phil asked.

“In the beginning,” Christi mumbled. She still wasn’t looking at them. “But they didn’t all work together very often, and Frankie, you know . . . he had appetites. So sometimes, he’d act on his own. Just appear in your cell. Suck and tuck, he’d call it. He’d whip it out. You’d suck. Then when it was over, he’d tuck it away and return to duty. Like nothing had happened. Like . . . you were nothing.”

“How many inmates did he target?” Phil asked.

“I don’t know. Three or four of us.”

“Did you file a complaint?”

The woman looked up, her expression still bleary after all these years. “How? Who? I mean, these were our guards. Who the hell were we supposed to complain to?”

Phil didn’t say anything. Mostly because there wasn’t an answer to that sort of question.

“What happened?” he asked next.

“Howard wasn’t so bad,” Christi answered. “He even said thank you on occasion, smuggled in some gifts, chocolate. I don’t think he had a girl. He seemed . . . lonely. But Frankie and Rich . . . The more they got, the more they wanted. There were cameras, so they’d take turns covering for each other. One would, like, flip this switch or something. I don’t know. I guess it caused the cameras to blink. Then, while the cameras were resetting, the other would enter your cell. Once inside, the cameras couldn’t see him, so it didn’t matter. He could stay as long as he wanted, do whatever he wanted . . . Then, when he’d had enough, he’d give a signal, and the other guy would hit the switch, and alakazam, the guard was back in the halls, on duty. They thought they were pretty damn clever. Bragged about it all the time.”

“How long did this go on?” Phil asked.

“I dunno. Months. Years. Fucking eternity.”

“And they also assaulted Shana Day?” D.D. spoke up.

Christi looked at her funny. “What would they want with Shana? I mean, she’d hacked the ear off a little boy. Who the hell wants to fuck that?”

D.D. took that to be a no.

“She kept to herself, nasty piece of work. That’s what made it all so strange, what happened next.”

D.D., Phil and Adeline leaned forward.

“It was Frankie’s night off. God help us, we were relaxing. Bastard was gone, we could finally breathe. Then there he was. In street clothes. Blabbering something about he’d figured it out. He wasn’t even working, meaning he could stay all night. Then he looked at each one of us, smirking, while he waited for us to fully understand. Richie had the desk. Meaning all Richie had to do was flick the camera switch once, then Frankie would be safely in place, and yeah, we could serve as his sex slaves. All night long. Lucky us.

“He chose me,” Christi said, flat blue gaze fixed on the fry basket. “He chose me.”

None of them spoke.

“I screamed at one point. Not that it mattered. I mean, it’s just a unit full of convicted offenders and a lone corrections officer who didn’t give a flying fuck. At one point, I heard the other girls making a fuss. Whacking shoes, books, toothbrushes against the bars. Prison protest. But the cameras can’t do justice to that. So Frankie stayed. He did everything he wanted to do. Again and again and again. Must’ve taken Viagra ahead of time, the goddamn son of a . . . Not a thing I could do about it. When he was done, he put on his clothes, zipped up his pants and handed me a travel-size bottle of shampoo. You know, like from the Holiday Inn. He fucked my . . . And that’s what I got. Cheap motel shampoo.

“I didn’t get up the next day. Couldn’t even walk. But Richie had already left a note that I’d ‘worn myself out’ causing a ruckus the night before. Day officer didn’t even bother to check in on me. They’re all in cahoots, you know. We’re the inmates, but they’re the monsters.”

D.D. didn’t have anything to say to that.

“Frankie was on the next night. Left me alone. Went after one of the new girls instead. She cried. Poor stupid thing. Cried and screamed and cried some more. I didn’t care. That’s what it’s like. If he’s not fucking me, then I’m down with it. I get a night off, hallelujah, praise the Lord. But we’re not animals, you know.”

The woman looked up sharply, her hands skittering across the table. “It’s just, you get treated like one long enough . . .

“Frankie had Friday night off. We all knew it. Waited on pins and needles. The whole unit. Because we knew he was coming. He was our devil, our curse, and sure enough, ten
P.M.
, he sauntered onto the floor. Blue jeans, a Red Sox sweatshirt. And I fucking liked the Red Sox! Then he looked straight at me and grinned. Like it was something special to be his date. Like the fucking new girl wasn’t still bleeding from both ends after what he’d done to her.

“He came over. What the hell was I gonna do? What was, was. Then . . .”

Christi paused, stared at them. “Shana spoke to him. Clear as day. Stood at her cell door and asked him how the divorce was going. What was it like to know some other guy was fucking his wife, raising his kids. And oh yeah, didn’t it just figure his own dog didn’t even like him anymore. I mean, talk about a loser. Look up the word in the dictionary and Frankie’s picture would be
right there.
 . . .” Christi shivered slightly, shaking her head. “Shana kept talking and talking. And she
knew
things. All these things about Frankie’s personal life. I mean, how the hell? At first, Frankie tried to ignore her; then he told her to shut up, she didn’t know jack shit. But she just kept going and going, and next thing you knew, Frankie was standing in front of her cell, shouting that she was a stupid fucking cunt, and she’d better shut her mouth before he shut it for her. But she didn’t. She smiled, man. She smiled right at him, fucking freakiest damn smile I ever saw.