Never Alone (6 page)

One of Megan's habits when in the zone was to push her long hair back and twist it into a bun, a subconscious habit she'd had since junior high school. Within minutes, it would fall out of place, cascading over her shoulders once again. The thought of buying a hair clip never seemed to cross her mind.

Nappa
began making a list of Shannon's contacts from her datebook. “It's been a long run today.”

“Yep.” Megan noticed the message light blinking on her phone and was not at all surprised to hear whom it was from.

“Hey, Meganator, it's Uncle Mike. Judging by the newscast this afternoon, you're probably knee-deep in it. I just wanted to check in on you and see how you're doing. Call me.”

She had a faint smile on her face listening to the concern in his voice.

“Uncle Mike?” Nappa asked.

“How did you know?”

“I'm a detective.”

“Good one.” She dialed the Murphys' number. Uncle Mike
picked up on the second ring.

“Hey, how's my Mini-Ginty?”

Megan rubbed her eyes. “Holding my own.”

“Brendan called earlier. He told us about Rose. Maureen is going to check on her tomorrow. Olsen Facility, right? Pretty fancy—that place advertises on the radio.”

“Tell her thank you for me.”

“Like I said yesterday, kiddo, blood or no blood, we're family. You working this case I'm hearing all about?”

“Yeah. It's gotten interesting, to say the least,” she released a heavy sigh.

“Watch your back.”

Megan laughed. “That's what Dad would say to me every morning before I'd leave for work.”

“I know, kiddo, I know.”

There was a brief moment of silence, both thinking back at the loss they'd endured.

“Okay, Meganator. Get back to work. We'll talk soon.”

“Love you big guy.”

“Back at ya'.”

eight

Megan leaned against the
window staring out at the mid-­afternoon storm. Rain pelted down on the city streets as echoes of thunder rumbled through the dark sky. The space felt more like a dank cave than a conference room.

“Detective?” A young man rapped on the door, then tossed an envelope onto the table. Megan focused on the storm outside and responded with a halfhearted thank you. She picked up the letter as if it were merely an electric bill, until she flipped it over to see the return address: Hudson Psychiatric Center.

“Son of a bitch.”

His writing was unmistakable; flamboyant italics as if written with a quill pen. Megan knew Fintan
Worth's handwriting all too well. He left a note attached to each kill, with the exception of the last murder. There were two envelopes at that crime scene: one for the victim, the other addressed to Megan. Now, placed before her was the second letter in three months addressed to her from a madman. She knew she couldn't ignore his attempt to communicate with her. But there had been two murders she was sure Worth had committed that they couldn't tie him to. Two families had not been given closure. Was this a carrot he would dangle in front of her forever? Opening the letter felt as though she were allowing him back into her psyche, her life—what remained of it.

She tore it open, nearly ripping the stationery.

Dear Detective McGinn,

I hope this note finds you well. I, as you are well aware, am currently residing in Hudson at the psychiatric hospital. The accommodations are within reason for the facility. I'm treated with more regard than the typical resident. I assume much of that is due to my notoriety of late. Judging by the
news, my actions have been misconstrued as infamous.
Yours, however, have not. It seems you have become quite
prominent within the New York City Homicide Division.
Your professional advancement was well deserved. By far you have been the only detective—ever—to apply such keen instinctive abilities to what, I think we can both agree, were very few leads in a case such as mine.

It would be insulting to us both if I were to say luck had anything whatsoever to do with your achievement.

From time to time, I recall our last face-to-face communication prior to impenetrable brick walls, electric fences, and plexiglass dividers obstructing conversation. Do you, and I'm sure you must, think back to how you captured me? You and I both know I let you win. I, however, am the only one to know why. I dare say, you've most likely never mentioned it to your handsome partner or to anyone else for that matter. Well done, detective.

At any rate, I would find it quite interesting to continue our conversation of that night. Yours is the only name I've placed on my visitor's list, if you feel so inclined.

In closing, I would like to offer my sincere condolences
for the loss of your father. I'm sure he was quite proud of
your success.

Your tenacity reminded me of a quote from Blaise Pascal: “It is the fight alone that pleases us, not the victory.”

I'm curious, detective, what is the next fight on your horizon, and will you be as victorious with it as you were with mine?

Until we meet again,

Yours fondly,

Fintan D. Worth

It's an odd experience how mere words on a paper cast a person's mind to a particular time and place. A love letter whisks your heart into a frenzy just remembering how you felt in that person's presence. A Dear John letter does the same but with much more painful results. Megan's brother took a year off of college to backpack through Europe. Brendan sent a postcard from every place he visited. None ever had more than a handful of words on them; all made Megan dream of the time she would visit those places. What she now held in her hands was a seedy personal reminder of the
lengths she had gone to, to catch a killer. And that's how she
planned to keep it: personal.

Megan tossed the letter on the conference room table just as Nappa entered.

“What's going on?” He could sense something was up.

“Well,” she raised her eyebrows, “partner, that is a loaded question. Read.” She handed him the envelope with the letter attached.

“Hudson Psychiatric Center. You've
got
to be kidding me.”

Megan watched his facial expressions as
Nappa
read Fintan's
correspondence. He was just as, if not more, disgusted than she
had been. “What's he talking about ‘continue the conversation'? What did the two of you talk about?”

Megan refused eye contact when she answered, “I have no idea what he means. He's nuts.”

“Sick bastard. I can't believe he's even allowed to send mail, let alone write to
you
of all people.”

Megan took the last sip from her coffee before throwing the empty cup in the trash. “Yeah, well, there's not much we can do about it.”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

Fucked up. Insecure. Neurotic.
Empty. F. I. N. E.

Lovely.

Megan rubbed her forehead using the base of her palms as if kneading flour into dough. She didn't want to linger on the subject of Fintan Worth any longer. He was in her past, and she was determined to keep him there.

“Crime scene photos.”
Nappa
handed Megan the folder, then added, “Just got word from Rasmussen—he and Palumbo are coming up now with the video from the building's security camera.”

“Have they looked at it?” Megan half-heartedly wondered,
knowing it wouldn't make a difference if they had or not. It was about what
she
might find on it
.

“I don't think so.”

Megan opened the folder containing the crime scene photos. She hadn't expected the first picture to be that of McAllister's sutured vagina.

“Christ,” she tossed the picture over to
Nappa
shaking her head. “What goes through a human being's mind to do something like this?”

Nappa
turned the photo around. Through an exasperated sigh, he said, “I wouldn't call anyone who does this
human
.” He pinned it up on the board. Next to it he added the photo of the ring found embedded behind the vaginal suturing.

Megan fastened the last photo in the package flush left: Shannon McAllister's driver's license photo. This particular shot was the most difficult for Megan to view. In it, Shannon was alive. Smiling. Breathing. Real.

Gone.

Palumbo entered the room carrying a padded envelope under one arm while crunching through an excessively large bite of an apple. Both actions stopped short when he was at eye level opposite the worst of the photos. It was one thing to intellectualize the post-mortem details, a far cry from having 8x10 color photographs of a dead woman's crotch on a bulletin board. He wiped the side of his mouth before he spoke, yet was unable to look away from the grotesque vision before him. “Hey, we … we have the security tape from the building. Rasmussen is coming up with some of the phone records: cell, apartment. We're working on the warrant for the center the”—Palumbo forced himself to look away—“vic worked at.”

“Throw it here,” Megan said. Palumbo tossed her the package as Rasmussen walked in with the phone records. Unlike Palumbo, the mounted pictures didn't give rise to a perceptible reaction. It was just how Rasmussen worked. An emotional silicon shield ran from top to bottom of his Nordic being when working any case. Everyone on the job had a different way of dealing with the shocking way human life is mistreated on a daily basis: some joke, some get angry, some shut down. Sometimes it's all three, whatever you need to get through the day. There were days when Megan wondered what vice, if any, Rasmussen fell back on to deal with the atrocities they encountered. She never felt it was her place to ask.

The tape began
at one second after midnight. The first few people passing by the camera were stumbling and laughing,
mainly couples, or one-night stands. For a brief moment Megan wondered if she and the stockbroker guy from the other night looked as ridiculous as these poor fools had.

Probably so. Whatever.

The visual looked like black lava pouring over the screen, then nothing but static.

“Wait, Christ,” Megan snapped.

“I'll fast forward.”
Nappa
skipped over static until a new visual could be found. The timer landed on ten past five in the morning.

“That's over four hours missing. Shit!” Megan began biting her fingernails. “Let's keep going.”

The video returned to the original format. Mr. Mendoza was shown entering and leaving the hall a handful of times. A brunette walked out of the building at five twenty. Her hair mussed up in the back and the back of her shirt half tucked into her skirt.

“Walk of shame,”
Nappa
commented passively.

A woman with a ponytail skipped down the stairs, checking her watch before opening the door.

“Wait!” Megan yelled. “Go back, that's Shannon.”

All detectives, including Megan noticed her faux pas: calling the vic by the first name made it personal.

Shit.

She attempted a weak pardon for her fervent display, “That's our
vic
.” They scrolled back. Shannon Elizabeth McAllister stood in the entranceway of the building she was about to be murdered in, setting the time for her run. The very last jog she would take in her short-lived life.

All four detectives sat anxiously in front of the monitor. Images froze seconds at a time, then again the screen turned to black. Megan was ready to throw the television to the floor when the visual returned. Shannon re-entered the building, “What does the time read in the corner?” Megan moved closer to the screen, “Christ, even that is hard to read.”

“Six twenty-six?” Palumbo guessed.

“That makes sense. That's near the time the super, Mr. Mendoza, said he'd spoken with her,” Nappa added.

“She's alone.” Megan knelt in front of the screen. Every second the video continued felt like cement hardening around her chest. The next shot would be the last on the security video.

“Look. Someone's buzzing into the building.”

Nappa
, Palumbo, and Rasmussen leaned forward, as if some
how the movement would give them a clearer view. A person
dressed in a hooded sweatshirt, back to the camera.

“They're not in full shot,”
Nappa
said.

“He didn't want to be,” Megan answered. The video showed one quick motion up to the building's buzzer. “What is that?”

“The shot is so grainy. What is
what
?”
Nappa
asked.

“
That.
” Megan pointed to what looked like a string wrapped around the wrist. “I can't make it out.” The video froze before darkness overtook the monitor for a final time. A macabre feeling silenced all four detectives. Megan glanced back at the photos she'd pinned up. Their horrid nature now felt even more gruesome. She pointed at the screen.

“That's our mother fucking unsub.”

nine

As I received the
Holy Communion during morning mass, I couldn't help but smile at my accomplishment. I indeed had chosen well. God bless you, Shannon.

_____

Megan's eyes remained closed as she turned over. She didn't need to look at her alarm clock—it was always morning when you had insomnia. Thoughts acted like kamikazes hitting her mind. She turned and twisted under the sheets. She usually slept on her side or stomach; for the next few minutes she'd lie on her back, avoiding the realities of the day by focusing, instead, on her body.

Megan was right-handed, but wished she'd been born ambidextrous, at least when her legs were spread. Her left hand flowed through her hair and across her face, lightly touching her lips. Her right hand did the same, just lower.

For the next few minutes, she was able to keep the morning at bay, but her body always ended up feeling better than her mind did when she was done. She turned over, snuggling her head into the pillow when a single tear ran down her cheek. Just one. That's all she allowed before work.

Megan wiped her cheek and stared at the Bloomingdale's bag in the corner of the room. She'd bought her mother a new nightgown weeks ago, but she hadn't yet given it to her. Now, with Pat gone, she couldn't just drop it off with her father at the house in Brooklyn. It was hard to get used to the idea that the house was now empty, and that her mother was living in a nursing home. But since it was so early, Megan knew she had time to take the subway to the Olsen Facility and back before meeting Nappa.

The thought of her mother wearing a generic patient's gown gnawed at her. Her mother would have a fit if she were alert enough to know she weren't looking her best. It wasn't out of vanity; Rose grew up with very little but was taught to respect what she owned, and now her few outfits consisted of nightgowns, slippers, and diapers. Megan wanted her mother to keep what integrity remained. There were times she thought it was out of guilt, but now it was partially due to Shannon's murder. There's a mother-daughter bond, if you were lucky, that reached beyond a mother dishing out guilt and bra advice. To have a woman in your life who understands you just as well as, if not better than you know yourself, was an incredible gift. Megan could tell Mrs. McAllister had had that special bond with Shannon. She envied it.

Megan knew more than ever that her time with Rose was limited, but “forgive and forget” proved more difficult to achieve as she got older. Some wounds take a hell of a lot more than just time to heal, and others would never have the chance. Megan kicked the
covers off to attempt a quick shower. The prewar building had pre
war plumbing, too; it took more time to wait for the water to heat up than for the actual shower. She passed the few minutes brushing her teeth while simultaneously looking in her closet for something to wear. Catching her reflection in the full-length mirror, she abruptly stopped brushing to critique her morning attire: an oversized NYPD sweatshirt and a pair of bright blue boxer shorts. She shook the tip of the toothbrush at her reflection. “McGinn,
not
a sexy look. This is why your right hand sees more action than you do. Well, most of the time, anyway.” The thought of her sex-fest with the stockbroker made her shake her head.

When she opened the bathroom door, a wave of steam greeted her, warming her face and legs. She noticed her bathing suit hanging from a hook on the back of the door. The moisture in the bathroom brought out the chlorine smell still lingering in it, which was surprising given how long it had been since her last gym visit. She used her bath towel to cover the black spaghetti strapped reminder of her lack of motivation. No need to feel more guilt so early in the morning.

She brushed past the shower curtain, climbed into the bathtub, and stood under the showerhead, the stream of hot water directly hitting her face. The vibration of the stream of water against her body was soothing. She could have stayed in there for hours feeling the repetitive force of the water relaxing her muscles. Almost like meditating. But her mind wandered, as it usually did. Thinking about finding her father dead and seeing her mother so disoriented left her heart as bare as her body was now.

She paid the price for lingering under the spray. A sudden shot of cold water sprang Megan from her thoughts. “Fucking hell!” Her upstairs neighbors had turned something on in their bathroom, forcing cold water down to hers—the not-so-luxurious part of living in a prewar building in Manhattan.

After Megan finished her morning routine and ran out the
door, she was waiting impatiently for the elevator when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the hallway mirror. “Oh shit.” She'd forgotten to put her favorite necklace on: a delicate silver cross with her birthstone, green peridot, set in the center, given to her by her parents the day she made her first Communion. She'd never forgotten what her father said as he clasped it around her neck.

Megs, I want you to always wear this, especially when your mom and I aren't around to keep an eye on you. That way I'll know the Big Guy is looking out for my girl, keeping you safe, and hopefully out of trouble.

She'd worn the necklace every day since her parents gave it to her. The only time she took it off was when she swam, and at night when she slept.

Megan dropped her stuff down next to the elevator and ran back into her apartment. When she took the necklace off at night, she always hung it on the corner of a framed photo taken the day of her Communion. A day, and a time, when her life felt more secure than it did now. Her gun might protect her, but it was the necklace that made her feel safe, and, now in a roundabout manner, served as the last lifeline she had to her father.

Megan made it back to the elevator just as it reached her floor. She rushed out of the building and headed to the subway station at 96th Street and Lexington. The smell of burnt bagels and bacon emanated from the corner deli across from Megan's building. She joined the countless Upper East Side straphangers as they funneled underground. Clad in business suits, carrying briefcases or shoulder bags, they were armed with their morning coffee, newspaper, or electronic device of choice, walking numbly through life.

Megan made two quick calls from her cell phone as she power walked to the station. She left a brief message for Dr. Max, inquiring as to any more lab results. And she left another for Nappa to confirm where she was meeting him to interview one of Shannon's best friends, the only contact Mrs. McAllister had been able to give them in her state of shock.

Megan entered the Olsen Facility in gust-of-wind fashion until she was stopped short when her jacket's belt got stuck in the door. She yanked at it angrily until she was freed. Two nurses were seated at the front desk. One was a skinny blonde with far too many visible dark roots; the other was on the robust side, with a much prettier, kinder face. Her smile widened when she saw Megan enter.

“Morning.” Megan placed a small pink box tied with red and white string on their desk. “A few gourmet cookies for the morning sweet tooth.” A little food bribe could go a long way with staff members anywhere, not that Megan needed to bribe these women for better care. The fact that she was a cop and carried a gun certainly made a stronger impression than a box of sweets.

“My mother, Rose McGinn, was admitted yesterday. How was her first night?” Megan asked.

Marcie, the amply proportioned nurse with the kind face, answered, “We didn't meet yesterday. I'm Marcie, your mother's main nurse. She's doing well. She's having a good morning. She got her hair washed and just finished breakfast.”

“Good.” Megan nodded in relief.

She had already turned to walk down the hall when Marcie added, “Your brother sent a beautiful bouquet of pink roses. I put them in her room earlier.”

“Great, thank you.” Megan turned and muttered, “Yeah, like she can tell a rose from a fucking wrench at this point.”

Megan hesitated at the door to her mother's private room. Rose sat at the window, her hands folded in her lap, tranquilly staring out at the day. Megan felt her heart sink as swiftly as an anchor to the bottom of the ocean, remembering her mother as she once was: a bright, stylish, articulate
woman. They may not have had a harmonious mother-daughter relationship much of the time, but Megan gave credit where it was due. She was hard-pressed to recall a moment when Rose left the house not immaculately dressed. To this day Megan clearly remembered the first time her parents went on vacation without her and her brother. Rose wore a perfectly tailored teal suit similar to the one Tippi Hedren wore in the movie
The Birds
. She kissed her children goodbye, pulled on a pair of white gloves, and held Megan's chin up toward her meticulously painted lips. “Be a good girl, Megan. Do everything your aunt says, and please take
one
bath while we're gone,” she pleaded with the
tomboy of the family before adding strongly, “I'm serious, no mess
ing around, missy. You better be on your best behavior while we're away.”

Forgiving the warranted threats, Megan never forgot how
beautiful Rose looked that day. But disease has a way of aging the beauty right out of a person, and it had happened to her mother in record time. Face moisturizer and ChapStick replaced the morning regimen of makeup application. A robe, a nightgown, and slippers replaced colorful outfits, and a hospital name tag replaced jewelry as her accessory.

“Morning, Mom. How are you doing?” Megan prayed Rose
would recognize her this morning, but the childlike smile she received was proof that confusion dominated Rose's attempt to identify her visitor.

“I'm fine, dear.”

“You had your hair washed. It looks good. Did Marcie do it for you?” she asked.

Rose ran her fingers through her bob-length hair. “Marcie? Yes, she's a wonderful girl. She's a good daughter. She takes good care of me. A sweet girl.”

So much for prayer.

“Mom, I'm your daughter. Me. Megan. Marcie is your nurse.”

“Oh, you're pretty, too,” Rose said, looking up at Megan.

Megan sighed, dragging a chair over alongside Rose. She grabbed the brown shopping bag off the bed.

“Did you send me those beautiful flowers?” Rose asked, pointing at the vase.

For a moment, Megan contemplated taking credit for the arrangement: a Band-Aid to cover the wound of not being recognized. Though tempted, she figured the one visit Brendan would make, Rose would have a lucid moment and tell him about all the beautiful flowers Megan had brought her. With a mischievous grin she answered, “No. Brendan sent them to you. He's your son.”

“What kind are they?” she asked.

“They're roses, Mom. Pink roses.”

“They're pretty,” she said.

Megan hadn't been in the room five minutes and she could hear the testiness in her own voice. “He sent them because they're your favorite. You love roses. Your name is Rose.”

“I know my name, missy.”

“Now I'm talking to my mother!” she said, smacking her thigh. “I'm the only one you take that tone with.”

Rose's self-pleasing grin was as brief as her lucid moment reminding her daughter who was in charge.

“Do you want to see what I brought you?” Megan gave Rose her gift. “Do you like them?”

Rose opened the brown bag as if it were the wrong order from a deli. “No.” She sounded like a child who was impossible to please.

“Back to black,” Megan whispered under her breath. “Mom, you love this color. It's the color you chose on your wedding day for Aunt Maureen's maid-of-honor dress.” Megan reached over and picked up one of the many photographs she'd placed around Rose's room. It was her attempt to keep the memories from getting too far
away. “See? This is you, Dad, Uncle Mike, and Aunt Maureen.
You're wearing blue. You love that color.”

Rose's confusion forced Megan into defeat. No longer hoping for a breakthrough today, she folded up the new robe and slippers and stuffed them in the armoire on the other side of the room. A bottle of L'Occitane hand lotion on one of the shelves gave Megan an idea that she hoped would make her visit go by faster. “C'mon, Mom, I'll rub your hands.” Not receiving a defiant no was a plus, so she squirted lotion into her palm and began to rub Rose's hands together.

“What's your name again?”

“Marcie.”
Now Megan sounded like the disgruntled child.

“You're not as fat as Marcie.” Her comment made Megan laugh out of the sheer rudeness of it, and the fact it was true.

She turned up the cuffs on Rose's robe, massaging the insides of her arms. She'd forgotten about her scars until the tips of her fingers ran over the pale marks. The jagged line on her left wrist was a little over an inch and a half. The one on her right was longer. It still amazed Megan how much blood came from such small wounds. That memory was embedded in Megan's mind. Luckily for Rose, it was one that was swept away with her illness.

If there were a chance to go back in time and change an event, Megan would have changed the moment she found her mother. Pat had called home to say he was working late. Megan had answered the phone, already devising her lie. She'd had months of practice covering for her mother at that point. Pat wanted to speak
to Rose, but Megan said she was napping. There was no need to give the technical term: sleeping one off. Megan would have the glasses cleaned and put away before her father returned home. The
empty bottles she would wrap in brown bags and put in the neighbors' garbage cans. Megan remembered there was something different with that particular phone call; the level of concern in Pat's voice was stronger than in the past. He said he'd stay on the line while she went to wake her mother up. Megan tiptoed into her parents' bedroom, something she did a lot after the cocktail hour, which had crept earlier and earlier those few months. The shades were drawn, as they always were. Depressed people prefer the anonymity of nighttime. Less to see, less to be reminded of, less to deal with. Megan went over to the bed only to find it empty. The light in the bathroom filtered through the crack in the door. She could hear water running but no sound of the shower.