“Don’t tell me it ends with a second suicide.”
“No, the second rape victim’s alive. Year and a half ago, Sarah Shapiro, age thirty-two, met a guy at an art gallery reception. She woke up at home the next morning and realized she’d been raped. Someone at the gallery noticed Sarah wasn’t acting right as she got into the man’s car, so she wrote down Scanlon’s license number. That’s how they ID’d him.”
“How did that case not end in a conviction?”
“Scanlon claimed he only gave Sarah a lift home and left her there.”
“If she was raped, didn’t they have his DNA?”
“Here’s the part that’s weird. There was male DNA found inside Sarah. But it wasn’t Scanlon’s. And she didn’t have a boyfriend.”
Jane stared at him. “Someone else raped her?”
Frost nodded. “We’re dealing with a second man. His DNA profile was already in CODIS, for five different attacks in Massachusetts.”
“A serial rapist.”
“It’s worse. His most recent victim, last month, was strangled. This unknown man has now escalated to murder. And it seems like our Christopher Scanlon was delivering the victims to him.”
CHAPTER THREE
Harry O’Brien was sixty-two years old, but the man who gazed at them from the doorway appeared far older, his eyes hollow, his shoulders drooping as though under the weight of grief. “I knew the police would want to talk to me someday,” he said. “So Scanlon did it again. Didn’t he?”
“We believe so,” said Jane.
“A monster like that, he doesn’t just call it quits one day. He keeps going and going, cutting down lives.” Harry stepped aside to let them enter. “Come in, Detectives. Tell me how I can help you take the bastard down.”
It was an older home, and Jane could smell its age as she walked into the living room, the accumulated odors of dust and mildew and worn carpets. The first thing that caught her eye was the array of photographs on the wall, images of what looked like the same dark-haired girl through the years. As a child, sitting in a swing. As a teenager in her graduation cap and gown. As a young woman hugging a smiling man. Jane was startled to recognize Harry O’Brien in the face of that man in the photo-a younger, happier version of the bitter man now standing in the room with them.
“Kitty had so much to give to the world,” he said, staring at his daughter’s photo. “Not just her big heart and her big laugh. She was brilliant, the first in my family to go to college. Worked nights, went to school during the day. She’d just earned her PhD in history. She went out to celebrate that night. Ended up at a bar and drank a little too much. That’s when he…” O’Brien swallowed and looked out the window. “She couldn’t admit what happened to her, until a week later. By the time she reported it, too much evidence was lost. She never stopped blaming herself. Such a smart girl, yet she felt so stupid.”
“She was hardly responsible for what happened,” said Frost.
“You think I didn’t tell her that a thousand times?” O’Brien shot back. His anger suddenly collapsed and he dropped his head. “She used my gun. So I blame myself, too. I could see how depressed she was and I should have gotten rid of it. I just didn’t think she’d ever…” He shook his head and sighed. “There’s plenty of guilt to go around. But Scanlon’s the one I blame. The one who destroyed my beautiful girl. My only child.”
“Christopher Scanlon is dead,” said Jane.
O’Brien’s head snapped up. “What?”
“His body was found in Olmsted Park.”
“Was it murder?”
“Yes. It was. It happened last night.”
O’Brien was silent for a moment, the news sinking in. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad someone got him, while I’m still alive.” He paused. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“You’ve threatened Mr. Scanlon in the past.”
“I sure as hell did. I just wish I’d killed him myself, but I didn’t have the guts.” He sounded disgusted with himself. “I couldn’t go through with it.”
“You probably know my next question,” said Jane.
“I assume it’s Where were you last night? ”
“You want to answer that?”
“Yeah. I was visiting a woman friend up in Swampscott. Had dinner at her house, watched a few DVDs, drank a little too much. I got home sometime after midnight, I guess.”
Jane studied O’Brien’s wasted face and sunken eyes, and could not imagine him staying up late, partying with a woman. “What’s this friend’s name?” she asked.
“Monica Vargas. Her mother was there, too. Monica’s in the phone book, so you can call her and confirm it.”
“We will.”
Christopher Scanlon’s second known victim, Sarah Shapiro, was less willing to speak to them. She peered suspiciously through her barely open door, the chain still in place. “I don’t really want to talk about it,” she said.
“This is a homicide investigation, Ms. Shapiro,” said Jane.
“If Scanlon’s dead, then I plan to celebrate. That’s all I’m going to say.”
“You had every reason to want him dead.”
“Damn right.”
“Which means we have every reason to be here. I know it’s not easy to talk about what he did to you. But you do understand that we have to.”
With a sigh, Sarah at last unchained the door and swung it open. “Let’s get this over with. Then I can crack open a bottle of champagne.”
Her apartment was stunning, with floor-to-ceiling windows that faced Commonwealth Avenue. The furniture and artwork had been chosen with an eye for style, and the ebony shelves were filled with expensive-looking art books.
Noticing Jane’s obvious curiosity over her book collection, Sarah asked: “Are you interested in art, Detective?”
“I know what I like.”
“That’s more than a lot of people can say.”
“You own an art gallery, is that right?”
“On Newbury Street. But I’m sure you already knew that.” Sarah stared off into space. “That’s how he found me,” she said softly. “At a friend’s gallery reception. Out of all those people, he chose me. Like a lion selecting a lamb.”
“We’re sorry to bring back such a painful memory,” Frost said.
“Bring back?” Sarah shook her head. “It’s never left me. How charming he seemed. How eager to fetch me a glass of wine. When I woke up the next morning, I knew what had happened, even though I couldn’t remember it. Oh, I was going to take this all the way to the end. I did everything right, everything a rape victim is supposed to do. I didn’t shower, but went straight to the ER and gave a statement to the police. One of the other guests at the reception had seen me wobbling to Scanlon’s car, and she had the presence of mind to take down his license number. When I saw his photo, I recognized him at once. I swore to the police that Christopher Scanlon was the man who drugged me.”
“But he wasn’t the man who raped you,” said Jane.
Sarah’s face tightened. “I kept telling them there had to be a mistake. The crime lab switched their DNA samples. Or the specimen was contaminated. But no, it was all blamed on me. The unreliable witness. The woman who accused the wrong man of assaulting her.”
