“Except at some point, Abigail did turn against her own mother,” Phil said. “In fact, you just said she probably killed her.”
“Sure. Think about it. For the first eight years, Charlene served as her mother’s target of choice-to be broken and repaired at will. Want to believe that Mommy Grant gave up her Munchausen’s ways just because she lost her eldest daughter? I bet she simply picked back up with daughter number two. Meaning Abigail now got to eat shattered glass and drink liquid Drano. Meaning Abigail now got to learn just how much a mother’s love can burn.”
D.D. sighed, her voice turning somber. “Munchausen’s is most common with children who are very young. Babies, toddlers, who are unable to speak up in their own defense. Once Abigail reached a certain age, however, chances are she didn’t submit as willingly to having her fingers smashed in doorways. Chances are, she started to come up with some tricks of her own. God knows she learned from a master.”
D.D. turned back to Phil. “This is what we need to prove: how did Abigail Grant become Ellen O? Because before we accuse a fellow officer of being the real perpetrator of two separate strings of murders, we’re going to want to nail that down.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, knew you were gonna say that. In the,” Phil glanced at his watch, “twenty minutes you gave me with this project, I haven’t been able to answer that question. Assuming Ellen O is an alias, it’s a well-vetted one. I found a Social Security number, driver’s license, credit history, not to mention college transcripts from the University of Denver. My guess is, given the depth of the paper trail, Abigail Grant became Ellen O while still a teenager. Now, several ways that could happen: formal adoption, becoming a legally emancipated minor while also petitioning for a name change. Or hell, the witness protection program, for all I know. I’ll keep digging around in family court records, etc., but so far, no luck.”
“Wouldn’t she have real family or friends to rat her out?” Neil asked.
“Not according to her personnel form.” Phil held up a sheet of paper. “No family members listed, and as for her ‘emergency contact number,’ when I called it, I reached the holding company of her apartment building. I think it’s safe to say, Abigail…O…is officially alone in the world.”
“But why was she shooting pedophiles?” Neil asked with a frown. “Given the family history, I get her targeting Charlene and, okay, even Charlene’s best friends, as part of her ‘quest for vengeance.’ But why the pedophiles?”
“Think of it this way,” D.D. explained. “One killer, but two different crime sprees, driven by two different sets of needs. What Abigail did to Randi and Jackie, what she has in store for Charlene, is more intimate, more ritualized for her. She’s both seeking to punish the older sister who abandoned her and to exorcise a lifetime of taking her mother’s abuse with this ultimate method of seizing power. The pedophile shootings, on the other hand, are almost everyday stress management. Another case she can’t close. Another incident of a kid getting abused by a registered sex offender who just moved in down the hall…O accused Charlene of over-identifying with the victims, of hating to feel powerless. In hindsight, I think that was her way of telling us about herself. She also over-identifies with the victims, and two years on the job, she’s tired of feeling helpless.”
“What about the notes?
“According to Charlene Grant, that was an expression of their mother’s. A family mantra, so to speak. What’s more interesting, I think, is the note within the note, the secret message written in lemon juice-
“Good cop, bad cop,” Neil finished darkly.
“Exactly,” D.D. answered. To think of all the times she and O had sat alone in this very office, poring over those carefully executed notes, the handwriting analysis, witness statements. O had never given anything away. The level of compartmentalization necessary for that degree of subterfuge was just plain scary.
It also fit the expert’s profile of the note writer perfectly: someone rigid, anal-retentive, type A.
First thing D.D. had done, once she’d gotten off the phone with Charlene, was to run to Detective O’s desk and gather up three samples of the investigator’s handwriting. She’d laid them out on a cleared table, side by side with the three notes from the pedophile shootings. The handwriting wasn’t a dead-on match, at least not to D.D.’s untrained eye. O’s “natural” script was neat and precise, but hardly contained letters with flat bottoms and perfectly proportioned size. Maybe she’d written the notes for the shootings using a ruler, maybe even a stencil, to further obfuscate matters. Given that the notes all said the same thing, it would be easy enough to perfect those two sentences, a mere seven words, by practicing them over and over again.
But some of the author’s personality had still come through. Controlling, determined, psychopathic.
“The witness to the third shooting,” D.D. said now, “called this afternoon. The boy’s mother said he’d realized that the shooter’s eyes weren’t really demonic, but special contact lenses meant to look like blue cat eyes. They found a picture in a Halloween catalogue and dropped it by an hour ago as a visual aid.”
She pulled out the torn catalogue page, placed it before Neil and Phil. “I’m guessing O wore the contacts so she would better match Charlene’s general description of brown hair, blue eyes-”
“But why cat eyes?” Phil asked, shuddering slightly as he took in the array of creepy contacts.
“Does that freak you out?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly. Remember, O not only wanted the shooter to match Charlene’s physical description, but she also had to disguise her own appearance. I mean, just an hour later, she personally stood in front of this boy. She had on makeup then, her hair piled in big curls, a nice dress, wide trench coat. I remember thinking at the time she must’ve come from a date. But I think she was just trying to soften all the lines. The boy had seen a thin, gaunt-faced woman with tight hair and scary eyes. Then in real life, O did her best to appear the opposite.”
“But she’s not thin or gaunt,” Neil countered.
“Maybe she wears padding under her clothes.” D.D. looked down at her own chest, definitely no longer what it used to be during pregnancy. “Not that I would know anything about that.”
Redheaded Neil blushed slightly, shook his head at her. “All right, assuming O transferred here two years ago so she could kill Charlene, how’d she know Charlie would be in Boston? Charlene didn’t even move to Cambridge till last year.”
“O probably didn’t know Charlie would be in Boston, and probably didn’t need to. Think about it: by moving to Boston, O arrived in the heart of New England. From here, it’s an easy day trip to New Hampshire, Rhode Island, half a dozen other states. She would’ve had to fly to Atlanta for Jackie Knowles, but even that’s just a couple of hours out of Logan Airport. Meaning regardless of wherever Charlie or her other victims would be on January twenty-one, O would have easy access.”
“I checked with her supervisor,” Phil spoke up. “Right now, looks like Detective O didn’t work January twenty- one last year, or the year before. She’s technically on duty today, but we can see how well that’s working…”
D.D. nodded, made another note for her presentation to Horgan.
Neil spoke up. “Why kill Randi Menke first? Why not just kill Charlie?”
“I think Abigail is looking for something more than a quick kill. If that were the case, you’re right, she could’ve driven up to New Hampshire and dispatched Charlene with a double tap to the forehead, just as she did with the pedophiles. I think she wants to torture Charlie first, make her feel just as alone and vulnerable in the world. As for why Randi versus Jackie…” D.D. shrugged. “Abigail had to start somewhere, and Randi probably seemed the easiest target. Lived only an hour outside of Boston, already traumatized by an abusive relationship. I imagine O drove down, maybe flashed her badge and said she was investigating Randi’s evil ex-husband. And just like that, Randi would’ve let her in.”
“But still didn’t fight back while she was being strangled,” Phil pressed.
“Details, details,” D.D. muttered, acknowledging his point. “As for Jackie Knowles…O would’ve had to fly to Atlanta, but no big whoop. She could’ve performed a routine background check in advance, determined Jackie’s occupation, place of residence, favorite restaurants from her Visa bill. Or just sat outside Jackie’s office, then followed her to the bar and set about introducing herself. She bought Jackie a drink or two, let one thing lead to another.”
“Got invited back to Jackie’s home,” Neil filled in. “Took out BFF number two, moving closer to final target.”
D.D. thought about it. “If you think about their mother’s psychosis, what these girls grew up with…Their
