Chapter 80
They sit me in a chair facing the bedroom.
Jamie closes the apartment door and stands in the foyer, blocking it, his arms folded.
The others line up in front of me with their backs to the bedroom door, which throws them into shadow.
At least until Kalina turns on a lamp next to the sofa, bathing them all in a soft yellow light that would be relaxing under different circumstances.
Catherine’s daughter was murdered in this apartment.
That much is clear. What I don’t understand is what her death has to do with me.
I never even knew the woman. I want to protest, tell them that I have no idea what they’re going on about, but I can’t find my voice.
My throat is as dry as sandpaper. My palms are sweaty against the arms of the chair. The blood thunders in my ears.
Silence falls between us.
At least until the doctor steps forward. He clears his throat and holds up a photograph of an attractive young woman with chestnut hair. “Emma Cerruto. My fiancée. Twenty-six years of age, with her whole life ahead of her.”
Next, Frank and Jennifer step forward and hold up a photograph of another young woman, whom I recognize from the framed photos lining the walls and shelves of their apartment.
She’s wearing a pair of round John Lennon–style glasses and smiling at the camera.
“Amanda Barnes. Our daughter. Twenty-four years of age, with her whole life ahead of her.”
Kalina goes next. She holds up a photo of a young man. “Aleksander ‘Alex’ Stefaniak. My brother. Twenty-three years of age, with his whole life ahead of him.”
Catherine and Ron lift a photograph of a girl with jet-black hair. “Luna Cole. Our daughter. Twenty-three years of age, with her whole life ahead of her.”
Finally, it’s Dawn’s turn. She steps forward and glances toward Jamie, who’s still blocking the door, then takes a photo from her pocket.
I recognize it as the same young woman from Catherine and Ron’s photograph.
Except this time, she’s showing off a tattoo on her forearm above her wrist that looks like a blackbird, or maybe a raven.
Dawn’s hand trembles, and a tear pushes from the corner of her eye.
“Luna Cole. My older sister. Twenty-three years of age, with her whole life ahead of her.”
I sit through this strange exposition, my terror growing with each person who talks.
I’m still confused about why these people want to kill me.
I look up at them, searching their faces for any hint of compassion.
I see none. Instead, they stand holding the photos up and staring at me, as if to prove some kind of point.
Finally, Catherine speaks again. “Brothers, sisters, partners, and daughters. All snatched away before their time.”
Dawn nods. “Murdered by Philip Arthur Munson. The Back Bay Butcher.”
“Fifteen victims over six years,” says Kalina.
A glimmer of memory ignites at the back of my mind.
Because I recognize that name. The Back Bay Butcher.
Everyone who grew up in Boston has heard of him, of course.
He gave me nightmares when I was a teen.
But this memory isn’t borne of some detached fear.
It’s personal, because I remember my father talking about him to my mother when he thought I wasn’t around.
The memory is hazy and distorted by the passage of time.
I force a calm breath, which isn’t easy, and say, “I don’t understand what any of this has to do with me. ”
Catherine slides the photo of her daughter to the side to reveal another photograph beneath.
I recognize this image, because it’s the headshot my father uses for the bio on his psychiatric practice website.
She must have printed it from the web. The snatch of memory becomes a little clearer.
My dad was somehow connected to the Back Bay Butcher, although the details remain elusive.
Catherine wastes no time in enlightening me.
“Michael R. Hollister, MD. Your father, and a forensic psychiatrist for the defense in The State v. Philip Arthur Munson. He testified at trial that, in his opinion, the Back Bay Butcher did not know right from wrong when he was torturing and murdering his victims. Your father claimed that Munson was acting under an irresistible impulse and didn’t understand the nature of his crimes. ”
Dawn takes up the mantle, her voice laced with venom.
“Which is total fucking bullshit. Munson knew exactly what he was doing. But it didn’t matter.
The jury was convinced by your father’s testimony, thanks to his role as an expert witness for the defense.
They found Munson not guilty by reason of insanity. ”
“Instead of rotting in prison, where he belongs, he’s relaxing in some cushy mental health facility and will never face justice for his crimes,” Frank says. “Hell, they might even release him someday.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” I say in a tight voice, my throat almost closing in panic.
It appears that they blame my father for some perceived lack of retribution for the deaths of their loved ones at the hands of a brutal serial killer.
But they aren’t right, because I remember now.
My father did testify in the Back Bay Butcher’s trial, and yes, Munson was found not guilty by reason of insanity, which, according to my dad, is an incredibly rare occurrence.
But that didn’t mean that Munson evaded accountability.
My father has consulted on many such cases and has said that being sent to a high-security psychiatric unit is often worse than going to prison because the confinement is indefinite, with no chance of parole.
You’re completely at the mercy of the doctors, who can keep you locked up forever if they wish, and you’re surrounded by other patients with a level of psychosis the same as or greater than your own.
And despite what Frank says, it’s highly unlikely that the Back Bay Butcher will ever be set free, given the scope and severity of his crimes.
But Catherine and my other neighbors don’t seem to view it that way.
Or maybe, in their warped thirst for justice, they just don’t care.
My stomach twists in knots as I realize the futility of my situation.
Appealing to their common sense is my only hope.
I’m not sure it will work, but I don’t want to die.
“Philip Arthur Munson received a stiff punishment, regardless of whether a jury said he was technically innocent. They will never set him free. He’ll be locked up for the rest of his life, and more importantly, he won’t be able to hurt anyone else. ”
“Spoken like your father’s daughter.” Catherine glances sideways at Jennifer. “I told you she wouldn’t understand.”
“Even if she did, it doesn’t make any difference,” says Dr. Burgess. “She has to die. It’s the only way her father will comprehend the loss we’ve all suffered. He needs to learn that actions have consequences.”
So that’s what this is about? Some kind of sick retribution against my father for his role in the Back Bay Butcher’s trial and the subsequent verdict? I’m gripped by sudden panic. “You don’t have to do this. If you kill me, you’re as bad as Munson.”
Kalina glares at me. “We are nothing like that animal.”
“Enough talk. Let’s get this over with.” Catherine turns to the doctor. “Are you ready?”
Burgess nods and walks over to a physician’s bag sitting on a side table next to the couch. He opens it with his back to me. Looking at Jamie, he asks, “What did you give her?”
“I put one of those pills you gave me in a glass of whisky,” Jamie replies. “Made her drink it.”
I stare at Jamie, shocked by this revelation, even though it shouldn’t surprise me at this point. No wonder I felt so calm. Why I was so willing to be led back over here. He laced my drink.
Burgess nods and rummages in his bag. When he turns around, he’s holding a syringe.
Now I scream at the top of my lungs. I also jump to my feet, because, for some reason, they haven’t restrained me in the chair.
But it’s no use—my captors were expecting this reaction.
Jamie leaves his position by the door and rushes forward, grabbing my left arm.
Frank, who now appears to move just fine without his cane, grabs the other one, and together they force me back down into the seat and hold me there.
“Get your fucking hands off me,” I screech, twisting and thrashing in their grasp. At least until Catherine grabs a bunch of my hair and yanks my head back, almost tearing it from the roots.
My skull slams into the back of the chair.
Dazed and unable to move, I watch helplessly as the doctor approaches with the syringe, then steps around Frank and slips the needle into my exposed neck beneath my ear.
I feel a prick of discomfort, followed by a strange icy chill that worms its way through my veins, and the world fades to black.