The Silent Girl

ladies? He loves them, and they all love him.
    “My daughter wanted to be here, too,” said Mrs. Gilmore. “But she couldn’t get off work, so I brought the note she got.” She pointed an arthritic hand at the coffee table. “It came in the mail the same day mine did. Every year they arrive on March thirtieth, the day my Joey died. It’s just like she’s stalking us. It’s emotional harassment. Can’t the police do something to stop her?”
    On the coffee table were three envelopes. Before touching them, Jane reached into her pocket and took out a pair of gloves.
    “There’s no point with gloves,” said Mark. “There are never any fingerprints on the letters or the envelopes.”
    Jane frowned at him. “How do you know there aren’t any prints?”
    “Detective Ingersoll had them analyzed in the crime lab.”
    “He knows about these?”
    “He gets them, too. So does anyone connected with the victims, even my father’s business associates. It’s up to a dozen people that we know about. It’s been going on for years, and the crime lab never finds anything on the envelopes or the mailings. She must wear gloves when she sends them.”
    “Mrs. Fang denies sending any notes.”
    Mark snorted. “Who else would do it? She’s the one who ran that ad in the
Globe
. She’s obsessed by this.”
    “But she denies sending any notes.” With gloved hands, Jane picked up the first envelope, addressed to Mrs. Mary Gilmore. It had a Boston postmark; there was no return address. She slid out the contents: a single folded sheet of paper. It was a photocopied obituary of Joseph S. Gilmore, age twenty-five, killed in the Chinatown restaurant mass murder–suicide. Survived by his mother, Mary, andhis sister, Phoebe Morrison. Funeral mass celebrated at St. Monica’s. Jane flipped over the mailing and saw a single sentence written in block letters.
    I know what really happened
.
    “It’s the same damn note I got,” said Mark. “The same thing we get every year. Except I get my father’s obituary.”
    “And I get Dina’s,” said Patrick quietly.
    Jane picked up the envelope addressed to Patrick Dion. Inside was the photocopied obituary of Dina Mallory, age forty, killed with her husband, Arthur, in the Red Phoenix shooting. Survived by a daughter from a previous marriage, Charlotte Dion. On the reverse side was written the same sentence that was on Mary Gilmore’s mailing:
    I know what really happened
.
    “Detective Ingersoll told us the envelope’s a standard brand sold by the millions in Staples,” said Mark. “The ink’s the same as what you’d find in any Bic pen. The crime lab found microscopic starch granules inside the envelopes, indicating the sender was wearing latex gloves, and the stamps and envelopes are self-adhesive, so there’s no DNA. Every year it arrives in my mailbox on the same day. March thirtieth.”
    “The day of the massacre,” said Jane.
    Mark nodded. “As if we need to be reminded of the date.”
    “And the handwriting?” asked Jane. “Does it vary?”
    “It’s always the same block letters. The same black ink.”
    “But the note’s different this year,” said Mrs. Gilmore. She spoke so quietly her voice was almost lost in the conversation.
    Frost, standing closest to her, gently touched her on the shoulder. “What do you mean, ma’am?”
    “Before, all the other years, the notes said:
Don’t you want to know the truth?
But this year it’s different. This year it says,
I know what really happened.
”
    “It’s basically the same bullshit,” said Mark. “Just said in a slightly different way.”
    “No, the meaning is completely different this year.” Mrs. Gilmore looked at Jane. “If she knows something, why doesn’t she just come out and tell us what the truth is?”
    “We all know what the truth is, Mrs. Gilmore,” Patrick said patiently. “It’s the same answer we’ve known for nineteen years. I have complete faith that Boston PD knew what it was doing when they closed the case.”
    “But what if they were wrong?”
    “Mrs. Gilmore,” Mark said, “these notes have only one purpose: to make us pay attention to her. We all know that woman’s not exactly balanced.”
    “What do you mean by that?” asked Frost.
    “Patrick, tell them what you found out about Mrs. Fang.”
    The older man looked reluctant to speak. “I’m not sure it’s necessary to go into that right now.”
    “We’d like to hear it, Mr. Dion,” said Jane.
    Patrick