The Apprentice (26 page)

He opened the box and removed a large Ziploc bag, which he handed to Rizzoli. “The prisoner’s toiletries,” he said. “The usual personal care items.”

Rizzoli saw a toothbrush, comb, washcloth, and soap. Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion. She quickly set the bag down, repulsed by the thought that Hoyt had used these items every day to groom himself. She could see light-brown hairs still clinging to the comb’s teeth.

Oxton continued removing items from the box. Underwear. A stack of
National Geographic
magazines and several issues of the
Boston Globe
. Two Snickers bars, a pad of yellow legal paper, white envelopes, and three plastic rollerball pens. “And his correspondence,” said Oxton as he removed another Ziploc bag, this one containing a bundle of letters.

“We’ve gone through every piece of his mail,” Oxton said. “The State Police have the names and addresses of all these correspondents.” He handed the bundle to Dean. “Of course, this is only the mail he kept. There was probably a certain amount he threw out.”

Dean opened the Ziploc bag and removed the contents. There were about a dozen letters, still in their envelopes.

“Does MCI censor prisoner mail?” Dean asked. “Do you screen it before you give it to them?”

“We have the authority to do so. Depending on the type of mail.”

“Type?”

“If it’s classified privileged, the guards are only allowed to glance inside for contraband. But they’re not allowed to read it. The correspondence is private, between sender and prisoner.”

“So you’d have no idea what was written to him.”

“If it’s privileged mail.”

“What’s the difference between privileged and unprivileged mail?” asked Rizzoli.

Oxton responded to her interruption with a glint of annoyance in his eyes. “Nonprivileged mail is from friends and family or the general public. For instance, a number of our inmates have picked up pen pals from the outside who think they’re performing a charitable service.”

“By corresponding with murderers? Are they crazy?”

“Many of them are naive and lonely women. Susceptible to being used by a con artist. Those types of letters are nonprivileged and the guards have the authority to read and censor them. But we don’t always have time to read them all. We deal with a large volume of mail here. In Prisoner Hoyt’s case, there was a lot of mail to inspect.”

“From whom? I’m not aware he had much family,” said Dean.

“He got a lot of publicity last year. It caught the interest of the public. They all wanted to write to him.”

Rizzoli was appalled. “Are you saying he got
fan
mail?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus. People are nuts.”

“The public gets a thrill from talking to a killer. Something about being in touch with fame. Manson and Dahmer and Gacy, they all got fan mail. Our prisoners get marriage proposals. Women send them cash, or photos of themselves in bikinis. Men write wanting to know what it feels like to commit murder. The world is full of sick fucks, pardon my French, who get a charge out of knowing a real live killer.”

But one of them had gone beyond just writing to Hoyt. One had actually joined Hoyt’s exclusive club. She stared at the bundle of mail, enraged by this tangible evidence of the Surgeon’s fame. Killer as rock star. She thought of the scars he had carved in her hands, and each of the fan letters was like another stab of his scalpel.

“What about privileged mail?” said Dean. “You said it’s not read or censored. What classifies a letter as privileged?”

“It’s confidential mail that comes from certain state or federal officials. An officer of the court, for instance, or the attorney general. Mail from the president, the governor, or law enforcement agencies.”

“Did Hoyt receive such mail?”

“He may have. We don’t keep records of every item of mail that comes in.”

“How do you know when a letter’s really privileged?” said Rizzoli.

Oxton looked at her with impatience. “I just told you. If it’s from a federal or state official—”

“No. I mean, how do you know it’s not fake or stolen stationery? I could write escape plans to one of your prisoners and mail it in an envelope from, say, Senator Conway’s office.” The example she’d chosen had not been random. She watched Dean and saw his chin snap up at the mention of Conway’s name.

Oxton hesitated. “It’s not impossible. But there are penalties—”

“So it’s happened before.”

Reluctantly, Oxton nodded. “There’ve been several cases. Criminal information’s been sent under the guise of official business. We try to stay alert to it, but occasionally, something slips through.”

“And what about outgoing mail? The letters Hoyt sent? Did you screen those?”

“No.”

“None of it?”

“We had no reason to. He was never considered a problem inmate. He was always cooperative. Very quiet and polite.”

“A model prisoner,” said Rizzoli. “Right.”

Oxton fixed her with an icy glare. “We have men in here who’d rip your arms off and laugh about it, Detective. Men who’d snap a guard’s neck just because a meal didn’t suit them. A prisoner like Hoyt was not high on our list of concerns.”

Dean calmly redirected the conversation back to the issue at hand. “So we don’t know who he may have written to?”

That matter-of-fact question seemed to douse the warden’s rising irritation. Oxton turned from Rizzoli and focused instead on Dean, one man to another. “No, we don’t,” he said. “Prisoner Hoyt could have written to anyone.”

In a conference room down the hall from Oxton’s office, Rizzoli and Dean pulled on latex gloves and spread the envelopes addressed to Warren Hoyt on the table. She saw a variety of stationery, a few pastels and florals, and one imprinted with
Jesus saves
. Most absurd of all was the stationery decorated with images of frolicking kittens. Yes, just the thing to send to the Surgeon. How amused he must have been to receive that.

She opened the envelope with the kittens and found a photo inside, of a smiling woman with hopeful eyes. Also enclosed was a letter, written in a girlish hand, the
i
s
dotted with cheery little circles:

To: Mr. Warren Hoyt,

Prisoner Massachusetts Correctional Institute

Dear Mr. Hoyt,

I saw you on TV today, as they were walking you to
the courthouse. I believe I am an excellent judge of character, and when I looked
at your face, I could see so much sadness and pain. Oh, such a great deal of
pain! There is goodness in you; I know there is. If only you had someone to
help you find it within yourself…

Rizzoli suddenly realized she was clenching the letter in rage. She wanted to reach out and shake the stupid woman who had written those words. Wanted to force the woman to look at the autopsy photos of Hoyt’s victims, to read the M.E.‘s account of the agony they had suffered before death mercifully ended their ordeals. She had to make herself read the rest of the letter, a saccharine appeal to Hoyt’s humanity and the “goodness that’s inside us all.”

She reached for the next envelope. No kittens on this stationery, just a plain white envelope containing a letter written on lined paper. Once again, it was from a woman who had enclosed her photo, an overexposed snapshot of a squinting bleached blonde.

Dear Mr. Hoit,

Can I have you’re autograph? I have collect many
signitures from people like you. I even have Jeffry Dahmer’s. If you like
to keep writing to me, that would be cool. Your friend, Gloria.

Rizzoli stared at words she could not believe any sane human being would write.
That would be cool. Your friend
. “Jesus Christ,” she said. “These people are nuts.”

“It’s the lure of fame,” said Dean. “They have no lives of their own. They feel worthless, nameless. So they try to get close to someone who does have a name. They want the magic to rub off on them, too.”

“Magic?” She looked at Dean. “Is that what you call it?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t get any of it. I don’t get why women write to monsters. Are they looking for romance? A hot time with a guy who’d turn around and gut them? Is that supposed to bring excitement into their pathetic lives?” She shoved back her chair, stood up, and paced over to the wall of slit-shaped windows. There she stood with arms tightly crossed, staring out at a narrow strip of sunlight, a blue bar of sky. Any view, even this meager one, was preferable to gazing at Warren Hoyt’s fan mail. Surely Hoyt had enjoyed the attention. He would have considered each letter fresh proof that he still held power over women, that even here, locked away, he could twist minds, manipulate them. Turn them into his possessions.

“It’s a waste of time,” she said bitterly as she watched a bird flit past buildings where men were the ones in cages, where bars held monsters, not birdsong. “He isn’t stupid. He would have destroyed anything linking him to the Dominator. He’d protect his new partner. He certainly wouldn’t leave behind anything useful for us to track.”

“Maybe not useful,” said Dean, rustling papers behind her. “But definitely illuminating.”

“Oh yeah. Like I want to read what these nutty women have written to him? It makes me sick.”

“Could that be the point?”

She turned and looked at him. A bar of light through the slit window slashed down his face, illuminating one bright blue eye. She had always thought his features striking, but never more so than at that moment, facing him across the table. “What do you mean?”

“It upsets you, reading his fan mail.”

“It ticks me off. Isn’t that obvious?”

“To him, as well.” Dean nodded to the stack of letters. “He knew it would upset you.”

“You think this is all to screw around with my head? These letters?”

“It’s a mind game, Jane. He left these behind for you. This nice collection of mail from his most ardent admirers. He knew that eventually you’d be right here, where you are now, reading what they had to say to him. Maybe he wanted to show you that he
does
have admirers. That even though you despise him, there are women who don’t, women who are drawn to him. He’s like a spurned lover, trying to make you jealous. Trying to throw you off balance.”

“Don’t mind-fuck me.”

“And it’s working, isn’t it? Look at you. He’s got you wound up so tight you can’t even sit still. He knows how to manipulate you, how to mess around with your head.”

“You’re giving him too much credit.”

“Am I?”

She waved at the letters. “This is all supposed to be for my benefit? What, I’m the center of his universe?”

“Isn’t he the center of yours?” Dean said quietly.

She stared at him, unable to come up with a retort because what he had said struck her, at that instant, as the unassailable truth. Warren Hoyt
was
the center of her universe. He reigned as dark lord over her nightmares and dominated her waking hours as well, always poised to step out of his closet, back into her thoughts. In that cellar, she had been marked as his, the way every victim is marked by an assailant, and she could not obliterate his stamp of ownership. It was carved into her hands, seared into her soul.

She returned to the table and sat down. Steeled herself for the remainder of the task.

The next envelope had a typed return address:
Dr. J. P. O’Donnell, 1634 Brattle Street, Cambridge, MA 02138
. Near Harvard University, Brattle Street was a neighborhood of fine homes and the educated elite, where university professors and retired industrialists jogged the same sidewalks and waved to each other across marucured hedges. It was not the sort of neighborhood where one expected to find a monster’s acolyte.

She unfolded the letter inside. It was dated six weeks ago.

Dear Warren,

Thank you for your last letter, and for signing the
two release forms. The details you’ve provided go a long way toward helping
me understand the difficulties you’ve faced. I have so many other
questions to ask you, and I’m glad you’re still willing to meet
with me as planned. If you have no objections, I would like to videotape the
interview. You know, of course, that your help is absolutely essential to my
project.

Sincerely,

Dr. O’Donnell

“Who on earth is J. P. O’Donnell?” Rizzoli said.

Dean glanced up in surprise. “Joyce O’Donnell?”

“The envelope just says Dr. J. P. O’Donnell. Cambridge, Mass. She’s been interviewing Hoyt.”

He frowned at the envelope. “I didn’t know she’d moved to Boston.”

“You know her?”

“She’s a neuropsychiatrist. Let’s just say we met under hostile circumstances, across the aisle of a courtroom. Defense attorneys love her.”

“Don’t tell me. An expert witness. She goes to bat for the bad guys.”

He nodded. “No matter what your client’s done, how many people he’s killed, O’Donnell is happy to provide mitigating testimony.”

“I wonder why she’s writing to Hoyt.” She reread the letter. It had been written with the utmost respect, praising him for his cooperation. Already she disliked Dr. O’Donnell.

The next envelope in the stack was also from O’Donnell, but it did not contain a letter. Instead she pulled out three Polaroids—strictly amateurish snapshots. Two of them had been taken outdoors in daylight; the third was an indoor scene. For a moment she just stared, the hairs on the back of her neck standing straight up, her eyes registering what her brain refused to accept. She jerked back, and the photos dropped from her hands like hot coals.

“Jane? What is it?”

“It’s me,” she whispered.

“What?”

“She’s been following me. Taking photos of me. She sent them to
him
.”

Dean rose from his chair and circled to her side of the table to look over her shoulder. “I don’t see you here—”

“Look.
Look
.” She pointed to the photo of a dark-green Honda parked on the street. “It’s mine.”

“You can’t see the license number.”

“I can recognize my own car!”

Dean flipped over the Polaroid. On the back, someone had drawn an absurd smiley face and had written in blue felt-tip ink:
My car
.