Gathering Dark, Candice Fox [inspirational books for students .TXT] 📗

shelves of unframed sketches and bright acrylic paintings of ghosts and beautiful women next to items that seemed to have no category: a handbag with a torn zipper, and a pink teddy bear that appeared burned on one side, the cotton candy–like fur curled and blackened. Jessica turned and looked at a rack full of hundreds of tiny jars, each labeled with a name: Schaefer, G. J.—Jones, J.—Gacy, J. W.—Norris, R.—Pike, C. She stepped closer and saw that some of the tiny jars were filled with what looked like hair. Gray, black, brown bundles. Others contained sharp, yellowish fibers in the shape of crescent moons. Tania was searching in a huge filing cabinet. Jessica spied files labeled with the words Transcripts, Psych reports, Auth certs, Scene/autopsy pics. The feeling in her stomach was deepening, a sick tightening just above her pelvis.

“It’s in here somewhere, don’t worry,” Tania said, thumbing through the files. “Go ahead and admire the shop while you’re waiting, but I’ve got to let you know, you’re on three different cameras right now. Last year I had a guy come down here and try to steal a jar of Berkowitz’s fingernails. I got the only jar in the country that’s for sale and has an attached certificate of authenticity. That’s one of the premium jars, top shelf. If you buy Dayly’s letters, I can give you a good deal on a couple of non-premium jars.”

“Are you talking about … David Berkowitz?” Jessica asked. “The serial killer?”

“Son of Sam,” Tania said. “I’ve also got a pair of his prison shoes, too, if you’re into that guy.”

Jessica looked back at the shelves. At the little jars of hair and fingernails labeled with the names of famous killers. In the corner of the room by the door was an old fridge, humming, bolted and padlocked at the door. Jessica went to the opposite wall and examined a frame hanging high on the wall. In the frame was a slice of cream carpet partly soaked in a reddish-brown substance. She noticed the back of the frame was screwed to the wall.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, that’s not for sale.” Tania came to Jessica’s side. “That one’s mine. That right there, missy, is a square of carpet one of the forensic investigators cut from the floor of the Columbine High School library two days after the shooting. I’ve got a certificate of authenticity for that one, too. It’s worth more than everything else in here.” She put her hands on her hips proudly. “Someone wanted to trade me a pair of Jeffrey Dahmer’s glasses for it a couple of weeks ago. I thought about it, I tell ya. I really thought about it.”

“So this is all…” Jessica wheezed.

“Murderabilia,” Tania said, nodding. “You must have thought this was prison letters only?”

“I didn’t…” Jessica lost her words.

“Here at Scream Inc. we deal in all aspects of murder. We’ve got confession tapes, psych reports, cranial scans, and medical waste. This here is one of Casey Anthony’s handbags.” Tania tapped the glass of the cabinet at Jessica’s side. “Nabbed it from a yard sale the parents held a couple of years after the kid’s death. You wouldn’t believe what it would go for now. Are you an O.J. fan? I’ve got stones from the garden where Brown and Goldman were stabbed to death, but no certificates, unfortunately. I’ve got a line on one of the outdoor lamps from that scene. Guy says it has blood spatter on it, but they always say that. Should close that deal in the next few days. I can put you on the mailing list if you want to get an alert when the item goes up for sale. Unless you’d like to make an offer now?”

“I’m…” Jessica took a deep breath. “I’m just here for the Dayly Lawlor letters.”

Tania went back to the filing cabinet. Jessica stared fixedly at a pair of scuffed high heels on a low shelf, tried not to think about what might be in the refrigerator by the door. In time, she heard the flutter of papers and went to the desk, where Tania stood carefully spreading out three pieces of paper on the desktop.

“Please don’t touch,” Tania said. “And no photos. That’s all I ask.”

Jessica looked at the papers. They were letters, typed on an electric typewriter.

Dear Dayly,

In your last letter, you were talking about my reasons for killing all those people …

A chill splintered her chest.

“So what am I looking at here?” she asked.

“What? You don’t know?”

“I’ve come on behalf of a friend.” Jessica smiled weakly.

“These are letters to a woman named Dayly Lawlor from John Fishwick, the Inglewood Bank killer. Fishwick was a famous bank robber. He’s in San Quentin now, death row. The guy was really prolific, but he went nuts and blasted a bunch of people away in his last bank heist. Six adults and a kid.” Tania moved behind the desk. “Some people, yours truly included, believe that one of these days Fishwick is going to reveal the location of some of his hidden caches of stolen money in one of these letters.”

Jessica stared at the letters, reading snippets, her heart hammering in her chest.

“Now,” Tania said, “Fishwick letters usually go for about five hundred a pop but in these ones, Dayly appears to be asking the man if he’s her father. That’s different. Special. There are new personal details about Fishwick that haven’t been released to the public, including a murder confession from his childhood. And with the news story last week on the decision made about money of Fishwick’s that has already been found, there’ll be renewed interest in these letters. I’ll be fighting off buyers with a bat. So my earlybird price is fifteen hundred a piece. I take Amex. I assume you’ve got authority from your friend to negotiate on their behalf?”

Jessica stepped back from the desk. The room felt very small and hot.

“How old are you?” Jessica asked.

“Excuse me?” Tania frowned.

“You heard me, Tania.”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“And this is what you do for