Page 44 of Her Guardian
I glance at the time on my phone and my eyes widen. It’sreallylate. I’m surprised Lea is still awake, but the Morandi family may be in crisis mode right now, even if they didn’t call Big Boyd.
Sarah:I’ll have to talk to you about that later…
Lea:Sarah! What did you do?
Sarah:Don’t say anything to Massimo until I get a chance to talk to you.
I send a sly-wink emoji, grin, and put my phone in my purse. I don’t hide things from Lea, but I’d rather tell her in person than over a text message. I gave her enough to know it isn’t entirely innocent. Hopefully, she’ll sit on that information until we can talk.
“Ah, yeah,” Boyd mutters. “There’s a lot of motherfuckers here.”
I look ahead and see a large iron gate. There are guys standing in front of it with really big guns. M16s, if I’m remembering it right. Crime scene tape is on the ground, and it looks like the gate wasblocked off by the cops. I guess the Brennan family doesn’t really care about that. I probably wouldn’t, if someone I cared about had just been murdered in cold blood by a serial killer.
Boyd drives up to the gate and lowers his window. A guy with red hair and pale features approaches, flicking a cigarette away as he peers into the vehicle.
“Big Boyd,” he says flatly. “I thought the Morandi family had already seen all they needed to see.”
“Hey, Sheamus. I’m going to have a look around to make sure nothing was missed,” Boyd says. “Open the fucking gate.”
“You got it,” Sheamus replies, turning and motioning to the other guys standing at the gate.
The gate opens and Boyd drives through it. There are two patrol cars parked near the residence. The house is so lit up it looks like every light in it is on. Boyd parks the SUV and turns off the engine.
“Stick close to me,” he says. “And remember to let me do the talking.”
“I will,” I say, nodding in agreement.
I’ve never been to a crime scene before. When I was doing my podcast about the Mafia Prince Murders, all I had to go on were photographs or pieces of information that leaked. I was scouring chat rooms, social media, and calling everyone I could to try to get a statement—even ano commentwas nice, since I could say they declined to comment on whatever piece of information I was dazzling my audience with.
This is going to be a lot different. None of the true crime podcasters know what is written on the wall. It normally takesa day or two for that information to leak. I’ll be the first one to report it. People will be skeptical, but once it’s confirmed, everyone will be paying attention to my podcast, because they heard it from me first.
Boyd walks around and opens my door. I follow behind him, a twinge of nervous excitement bubbling in my gut. We get to the front door and Boyd opens it. There are two cops standing in the foyer. They look alarmed for a moment, then nod to him.
“Mr. Morandi sent you, too?” a cop asks. The badge on his chest tells me his name is Officer Ramirez.
“Something like that,” Boyd mutters. “Where did it happen?”
“Upstairs bedroom.” The cop motions toward the stairs. “The detectives are still in there.”
“That’s fine,” Boyd says, motioning for me to follow him.
Nobody seems to bat an eye at the fact Boyd has a true-crime-junkie-slash-true-crime-podcaster following behind him. Then again, nobody here knows who I am. I’m just a random girl at a crime scene. I guess Big Boyd can open doors without kicking them in—even doors that should be closed to someone like me.
We get to the top of the stairs, and I hear a lot of commotion. It’s easy to figure out which bedroom used to belong to Lloyd Brennan’s son. There are several plainclothes detectives taking photographs and jotting down notes.
The detectives look at Big Boyd, but don’t say anything to him. I follow him into the bedroom and my eyes get wide. There’s blood everywhere, and a puddle near the wall. Just like all the other Mafia Prince Murders, the message is written in blood—presumably the victim’s blood.
“I missed you. The trial was entertaining. Sorry, Arthur,” I read aloud. “Holy shit.”
“Mm,” Boyd growls.
“That message looks like all the others,” I say. “Same jagged letters, and he always starts over in a new city by sayingI missed you. What if Arthur Dykstra really is innocent and the Mafia Prince Killer is still at large?”
“Let me talk to these detectives,” Boyd says. “You can look around, but don’t take any pictures, and don’t touch anything.”
From the looks of it, the forensics team has already done their sweep. If this is really the Mafia Prince Killer, they won’t find anything. No fingerprints. No DNA. Nothing at all. If it wasn’t for the tip that led the cops to Arthur Dykstra, they wouldn’t have caught him after his last murder in New York.
Could it all be an elaborate ruse? The Mafia Prince Killer could have framed Arthur Dykstra. But if he was innocent, why didn’t he testify? Why didn’t he say anything on his behalf? He’s never given an interview. Never spoken to anyone about his crimes—or supposed crimes. His lawyer said he barely participated in his defense.
