Sgarzi grimaced, shrugged. “Donnie was . . . different. He liked books, science, math. Hell, if he’d survived, he probably would’ve become another Bill Gates and my mother wouldn’t have any worries now. But a twelve-year-old geek in Southie? The other kids were hard on him. If I heard of things, or if I was around, I made them knock it off. He was my cousin, you know. I tried to take care of him. But he didn’t fit in. And Shana may be freaky, but she was clever. Even back then . . .” Sgarzi shook his head. “My cousin never stood a chance.”

“You follow the trial?” Phil asked.

“Nah, my parents wouldn’t let me. I got my news the way the rest of the neighborhood did, by listening to gossip. Besides, this was a long time ago. Not like today, where there’s twenty-four-hour cable and constant media blitzes. The local news followed the case, of course, particularly when the DA announced he was trying Shana as an adult. But her defense didn’t put up much of a fight. Whole thing was over and done with pretty quick. Then everyone went back to their everyday lives. Except for my aunt and uncle, of course.”

“And you?” D.D. asked curiously. “Thirty years later, still writing letters to your cousin’s killer? Stirring the pot?”

“Still?” asked Sgarzi in clear bewilderment. “Who says still? Letters I sent three months ago were the first time I’ve initiated contact. I mean, Donnie was a good kid, but so was I. Hell, I had bigger plans than spending my life as a murdered boy’s cousin. I got out of the neighborhood. Went to NYU, majored in communications, became a reporter. I’m no schmuck.”

“And yet, here you are . . . ,” Phil prodded.

“I returned to look out for my mom,” Sgarzi replied sharply. “Or didn’t Dr. Glen tell you that part? My mom’s dying of cancer. She needs hospice, a home health aide, someone more capable than her journalist son. Which costs money. And given how financially lucrative it is to be a writer these days, I don’t have a whole lot. Then it occurred to me, digital reporters might not make much money, but some of these true-crime books . . . I mean, we’re talking six-figure, seven-figure advances. I’m capable of doing the work. I just need the right material. You know, such as an exclusive interview with a notorious female killer. Now, you tell me, is that too much to ask? Thirty years later, maybe Shana might even like a chance to make amends. Course, given how she’s never replied to a single letter, I’m gonna guess not.”

“So you went after her sister?”

“Sure. That’s what reporters do. One source says no, find another source that’ll say yes. I need a yes. My mom needs a yes.”

“When was your mother diagnosed with cancer?” D.D. asked.

“Six months ago.”