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folder as
if it alone now held all remaining truths. So Albert examined it again.
There were photocopied newspaper headlines. “Boston Strangler
escapes from State Mental Ward” and “Boston Strangler Murdered at
Walpole Prison.” There were labeled pictures of old ladies: Anna Slesers
(55), Mary Mullen (85), Nina Nichols (68), helen Blake (65), Ida Irga
(75). And also faded shots of their dead bodies. Then, the younger ones.
Sophie Clark (20), Patricia Bissette (23), Beverly Samans, (23), Joann
Graff (23), Mary Sullivan (19). Albert thought, The Sullivan girl has gay
hair but is still kind of hot. Blonde. Pretty eyes. Looks a little like Mrs. Nolan.
he kept reading. About his adoption. And DeSalvo. Didn’t understand it all. The DNA stuff. But yet it still somehow explained everything. his “mother.” his thoughts. his whole damn stupid life. how
much time passed he did not know. An hour? Ten minutes? he ignored
the strange noises from the other room, ignored Dr. Jacobson, who sat
quietly watching him throughout. finally, he looked back up.
“Albert DeSalvo.” he tried the name on his lips. Not McCarty, his
adoptive name. The loser name all those assholes at school knew. But
DeSalvo. his real name. “The ‘Boston Strangler,’” he whispered into
the darkness. My real name . The words like magic. he’d never felt . . . better ?
“you . . . you made me?” Albert said.
“No,” Jacobson replied from the shadows. “Like one of the first
gods, you made yourself.”
Albert looked at the doctor and noticed for the first time that there
was blood on the man’s pants. It did not change his single overwhelming emotion: PEACE.
“Thanks,” Albert said.
Dr. Jacobson patted the boy’s knee and stood. “every person should
know who they truly are,” he said. he proceeded to the bedroom door,
and Albert trailed slowly after.
Albert had no idea where his mother was, his fake mother, but there
were several other figures shuffling into the hall and out the front door.
Boys. he wondered if they were others.
Others like me?
The doctor retreated behind them.
“What should I do now?” Albert called after them.
Dr. Jacobson did not pause or answer. he didn’t need to.
As the two cars backed away, Albert understood that his front door
had been left wide open. Into the night. Where Mrs. Nolan was probably still wide awake, too.
And waiting for him.
SeCreT rOOM
     
JuNe 03, FridAy—HAddoNField, NJ
     
    J
    acobson’s house sat alone atop a short wooded hill in a pricier section of haddonfield, New Jersey. Old ivy, new construction. The
country club no more than a mile away. earlier, in the dark and
from a distance, Castillo had carefully walked its perimeter. even
    from afar, he could plainly tell someone else had already broken into the
house before he’d arrived. A splintered back window, the board used to
pry it open still laying beneath. Castillo picked the lock of the back door.
    The inside of the small estate remained dark, and Castillo took
his time inspecting it. A typical house. Sparse. Couple of empty guest
rooms. he’d been told the geneticist was not married. he found emptied file cabinets, not a laptop in sight. Didn’t seem like it was the six
missing kids or Jacobson who’d done it. The place wasn’t trashed, only
picked over. DSTI, or someone else working for the Department of
Defense, or maybe—still not out of the question yet—a foreign player,
trying to sweep this mess under the carpet.
    Probably DSTI, Castillo decided. he’d spotted a car at the end of
the street. One guy, maybe two, watched the house. If they’d been professionals, like he was, he’d never have spotted them. And the break-in
was amateur. he assumed they’d gone with the busted window to feign
a routine burglary, and it would have been easy enough to grab a couple
TVs, or Jacobson’s gold cuff links to bolster that charade. But they
hadn’t. he smiled at the half-assed attempt at a