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“I’ve arranged for a room,” she starts without preamble, already striding forward.
I’d gotten this from her messages. Victoria Twanow doesn’t mess around. She’s a woman on a mission, with a client scheduled for lethal injection in a matter of weeks. In person, she’s younger than I would’ve expected. Mid-thirties, with long, dark hair she has clipped into a low ponytail. She’s wearing a crisp gray skirt and blazer with the requisite white collared shirt. Her concession to fashion seems to be a chunky silver necklace, etched with exotic symbols. Mayan would be my guess. A tribute to her Belize heritage (I’ve Google-stalked her just as much as she’s apparently Google-stalked me), or just a piece that caught her eye? There’s no time to ask as she sweeps us down a corridor, heading straight for a stern-faced corrections officer.
His expression immediately softens as she approaches. “Victoria.” He nods warmly.
My lawyer escort flashes him a bright smile. They are friends of a sort, I realize. It makes sense. Twanow probably visits this place on a regular basis. Of course she’s come to know the guards, form some relationships.
It leaves me feeling even more awkward, like the new kid at school. My shoulders round self-consciously. I don’t like this place, with the glaring lights and overly antiseptic smell. The sounds are too loud and all at once, doors buzzing open, chains clanking, and so many people talking, talking, talking with a nearly rhythmic punctuation of sharp, angry exclamation. I’ve worked bars in rough neighborhoods filled with loud, drunken patrons one sip away from exploding into a brawl, and it still felt less stimulating than this.
Twanow touches my arm, offers a bolstering smile. “It’s okay. Focus on the people, not the place. Believe me, it helps.”
Given I’m about to meet a woman nicknamed the Beautiful Butcher for dismembering eighteen men and feeding them to her pigs, I’m not sure how.
The corrections officer holds open the door. Twanow breezes through. I follow much more hesitantly.
The room is small and barren. A single table, three molded plastic chairs. I was expecting more of the classic visitor setup: you know, a nice piece of solid glass between me and the convicted killer. This looks more like the basic interrogation room from every police station I’ve ever visited. Given I haven’t always been sitting on the law enforcement side of the table, I shudder slightly.
“This room is for attorney visits,” Twanow explains, setting down her briefcase. “If anyone asks, you’re now part of Keahi’s legal team.”
“Kayahee? I thought her name was Kaylee—”
“Focus. Here she is.”
A door to the right opens, and a woman with her wrists shackled at her waist appears. Having studied her picture before coming, I thought I was prepared, but I’m not. Even in shapeless prison whites, Kaylee Pierson is stunning. Rich black hair. High, sculpted cheekbones. Dark eyes set in lightly bronzed skin that speak to her Hawaiian heritage. She moves with a catlike grace as she enters the room, powered by a sinewy, muscular presence she makes no effort to diminish. I can absolutely see this gorgeous woman leading men home from bars. And I can also imagine her bulging arms wielding a saw over their dead bodies hours later. A beautiful butcher, indeed.
She pauses just inside the door, studies me from head to toe, then breaks into a grin.
There’s no warmth in her expression. It’s all cold calculation. If I wasn’t spooked before, I am now.
“Hello, Frankie,” she says in a low, throaty voice. “Welcome to my world.”
“DO YOU MIND?” Kaylee turns toward her accompanying guard. She raises her wrists slightly, and he unlocks her shackles. She winks. He steps back, his expression wary. Based on his response, I’m guessing that prisoners aren’t usually shackled for movement around the prison—which makes me wonder what Kaylee Pierson has done to receive such an honor.
“We’re all set,” Twanow addresses the corrections officer crisply, clearly eager to get to work.
The CO retreats out the door. I take a deep breath and have a seat. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Did you really ride the bus here?” Kaylee is asking. “We’d have been happy to provide airfare.”
“Miss Pierson—”
“Call me Keahi. It’s the name my mother wanted to give me, but my father refused. He had no use for her people or culture. Keahi means fire. A strong name for a baby girl my mother already knew would need to be tough to survive. I went through life with my father’s name. I will go to death with mine.”
I’m not sure how to respond to such sweeping statements, so I go with the highly obvious: “Your mother was Hawaiian.”
“She met my father when he was stationed in Honolulu. Married herself a fine sailor boy and returned with him to Texas. Stupid woman.”
“Your father was abusive.”
“My father was a monster. But I think we can all agree, I’m the bigger monster now.” She grins again, a movement of her lips that doesn’t match the darkness in her eyes. According to everything I read, Kaylee, or Keahi, Pierson has never apologized for her crimes. Nor has she sought reprieve from the death penalty. Others, like her determined lawyer, Victoria Twanow, have filed appeals on her behalf. But Keahi has made no bones about her willingness to be put to death. She killed, and now she will be killed.
I’m so far out of my league here. “What do you want?” I strive to keep my tone as flat as hers and am pleasantly surprised when my question ends with only the tiniest quiver.
“Victoria says you find missing people.” Beside me, Twanow nods. She has a legal pad out and looks like she’s taking notes. Keahi continues. “People no one else is looking for.”
“I specialize in working missing persons cold cases.”
“But you’re not a private investigator?”
