by Lisa Gardner
Cindy hadn’t exactly been a damsel-in-distress kind of girl.
Then, as still happened too often these days, Griffin’s thoughts turned. He stopped thinking about Cindy. He started thinking about David. And his fists clenched reflexively while a muscle leapt in his jaw. The tension was there again. Would be for a long time. It was his job now to manage it, to learn better coping skills. Like going running. Like finding a punching bag. Like seeing how many rounds he could go before he finally took the edge off his rage.
A week after the Big Boom, before he understood it was the Big Boom, his brother had come looking for him and found him out in his garage still working the heavy bag. His hands were bleeding. Giant blisters had welled up and burst on his feet. He was still going at it, four fingers broken and the buzzing worse than ever in his head. Frank had had to wrestle him to the ground. It cost him two black eyes and a swollen lip.
Griffin had collapsed shortly thereafter. He had not eaten or slept in over five days. He had a last impression of Frank standing over him. Frank looking at Griffin’s bloody hands. Frank with tears on his cheeks.
He had made his older brother cry. He remembered being stunned, being appalled, being ashamed. And then he’d sunk, down, down, down into the great black abyss. He’d sunk down, down, down, whispering his dead wife’s name.
Griffin turned away from the parking lot. He didn’t want to approach Fitz in this kind of mood, so he practiced his even-breathing techniques while locating the state fire marshal. An ATF agent was standing next to the marshal, a two-for-one sale in information shopping.
“Marshal.” Griffin shook the man’s hand, then waited a moment as Marshal Grayson introduced him to Special Agent Neilson from ATF. More handshaking and head bobbing. Both the fire marshal and the ATF agent had faces smeared with black soot and sweat. The men looked at once tired and angry, so Bentley had been right about the DOA.
“I heard you were back,” Grayson commented.
“Can’t fish forever,” Griffin said.
Grayson smiled thinly. “On a day like this, I wouldn’t mind trying. No, on a day like this I wouldn’t mind trying at all.”
All three men turned toward the smoking ruins. “What can you tell me?” Griffin asked.
“Not much yet. We’re just now getting into the scene.”
“One dead?”
“One dead.”
“Cause of the explosion?”
The marshal nodded his head toward the pile of five vehicles. “See how the one to the left is almost entirely burnt out? Upholstery’s gone, all six windows are blown? That would be the primary scene of the explosion. The other cars bear peripheral damage.”
“But that car is off to one side.”
“The force of the explosion lifted the vehicle up and carried it through the air. Whoever did this wasn’t fooling around.”
“So we’re talking a car bomb.”
“The scene is consistent with some sort of incendiary device. More than that, I don’t know yet. The thing about an explosion of this size and nature is that it sets off secondary explosions as well. Several gas tanks went, so we have burn patterns consistent with the use of an accelerant. The seat on the driver’s side bears shrapnel, which could either be from a packed pipe bomb, or be fragments from the site of the main explosion, gas tanks, etc. Until I have a chance to take it all apart and put it back together, I won’t know what’s what.”
“I’m going to need to know what kind of bomb,” Griffin said. “Are we talking a sophisticated device, something that uses unusual parts, or is it a homemade concoction even a Boy Scout could whip up out in the garage? Oh, and is there a timer, etc.?”
Grayson gave him a look. “When I’m done, Sergeant, you’ll know exactly what kind of wires were used to build this baby and if those wires came from a spool used in wiring any other bombs in the United States. But you’re not going to know that until I’m done, and I’m not going to be done with this for at least a week or ten days.”
“I’m told that the AG doesn’t like a homicide in his backyard and that the mayor feels explosions are bad for tourism,” Griffin said. “Just so you know.”
The state fire marshal sighed. “I gotta get a new job,” he muttered. “Or a new pacemaker. All right. Give me five days. I’ll try to have something for you then.”
Detective Fitzpatrick chose that opportunity to walk over. “Sergeant Griffin?”
“Detective.” Griffin held out his hand. Fitz accepted the handshake, and for the next few seconds they both amused themselves by squeezing too hard. Neither one of them blinked. Having set the tone, they excused themselves from the state fire marshal and walked off to one corner where they could eye each other for weakness in peace.
“Any news on the shooter?” Fitz asked.
“He liked Fig Newtons. Any news on the identity of the owner of the vehicle?”
“It’s a rental.”
“Ran the VIN?”
“Looked at the plate. Do you have a description?”
“We have several. Where’s the body?”
“At the morgue. You got the weapon?”
“We got a rifle. Can the ME get prints?”
“Ask the ME. Got a name?”
“No. But we’re guessing he had a RISD parking permit.”
Fitz grunted. His breathing had accelerated. So had Griffin’s. “These free flows of information are very helpful,” Fitz said. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, then chewed on a toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“That’s what I always think.”
“You got a body,” Fitz said after another moment. “I got a body. Now what we both need is a link.”
“That sums it up.”
“You’re thinking the women or their families.”
“I would like to talk to the women and their families.”
“I know these women,” Fitz said seriously.
“Okay.”
“I’ve spent a year interviewing them, reassuring them, preparing them for today. You know what that’s like.”
“I still get some Christmas cards.”
“Then you understand why I want to take the lead in questioning them.”
“You can start,” Griffin said, a phrase that didn’t fool either of them.
Fitz narrowed his eyes. He opened his mouth, started to say something harsh, then seemed to think better of it. He shut his trap. He regarded Griffin stonily.
Rhode Island law enforcement was a small, incestuous community, much like the rest of the state. Everyone knew everyone, promoted each other’s brother, gave other family members a break. Fitz had probably heard about Griffin, the basement, the Big Boom. He was probably now wondering how much of those stories was true. And he was probably wondering, looking at Griffin’s thickly muscled chest and hard-planed face, if pushing Sergeant Psycho was really very safe.
At this stage of the game, Griffin didn’t feel a need to comment either way.
Abruptly, Fitz shrugged. “All right. Let’s go speak to the women.”
“They’re all together?”
“Yep.”
“A Survivors Club meeting?” Griffin guessed.
“So you’ve heard.”
“I understand they have a penchant for press conferences.”
“They take a hands-on approach,” Fitz said. Far from sounding bitter, however, the older detective merely shrugged. “Last year, they’re the ones who identified the key break in the case. In all honesty, without the Survivors Club, I’m not sure we ever would’ve nailed Eddie Como.”
CHAPTER 9
The Survivors Club
“JILLIAN HAYES IS THE DE FACTO LEADER OF THE GROUP,” Fitz explained as he drove through the maze of narrow one-way streets that comprised East Side Providence. “Her sister was the third rape victim, a nineteen-year-old sophomore at Brown. She died during the attack of an anaphylactic reaction to latex.”
“I thought the victims were blood donors.”
; Fitz slid him a sideways glance, obviously surprised Griffin knew that much. “One link discovered in the course of the investigation was that both the first victim, Meg Pesaturo, and the third victim, Trisha Hayes, had donated at campus blood drives in the weeks prior to the attacks.”
“So Trisha Hayes gave blood, even though she was allergic to latex?”
“Sure. According to Kathy Hammond, the phlebotomist who assisted Miss Hayes, Trisha informed her that she was latex-sensitive and Mrs. Hammond switched to vinyl gloves, following the Rhode Island Blood Center’s policy and procedures. Latex allergies are becoming more common, you know. Most hospitals, blood-donor centers, visiting nurse associations, etc., stock other kinds of gloves as well.”
“Do they note latex-sensitivity on the blood-donor card?”
Fitz understood where Griffin was going with this and regretfully shook his head. “No. Too bad, too. If we could’ve proven that Como had prior knowledge of Miss Hayes’s allergy, we could’ve gone after him for murder. Instead, we had to settle for manslaughter.”
“Too bad,” Griffin agreed. He glanced idly at the side-view mirror, caught a glimpse of white and narrowed his eyes for closer scrutiny just as Fitz lurched the car forward.
“So,” Fitz was saying. “Jillian Hayes was supposed to meet her younger sister at seven for dinner, but was running late. She showed up around eight, entered the basement apartment and was promptly jumped from behind. Eddie beat the living shit out of her. Choked her with his bare hands. God knows how far he would’ve gone, except an upstairs neighbor was alerted by the noise and called the police. Eddie took off at the sound of sirens. Jillian dragged herself over to the bed, where she found her sister’s body tied up with latex tourniquets.”
“That was his signature?”
“Yep, latex tourniquets, all three victims. He used ten ties, one for a gag, one for a blindfold, then two each for the wrists and ankles, forming a double noose that actually grew tighter when the victim struggled. If they relaxed, on the other hand . . . Let’s just say Eddie had a keen sense of irony.”
“I assume after the neighbor’s call, uniforms responded from all over and immediately canvassed the neighborhood. They never stumbled across a guy running from the scene?”
“Nope. But to be fair to the uniforms, we had no description. The only victim who caught a glimpse of the attacker was number two, Carol Rosen, and she says her room was too dark to get a good look. The first girl, Meg Pesaturo, doesn’t even remember the attack, so she couldn’t help. Trisha Hayes may have seen Eddie, but she never regained consciousness to give a statement. And her sister, Jillian, was attacked in a gloomy basement apartment, so she couldn’t provide any details either. In other words, sure, we poured all sorts of manpower into the streets that night, but Eddie either holed up, or played it cool. No one ever stopped him.”
“Eddie Como sounds either very lucky or very smart,” Griffin muttered. He turned to Fitz. “Hey, see that white van four vehicles back? You know, the one with the satellite dish up top.”
Fitz glanced in the rearview mirror. “Yep.”
“I’m thinking that’s the Channel Ten News van.”
Fitz studied it for a moment. “Oooooh,” he drawled. “I think you’re right. Bringing your admirers with you, Sergeant Griffin?”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s me they’re admiring. You were the one who led the College Hill Rapist case. Ergo, you’re the one most likely to know where to find the women.”
“Ah shit. Little bloodsucking leeches. You’d think two corpses would be enough to keep them occupied. But no, you’re probably right. They want to find one of the victims. Then they can stick a mike beneath her nose and say, ‘Hey, Victim Number Two, your rapist was just splattered all over the sidewalk. What are you going to do now? Fly to Disneyland?’ Fuck.”
Without warning, Fitz flung the vehicle right. The Ford Taurus, technically the same vehicle Griffin drove but in Fitz’s case considerably more abused, groaned in protest. Fitz ignored the creaking steering, shuddering shocks and his entire suspension system, gunning the engine as he shot up onto the curb, cut across the corner and landed hard on the cross street.
Griffin grabbed the dash for support, then glanced in the mirror. “Still got ’em.”
“That’s what you think.” Fitz came to a narrow alleyway, jerked left, came to a parking lot, jerked right, then came back to a side street and shot left again. Impressive, Griffin thought. But then, like a great white shark, the van appeared again.
“Maureen, Maureen, Maureen,” Griffin murmured. “Feeling a little vindictive over the loss of your videotape?”
“I’m not leading any fuckin’ reporter to my women,” Fitz growled. “No way, not on my watch.”
Griffin took that as a hint to grab the handle protruding from the roof. Good thing. Fitz hit the sirens, shot through a red light without the customary tap on the brake and about plowed into a garbage truck. Apparently not one to sweat near misses, he merely accelerated faster, rocketed through another red light, hung a left, sped four blocks, then hung a right before finally ducking into a parking space between two cars.
“That’s gotta do it,” he said, breathing hard and fast. Both hands still gripped the wheel. He had a savage gleam in his eye.
For no reason at all, Griffin decided not to let go of the safety handle. “I don’t see them anymore,” he commented.
“Keep looking.”
“Aye, aye, Kimosabe.”
“I hate reporters,” Fitz growled.
“Hey, isn’t this People magazine?”
The magazine had slid out from underneath Griffin’s seat. Fitz reached over, snatched it off the floor and flung it into the back.
“I know, I know,” Griffin filled in for him. “You only buy it for the pictures.”
“Not the pictures,” Fitz said grumpily. “The crossword.”
They waited a few more minutes. When the news van still hadn’t appeared, Fitz slowly pulled back into the street. Traffic was light here, the neighborhood quiet. In the good news department, they had left most of the madness of the downtown scene behind. In the bad news department, it would take them that much longer to get to their destination. Ah well. Quality time for bonding, Griffin was sure. He flexed his biceps, then rolled his neck.
“Now, where were we?” Fitz asked, finally relaxing at the wheel and picking up the threads of their earlier conversation.
“One amnesic victim, two others who couldn’t see the rapist in the dark,” Griffin cued up. He turned toward Fitz curiously. “If you never had a physical description, how did you determine it was Como?”
“We didn’t right away. You have to understand, this wasn’t your typical investigation of a serial crime. Our first victim, Meg, was no help at all thanks to trauma-induced amnesia. She doesn’t recall the attack, the day of the attack, or for that matter most of her life leading up to the attack—”
“Most of her life?” Griffin interrupted, baffled. “I thought trauma-induced amnesia was forgetting the trauma. How did she leap from blanking one bad night to blanking her whole entire life?”
Fitz shrugged. “How the hell do I know? Maybe Meg didn’t like her whole life and this provided a good opportunity. Maybe her brain doesn’t like to differentiate. Beats me. But her doctor swears her amnesia is legit, her parents say her amnesia is legit and she seems to think her amnesia is legit. God knows I’ve interviewed Meg about two dozen times over the last year and she hasn’t slipped up yet. So if she’s faking it, she’s a damn good actress.”
“Huh,” Griffin said.
“Huh,” Fitz agreed. “Either way, Meg’s condition made investigating the initial rape complaint difficult. We tried her roommate, Vickie, but all she knew was that when she came home at two A.M., Meg was mysteriously bound to her bed. Then we turned to trace evidence, which was equally unenlightening—no tool marks, no hair, no fiber, no fingerprints. In fact, at the end of attack number one, all we had was one confused college c
oed, one traumatized roommate, ten strips of latex and one DNA sample that yielded no hits in the sex-offenders database.”
“You follow up on the latex?”
“Of course I followed up on the latex. Only damn lead I had. I made the lab analyze chemical compositions, do brand comparisons, batch comparisons, look at the amount of latex powder used on each strip. Frankly, I learned way too fucking much about latex. And none of it did us any good. The way it’s manufactured, there is no way to narrow down a batch or shipment number based on a handful of strips. Three weeks after the first attack, we had hit the wall. Case was dead, dead, and deader.”
“Oh yeah? What did Meg’s Uncle Vinnie have to say about that?”
Fitz promptly laughed. “So you’ve heard about him. Uncle Vinnie’s a funny guy. He came to my office one day. Wanted to know if I was holding back any information from the family. For example, I might already have a name in mind. And for instance, if I already had a name in mind, then he might have a name in mind, and his name might be able to take care of my name, without any taxpayer expense.”
“In his own way, Vinnie’s a helpful guy.”
“Yeah,” Fitz agreed, then promptly sighed. “We probably need to pay Uncle Vinnie a visit. In all honesty, I didn’t think of him as an advocate of sharpshooting. Rooftop snipers and courthouse assassinations attract a lot of attention, and I don’t think Uncle Vinnie likes to attract attention. Personally, I was betting that someday, Eddie would enter the prison showers and suffer a little incident. You know, one involving someone else’s prison shank and Eddie’s liver. But hey, live and learn.”