by Lisa Gardner
“He was scared.” Fitz played devil’s advocate.
“Why? The College Hill Rapist never attacked a man. And don’t you have a girlfriend, mother, sister, Mr. Murphy? Didn’t you think about them, worry about them? If you really thought Como wasn’t the guy, then that means the rapist is still out there. So why didn’t you come forward to help catch the real perpetrator and keep your girlfriend/sister/mother safe?”
“I don’t know,” Fitz said.
“Of course you don’t know, Mr. Murphy. That’s because it’s now been over a year since ten May. How sure can you be after a whole year? Do you remember what you ate that morning for breakfast? What were you wearing? What did you do for lunch? Who did you call? Who were your other customers? What video did you watch that night at work? That’s what I thought, Mr. Murphy, you don’t really remember that much at all about that night, do you?”
“Uh oh, I think I just wet myself,” Fitz intoned. “You’re right, I am nothing but miserable scum. On the other hand, those fine, magnificent detectives at the Providence Police Department are geniuses, men above men. And that Detective Fitzpatrick, he’s a stud. If I had a young, nubile sister, I would send her to him.”
“Yeah, but since he’s already given his best years to the job, I wouldn’t bother.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Fitz murmured. He took a last deep breath and seemed to come to grips with things. “Computerized records of a rental return. Who would’ve thought?”
“How sure are you of the time of the rape?”
“It’s not exact. Carol Rosen went to bed a little after ten. She thought she’d been asleep about a half an hour when she woke up to a sound in her bedroom. She didn’t look at the clock, though.”
“So even if Eddie was returning a video in Warwick, that doesn’t prove he didn’t later head into Providence.”
“It’s not concrete. But if you take this kid’s statement and you combine it with Eddie’s girlfriend, Tawnya, talking about Eddie’s favorite pastime being hanging out with her and their unborn child and watching a few movies . . .”
“Eddie starts looking sympathetic. A quiet family man. Given his fetish, you never checked with Blockbuster?”
“When we asked Eddie what he’d done that night, it was already six weeks later. He thought he might have rented a movie, which was his habit, but when he checked his credit card statement he hadn’t. No one thought about a returned movie as an alibi.”
“Live and learn,” Griffin said.
“The DNA evidence is still DNA evidence,” Fitz muttered. “God knows, if cops comprised juries, we would send him to the chair. But of course jury boxes are filled with, well, jurors. If Eddie starts looking good . . .”
“The outcome of the trial grows doubtful,” Griffin concluded for him. He was quiet for a moment. “You know, if this testimony looked really bad, D’Amato had another option. He could drop the charges pertaining to the second attack. Only try Eddie for Meg Pesaturo, Trisha Hayes and Jillian Hayes. He loses one count of first-degree sexual assault, but life in prison is still life in prison.”
“Carol Rosen wouldn’t like that much.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” Griffin said meaningfully.
“Even if D’Amato dropped the charges involving Carol so Eddie’s lawyer couldn’t get Teen Blockbuster in court,” Fitz said, “Sierra could still trot the kid out for the press like he’s doing now. That makes Eddie start looking good to the public, the ACLU or anyone else who gets off on pitying rapists. And that would piss all the women off. Hell, it pisses me off.”
“Makes things interesting. Do you think this is what Tawnya meant when she said something was going to come out at trial?”
“I don’t know. She’s been firm about Eddie’s innocence. Seems to me that if she knew about Teen Blockbuster, she would’ve been shouting this evidence from the rooftop. I had the impression she was talking about something on one of the women.”
“Is there something we should know about the women?” Griffin asked sharply.
“Hey, I spent a year with the women, and if there was something we should know, we would know it. Then again,” Fitz admitted sulkily, “I’m ‘refreshing’ my report on them as we speak.”
“It provides motive. Particularly for Mrs. Rosen and/or her family.”
“Assuming they knew about Teen Blockbuster.”
“Which gives us a starting point. How did Eddie Como’s lawyer hear about this kid? And how many other people knew about him as well? Assuming, of course, that the kid is telling the truth.”
Fitz sighed. “I knew this day was going to end badly. Okay, let’s talk it through. Scenario A is that Eddie’s lawyer finally got bright and decided to check Blockbuster just in case. Then . . .”
“Kid’s probably telling the truth, and never came forward on his own because he didn’t want to get involved, or was afraid to get involved, or all of the above.”
“All right, so in Scenario A we do have a witness. Which doesn’t mean we were wrong about what Eddie did after he dropped off the movie,” Fitz added testily, “but does make the trial more interesting and the victims/family/friends more anxious about the outcome.”
“Agreed.”
“Okay, then we have Scenario B, which is that Teen Blockbuster is coming forward now with his own agenda. What might that be?”
Griffin’s voice was dry. “Maybe he saw Tawnya. In her own words, she’s been beating away the boys since she was twelve. Maybe she decided Eddie needed a little insurance at trial and this was the best way of getting it. Of course, that means someone, probably the kid, had to be willing to mess with Blockbuster’s computer system to show a false transaction. I don’t know how believable that is.”
“Hey, did you see the kid’s face? A teenage boy with that many pimples could probably hack into the Pentagon.”
“In your own way, you’re a real Sherlock, Fitz.”
“I like to think so.”
“All right,” Griffin said. “If it was just the kid’s statement, I’d buy into Scenario B. I don’t like the computer record, though. That’s getting pretty elaborate to be a ruse.”
“So we’re back at Scenario A, where the kid is legit. Of course, we’ll have to pay him a visit to be sure.”
“Meaning Eddie Como may have a semblance of an alibi,” Griffin filled in.
“No way,” Fitz said firmly. “Even if the kid is right, it’s just a little confusion over time. So Eddie returned a video in Warwick before he continued on to Providence. There’s no rule that says rapists can’t run errands. Hell, I’ll bet even Ted Bundy tended to daily chores every now and then. But Eddie did it. DNA doesn’t lie, and we’ve got Eddie’s DNA. Once, twice, three times. The kid went up to bat, and we have struck him out.”
Griffin was quiet for a moment. He had a sense of déjà vu again. For the second time today, he was having a conversation where the evidence against Eddie Como appeared sketchy, except for the DNA. And then he finally got what was bothering him about this case. “Hey, Fitz,” he said. “How good was the DNA match with Eddie Como?”
“Huh?”
“How many points of the DNA matched? A four-point, eight-point, twelve-point match?”
“How the hell do I know? I’m not the guy in a lab coat. The report from the health department said the samples matched. A match is a match is a match.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Griffin, what the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m not sure yet. But tell me this: Are you absolutely positive that Eddie Como didn’t have a brother?”
CHAPTER 18
Jillian
JILLIAN GOT HOME LATE. NEARLY 9:00 P.M., A LATE END TO a too-long day that had left her jumpy and anxious. She’d checked the backseat of her car four times for interlopers since leaving Meg’s house. She’d walked everywhere with her car key sticking out like a weapon from her fisted hand. Once, she had even popped open her trunk, just to be sure. She was protecting herself fr
om overly aggressive reporters, she told herself, but knew that she was lying.
Arriving home, she was grateful to see lights blazing. Since the first phone call from Eddie Como nearly a year before, she had installed motion-sensitive floodlights in the front of her residence, as well as strategically placed spotlights that illuminated each bush and shrub. There would be no skulking around her East Greenwich home. The house also featured a new state-of-the-art home security system with a panic button in every room, and a remote her wheelchair-bound mother kept in her pocket. Jillian hadn’t quite convinced herself to buy a handgun yet, but had perhaps gone a little nuts procuring pepper spray. She slept with a canister beneath her pillow at night. Her mom had hers tucked in her bedside drawer. As Toppi had dryly observed, the Hayes women were ready for war.
Jillian pulled into her garage with her car lights on, closed the garage door first, then scrutinized the interior for trespassers before finally unlocking and opening her car door. She once more had her car key protruding like a blade from her fist. She would keep it that way until she entered her home and conducted a brief inspection of the kitchen.
Did you know that approximately one woman is raped every minute in the United States? Did you know that women are more likely to be raped in their own homes than anywhere else? Did you know that many intruders bypassed home security systems by simply ducking into the garage behind the woman’s car? Did you know that fewer than ten percent of reported rapists go to jail, meaning that an overwhelming number of rapists are still walking the streets, ready, willing and able to strike again?
Jillian knew these things. She read the books. She scrutinized the statistics. Knowledge was power. Know thy enemy. And don’t believe for a minute that for some special reason you are entitled to be safe.
Most nights, Jillian went to sleep with a giant knot in her chest. Most nights, around two A.M., she jerked awake with sweat pouring down her face and a scream ripe on her lips. It took some time to recover from these things. She had read that, too. In the meantime—and this was her own philosophy—that’s why they invented good makeup.
In the garage, Jillian drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, then raised her chin. Show time, she told herself, and carefully blanked her face as she walked through the door.
In the kitchen, she immediately encountered her mother’s live-in assistant, Toppi, who was leaning against the kitchen counter with her arms crossed disapprovingly over her chest.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jillian said. She dropped her purse on the desk in the kitchen, took off her jacket, fiddled with her keys.
“Uh huh.”
“How is she doing?”
“She lost her voice, not her mind,” Toppi said testily. “How do you think?”
“She saw the news?”
“Of course.”
“And the press?”
“Phone’s been ringing off the hook. At least until I disconnected it. Not like I was worried about your call getting through.” The edge returned to Toppi’s voice. She gave Jillian another stern look, and Jillian obediently hung her head.
At twenty-six, in a wildly colored skirt and with a mass of kinky brown hair, Toppi looked more like a traveling gypsy than a health-care professional. She was cheerful, energetic and, in theory, Jillian’s employee. Toppi, however, didn’t answer to anyone. Since she had started three years ago, she had turned their stale little household upside down and inside out. She knew not only what was best for Libby, but what was best for Jillian, Trish and the paperboy down the street. She always gave her opinion freely and with great enthusiasm. Jillian’s mother adored her. So had Trish.
“You hurt her,” Toppi said now. “I know you don’t mean to. I know you have other things on your mind. But you hurt her, Jillian. She’s already lost one daughter and when you disappear like this, she worries about you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not me who deserves the apology.”
“I’ll tell her, too.”
Toppi snorted. “Like she hasn’t already heard enough sorries from you. Come on, Jillian, she’s your mother. She doesn’t want your apology, she wants your presence. Come home for dinner. Read her a story. Or better yet, take her to see Trish.”
Jillian hung her car keys on the little hook. Then she picked up the mail and started sorting through. Bills, bills, bills. Junk mail. At least there was nothing from him. She didn’t even realize that was what had her so worried, until she came up empty. She set down the stack of mail, and Toppi took that as an opportunity to continue her attack.
“That’s where you’ve been, haven’t you? You’ve been visiting Trish.”
“I went there.”
“Your mom misses her, too.”
Jillian didn’t say anything.
“She can’t tell stories, Jillian. Surely you understand that. When someone dies, you want to relive their life, and what they meant to you. Share the moments, the laughter, keep them alive a little bit longer by talking about them. Your mom can’t do that out loud, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t doing it in her head.”
“I know.”
“If you would just sit with her, hold her hand. Let her look at you and tell you everything with her eyes. She does that, you know. In her mind, she is fluent, she does have a voice. If you would just be with her, it would allow her to pretend. She could tell you everything without saying a word. And I think it would mean the world to her.”
“I know, Toppi. I know.” Old ground. They had been covering it for twelve months now. And Toppi was right and Jillian was wrong, and she wanted to be a better person, but right now, she simply wasn’t. At work she had to function, meeting every client’s demand or she would lose her business. With Carol, Meg, the press, the police, she had to be capable, always saying and doing the right thing, because she was the leader and she couldn’t let anyone down. And then, when she got home . . .
When she got home, she had nothing left. She simply saw her mother, so small and frail and easy to damage. She saw Toppi, hired by Jillian so Trish wouldn’t feel guilty about going off to college. And the walls came tumbling down, the barriers eroded and Jillian wasn’t ready yet for the woman underneath. Eddie Como had changed her. He’d brought fear into her life, and she would’ve hated him for that alone. Of course, he’d also done so much worse.
“You bitch . . . I’m gonna get you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. I’m gonna get you, even if it’s from beyond the grave.”
Jillian opened the fridge. In spite of spending most of her day in a restaurant, she’d hardly eaten a thing. She eyed shelf after shelf crammed with food, but nothing sparked her appetite. Behind her, Toppi was frowning.
“Are you all right?” Toppi asked abruptly. “Lately . . . Jillian, are you all right?”
Jillian closed the door. She started to say, “Of course,” but then she saw the look in Toppi’s face and the blatant lie died on her lips. She felt her insides go hollow again. The ache, so close to the surface since her discussion with Sergeant Griffin, rose up and pressed back down on her with a heavy, heavy weight. She had lied to the sergeant this afternoon. She had told him she was certain, when in fact she hadn’t been certain of anything for a whole year.
“It’s been a big day,” she said tersely. “I just needed some time to absorb everything. Some time to just be . . . alone.”
“With Trish?”
“Something like that.”
“Your mom wanted to go there today. I was worried, though, about the press.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s okay, Jillian,” Toppi said gently. “She doesn’t blame you. I don’t blame you. You reserve that right for yourself.”
Jillian smiled. She’d heard this lecture before, too. Many times, really. Where was Trish? She leaned against the refrigerator, took a deep breath. “Does it feel different to you, Toppi? Him being dead. Does it feel different?”
Toppi shrugged. “I’m not losing any sleep over it, if tha
t’s what you mean. You lead a violent life, you’ll come to a violent end.”
“What goes around, comes around.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“I thought it would feel different,” Jillian said quietly. “I thought I’d be . . . relieved. Vindicated maybe. Triumphant. But I just feel . . . empty. And I . . . I didn’t know how to come home tonight. How to face Libby. I feel . . . I feel like I failed her.”
“You failed her?”
“Yes.” Jillian smiled again. “I’m in a weird mood. I’ve been in it all day. Not myself at all. I should go to bed.”
“Jillian . . . the police were here. Two plainclothes officers. They wanted to interview Libby until I explained to them that wouldn’t be happening. Is there something I should know?”
“No,” Jillian said honestly, then shook her head. “Maybe that’s the problem. I didn’t kill Eddie. I don’t know who killed Eddie. And frankly, that pisses me off. Someone else got to him before I had the chance. Someone else killed him, and in my fantasies I had reserved that honor for myself. Apparently, I’m even more bloodthirsty than I thought.”
“I’ve dreamed of killing him, too,” Toppi said.
Jillian looked up in surprise.
“Sure,” Toppi said. “Guy like that. After what he did to you, to your mom, to Trish. Death isn’t good enough for him. They should’ve hacked off his penis, then left him to live.”
“Castration doesn’t work with sex offenders,” Jillian said immediately. “In fact, studies suggest that surgical or chemical castration leads them to commit even more violent acts, such as homicide. Because it’s not about sex, it’s about power. Take away a sex offender’s penis, and he’ll simply substitute a knife.”
Toppi was looking at her strangely. “Jillian, you read too much.”
“I know. I can’t seem to stop.”
Toppi was quiet for a moment. “I don’t suppose that reading has included information on post-traumatic stress syndrome?”
“It has.”
“Because . . . because that kind of thing would be expected, you know. After what you’ve been through.”