The Survivors Club

by Lisa Gardner

“Was there sign of forced entry?” Jillian again.

  “Nah.”

  “That wasn’t in the news.”

  “Might not be a stranger-to-stranger crime.”

  Jillian frowned, then got it. “Meaning maybe someone this girl knew—an ex-boyfriend, say—staged this as one of the College Hill Rapist’s attacks to cover up what he had done.”

  “Could be.”

  “Did she have an ex-boyfriend?”

  “It’s only been eight hours. Ask me in another two.”

  “What about fingerprints?”

  “We took all sorts.”

  “DNA?”

  Fitz hesitated, shot Griffin a look. Griffin didn’t say anything; it was Fitz’s party after all. Jillian, however, was too fast for both of them. Her eyes widened. Her face paled. Very slowly, her arms wrapped around her waist.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Yeah,” Fitz said.

  “But the douche wasn’t in the news. None of the reports ever gave out that information.”

  Carol was picking up on things, looking around the room even more wildly. “Are you saying . . . Was it the same kind?”

  “Berkely and Johnson’s Disposable Douche with Country Flowers.” Fitz sighed again, then brought up his hand and rubbed his bleary face. Griffin had done much the same when Fitz had given him the news. The douche was the kicker. You could spin the scene so many ways, until you got to the douche.

  “But . . . but,” Meg said. She couldn’t seem to get beyond that. “ But . . . but . . .”

  “Let’s not rush to any conclusions,” Fitz warned.

  “There are still other possibilities,” Griffin said.

  “Like what?” Jillian cried.

  “Like maybe Eddie had a friend,” Fitz stated flatly. “Or maybe he liked to brag all about it. Just because we didn’t give out the details doesn’t mean that he didn’t.”

  “He always claimed he was innocent,” Carol said, her eyes still dashing all about. “You don’t say you’re innocent, and then brag all about your crime.”

  “Sure you do, happens all the time.”

  Meg had started rocking back and forth. “It’s not a friend. It’s not a friend. Oh God, oh God, oh God . . .”

  “Meg . . .” It was Jillian, her voice hard, trying to restore order.

  But Meg was beyond reason. Carol was beyond reason. Only Jillian remained tight-lipped and determined at the head of the table. Her gaze rose to meet Fitz’s, to meet Griffin’s.

  “Eddie Como lives,” she whispered helplessly. “Oh God, Eddie Como lives.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Griffin

  GRIFFIN AND FITZ STEPPED OUTSIDE THE RESTAURANT, and the first camera flash exploded in their faces.

  “Detective, Detective, can you comment on reports that last night’s victim was also tied up with latex strips—”

  “Was it true that a man matching Eddie Como’s description was seen running from the girl’s apartment—”

  “Sergeant, Sergeant, will the state police now be taking over the case—”

  “What does this latest attack mean for the case against Eddie Como—”

  “Detective, Detective—”

  “Is it true that someone used blood to scrawl ‘Eddie Como lives’ on the wall of the new victim’s—”

  “What about rumors that the man shot yesterday wasn’t really Como?”

  Fitz and Griffin finally forced their way to Fitz’s car. Technically, Griffin had arrived in his own vehicle, but given that it was parked another two blocks away on the crowded street, Fitz’s beat-up Taurus beckoned like a godsend. Griffin used his shoulder to muscle back one particularly aggressive reporter, got the passenger-side door open and ducked inside just as a new round of flashes erupted from the herd. A cry went up. The women were now trying to leave the restaurant. The whole pack shifted right and immediately surged forward.

  “Shit,” Fitz said.

  “Shit,” Griffin agreed.

  They abandoned the Taurus and grimly waded back into the fray.

  “Step aside, step aside, step aside.”

  “Police, coming through.”

  On the restaurant steps, Jillian stood shell-shocked in front of Carol and Meg as more lights flashed and heated questions started peppering the tiny space. She had probably thought their little rendezvous was safe from the press. In a private room in a restaurant that she knew. She probably hadn’t seen the morning news and the public flogging the local news affiliates had delivered to both the Providence Police and the so-called Survivors Club for their aggressive pursuit of Eddie Como. She probably hadn’t realized just yet, that last year’s press coverage had only been a warm-up. Now, as of this morning, was the real thing. She and Carol and Meg could run. But they could not hide.

  Jillian’s features had turned the color of ash. A moment later, however, she recovered her bearings and got her chin up. Behind her, Carol had raised a hand in a vain attempt to shield herself from the cameras. Meg simply looked dazed.

  “Ms. Hayes, Ms. Hayes, how do you respond to allegations that your group pressed too hard for Eddie Como’s arrest?”

  “Do you believe this newest attack proves Eddie’s innocence?”

  “What about the defense attorney’s witness? Mrs. Rosen, how sure are you of the time when you were attacked?”

  “Ms. Hayes, Ms. Hayes—”

  “Did you shoot Eddie?”

  “Hey, step aside. State police, don’t make me seize your tape.”

  In all honesty, Griffin couldn’t legally seize any of the reporters’ tapes, but evidently word of what he’d done to Maureen had gotten around, because three reporters immediately leapt back and snarled at him. He gave them his most charming smile. Then he flung out his massive arms and forced the rest of the jackals back four steps.

  Not an idiot, Jillian seized the opportunity to grab Meg’s and Carol’s hands and bolt from the steps.

  “Ms. Hayes, Ms. Hayes—”

  “Did you persecute an innocent man?”

  “What about his wife and baby?”

  “Hey, Miss Pesaturo, remember anything yet?”

  The Survivors Club disappeared around the corner and the last question dissipated into the crisp morning air. The press corps took a second to regroup. Then they went after Fitz and Griffin again.

  “Who’s leading the investigation?”

  “What will be your next steps?”

  “Is the real College Hill Rapist still out there? What is your advice for all of our young women?”

  “Press briefing at four,” Fitz barked. “Through official channels. For God’s sake, we’re just the working stiffs. Now get outta our way.”

  He and Griffin still had to battle their way back to Fitz’s car. This time, they both managed to get inside the Taurus and slam the doors. The reporters tapped on the window. Fitz gunned the engine.

  Not doubting for a moment that a Providence cop would run them over, the reporters finally dropped back. Fitz pulled away from the curb while simultaneously digging around his feet for a bottle of Tums. Griffin amused himself by picking up the newest edition of People magazine from the dash. Sure enough, Fitz had already inked in half of the crossword.

  “You’re fucked,” Griffin said conversationally.

  Fitz had gotten his Tums open. He started chomping. “At this rate, we’re all fucked.”

  “I’m not fucked. I just have a dead rape suspect. Same as yesterday.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. Eddie turns up innocent, we’re all fucked. The women’ll get heat for applying pressure. We’ll get heat for making the arrest. DA’ll get heat for building the case. State marshals will get heat for not better protecting one of their transports. And you, the lucky state, will get heat for not stepping in and keeping the rest of us from fucking up. So there.”

  “You’re an optimist, aren’t you, Fitz?”

  “Tried and true. Goddamn case.” Fitz’s features grew more haggard. “Goddamn case . . .”
>
  Griffin understood. He lapsed into silence, giving Fitz a chance to pull himself back together as they drove aimlessly around Federal Hill.

  “Dr. No,” Griffin said finally.

  “Dr. No?”

  “Forty-eight down. A four-letter James Bond movie. Dr. No.”

  Fitz grunted, felt around his shirt pocket, then handed Griffin a pen.

  “I’m honored,” Griffin assured him, and filled in the spaces.

  “You went to the Hayes residence,” Fitz said. “Last night.”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “A uniform caught the report on the scanner and let me know. I figured anything happening at Jillian’s place the same day as Como was shot couldn’t be good.”

  Fitz looked at him. “You just called her Jillian.”

  “Mmmm, yes.”

  “I haven’t met a statey yet who doesn’t use formal address when working a case. For God’s sake, you guys don’t even refer to each other by first names. You’re like a bunch of friggin’ Marines.”

  “I’m the black sheep?”

  “Don’t go getting any ideas, Griffin. This case is messy enough.”

  “You like her that much, Fitz?”

  For his answer, Fitz growled and flexed his hands on the wheel. “I am having a really bad day.”

  “We’re both barking up the wrong tree,” Griffin told him lightly. “Have you ever asked Jillian Hayes what she thinks of men in our profession? She’s not exactly an aspiring groupie. In fact, from what I can tell, she pretty much considers us incompetent morons who are at least indirectly responsible for her sister’s death. Hence her total openness and willingness to cooperate with us now.”

  Fitz grunted, which Griffin took as at least partial acknowledgment of Jillian’s point.

  “Serial crime is the worst,” Fitz grumbled after a moment. “Longer it goes on . . . more victims the perp claims . . . Yeah, maybe I should just be happy I can still find my pants in the morning, ’cause these days I’m sure as hell not finding much else.”

  “You’re riding the case hard,” Griffin said. “It’s the most a detective can do.”

  Fitz grunted again. “That incident at Jillian’s house, you think it was a prank? Some teenage kid armed with a can of red spray paint and up to no good?”

  “It’s East Greenwich’s call.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Griffin. Not after the night I’ve had.”

  Griffin was silent for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said finally, then held up a hand to ward off Fitz’s snarl. “Honest. The spray paint, graffiti, yeah that fits with a teenage kid. But loosening the bulbs in the motion-sensor lights . . .”

  “I wondered about that.”

  “When you were a kid going to egg someone’s house, did you unscrew the outdoor lights?” Griffin shrugged. “Couldn’t have done it at night either. The minute someone approached in the dark, the lights would go on. So that means it was done before, during the day, when no one would notice the lights being activated.”

  “Premeditation.”

  “Seems very thoughtful. For a kid.”

  “Ah shit . . .”

  “My turn. Off the record, just you and I. Last night, what are you thinking?”

  “Christ, I haven’t had enough sleep to think.” Fitz rubbed his face wearily, then belatedly grabbed the steering wheel as the car swerved across the street.

  “There’s still the DNA evidence.”

  “Yeah, that’s what bothers me so much. If it had been merely a circumstantial case, just the fact that he worked for the Blood Center and knew the victims, well then . . .”

  “You might have jumped too soon.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But you got DNA.”

  “We got good DNA. I went back after our little discussion yesterday evening. Grabbed the report. Given the high-profile nature of the case, we sent the samples out to an independent lab in Virginia in addition to the analysis done by the Department of Health. Both agree. DNA samples from Eddie Como match DNA samples taken from the sheets and the women in all fourteen sites tested. Meaning the likelihood of another person being responsible for the DNA present at the rape scenes is one in three hundred million times the population of the entire earth. That’s pretty damn conclusive if you ask me.”

  “Sounds pretty good to me, too,” Griffin agreed. “Do the women know this?”

  “D’Amato knows this. He’s the one who sent it out for the independent analysis, plus it was gonna be the linchpin of his case. He probably went over it with them.”

  “Meaning they must really, truly feel that they know Como was the attacker.”

  “Hey, I know Eddie was the attacker.”

  “Meaning we’re back to a very good motive for murder.”

  Fitz blew out a breath. “I hate this.”

  “I know.”

  “What kind of fucking case is this, anyway? You got me doubting my own victims, and the press has me doubting my own perp. I don’t like this. This is not what police work is supposed to be about. You gather the evidence, you put together a theory, you build a case, you nail the SOB. End of story. Eddie Como lives. Christ, it’s like being in the middle of a freak show.”

  “I’m not a big fan of it either.”

  “I think it’s an accomplice,” Fitz said abruptly.

  “Eddie talked?”

  “Yeah. Makes the most sense. Maybe in her own way, Tawnya’s right, and all she’s ever seen of him is good-boy Eddie. But we know for a fact that there’s also a bad-boy Eddie who was running a few more errands than returning a movie to Blockbuster’s one night. Now bad-boy Eddie has a need to live on the edge, explore the wild side. And maybe bad-boy Eddie also needs to talk about it later. To some other bad-boy friends that I’m betting Tawnya doesn’t even know about.”

  “Eddie Como led two lives.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time. And it fits.”

  Griffin nodded his head. “True.”

  “Now consider this. Maybe one of those bad-boy friends has spent the last year fantasizing about all those stories he heard from Eddie. Maybe he’s even bought a few bondage magazines and gotten heavy into the darker side of porn. But twelve months later, none of it gives him that same secret thrill. Then one day, he turns on the news and lo and behold, Eddie Como is dead. And it comes to him. He could do it. He knows everything from Eddie, so why not? He’ll become the College Hill Rapist and nobody will suspect a thing. The MO points to Eddie and Eddie can’t deny it because he’s dead. Eddie can’t even say, well I told everything to so-and-so, because again, Eddie’s dead. It’s the perfect cover.”

  Griffin regarded him steadily. “Why stop there, Fitz? Maybe the other guy has been fantasizing about the rapes for a year. Maybe he’s been thinking he’d like to try that. Except rather than wake up one morning and discover Eddie Como is dead, maybe he decided to ensure the perfect cover, by arranging Eddie’s death.”

  “Shit!” Fitz pounded the steering wheel, and very nearly drove them into a streetlight. “Of course! It’s Single White Female, except with, well, Freaking Violent Rapists. Why didn’t I think of it?”

  “Because it’s borderline preposterous,” Griffin said quietly.

  “I don’t care.”

  “I know. Which is the second problem.”

  “Huh?”

  “Off the record. Way off the record. Between two experienced detectives. You need the College Hill Rapist to be Eddie Como.”

  “Hey now—”

  Griffin shook his head. “I know what it’s like. I’ve been there myself. The internal pressure, the external pressure. The media isn’t wrong. At a certain point, we all have to get our man.”

  “You think I’m all wigged out because maybe I gave in to the public’s demand for justice and screwed a major investigation?”

  “No. I think you’re all wigged out because maybe by rushing the investigation, you missed Sylvia Blaire’s killer.”

  Fitz didn’
t say anything, which they both knew was a yes. If Eddie was innocent, if the real College Hill Rapist was still out there . . . then Fitz had screwed up, and probably the women had screwed up, and not only were two young girls dead, but Eddie Como, Jr., was orphaned for no reason, and someone, probably a victim or a family member, had been driven to murder for no reason. The cost, the carnage, grew very high.

  Which was one of the fundamental problems with a long-term investigation. At a certain point, the suspect had to be guilty, because everyone involved in the case couldn’t afford for it to be otherwise.

  Fitz had finally come around the block again and located Griffin’s car. He double-parked beside it, ignoring the irate honking that promptly sounded behind him.

  “One in three hundred million times the population of the earth,” Fitz said. “Think about that.”

  “I will.”

  “Hey, Griffin, how much money was missing from Jillian’s account?”

  Griffin hesitated, his hand on the door handle. “Twenty thousand.”

  “Enough to hire a shooter.”

  “Probably.” Griffin hesitated again. “Fitz, she’s not the only one. Dan Rosen is up to his eyebrows in hock. He took out a second mortgage on his home six months ago for a hundred thousand. Then last week, he liquidated one of his brokerage accounts. The financial guys are still trying to figure out where that money went.”

  Fitz closed his eyes. “And the day just keeps getting better and better.”

  “Nothing on the Pesaturo accounts yet,” Griffin said, “but I think we all know that they wouldn’t need money to hire an assassin.”

  “They already got Uncle Vinnie.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You really think one of them did it.”

  “I think it’s the answer that makes the most sense.”

  “Yeah.” Fitz nodded, sighed heavily, then went fishing for more Tums. “I like them, you know. You’re never supposed to get too close, but after the last year, the shit they’ve been through, the way they’ve held up, Jillian, Carol and Meg. They’re good people. I’ve been . . . proud . . . to work with them.”

  “We’ll get this figured out.”

  “Sure.” Fitz looked at him. He smiled, but it was bitter. “State’s involved now. And the state always gets their man, right, Griff? Not like us hardworking city cops who are only fit for drive-by shootings and other lowbrow gang-banging hissy fits. No, state detectives never make any wrong turns in an investigation. State detectives never succumb to pressure.”