The Survivors Club

by Lisa Gardner

  Fitz kept his tone gruff. “Mrs. Pesaturo, I need to speak with Meg.”

  Laurie Pesaturo faltered. From the driver’s seat, Griffin could hear the confusion in her staticky voice as she asked Fitz to wait one moment. It was several more minutes, however, before she was back on the line. “I’m sorry,” she said stiffly. “Meg seems to have stepped out.”

  “She’s not home?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  An even stiffer reply. “Not at the moment.”

  Fitz cut to the chase. “Mrs. Pesaturo, have you ever heard the name David Price?”

  A pause. “Detective, what is this about?”

  “Please, just answer the question, ma’am. Do you know, or have you ever known, a man named David Price?”

  “No.”

  “Meg has never mentioned his name?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Has he ever sent anything to your home? Perhaps called?”

  “If he had done that,” Laurie Pesaturo said crisply, “then I would know the name, wouldn’t I? Now I’m asking you again, Detective. What is this about?”

  “I would like you to find Meg, Mrs. Pesaturo. I’d like you to keep her close to home today. In fact, it might not be a bad time for your husband to take a day off, spend the afternoon with his family. Perhaps you could all pay Uncle Vinnie a visit, something like that.”

  “Detective . . .”

  “It’s just a precaution,” Fitz added quietly.

  Another pause. And then, “All right, Detective. Thank you for calling. Will you call again?”

  “I hope to touch base again this afternoon, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, we would appreciate that.”

  “Find Meg,” Fitz repeated, and then they were turning into the vast facility that comprised the ACI.

  Griffin found the red-brick admin building that housed the prison’s Special Investigation Unit as well as the state police’s ACI unit. He turned the car into a parking space, cut the ignition. He no longer looked at Fitz. He was focusing on the growing tension in his shoulders, that steadily building ringing in his ears. Breathe deep, release. Breathe deep, release.

  “Hey, Griffin baby, you think this is bad? Let me tell you about your wife . . .”

  Fitz got out of the car. After another moment, Griffin followed suit.

  The ACI “campus” spreads out over four hundred acres of land. With brick towers and barbed-wire fence visible from the freeway, the facility is actually half a dozen buildings nestled among half a dozen other government institutions. Nearly four thousand inmates reside in the ACI at any given time, and they generate enough internal and external complaints to employ six ACI special investigators and two state detectives full time. The special investigators are the first responders, handling all inmate-to-inmate complaints. In situations, however, where there are criminal charges—serious assault, murder for hire, drug trafficking, etc.—the state police are brought in to lead the inquiry.

  In between these cases, the state detectives spend their time receiving calls from various inmates looking to flip on various other inmates in return for various considerations. The detectives get plenty of calls. Very few of them, though, ever lead to anything.

  That’s what Griffin had been hoping for when he’d first learned of David Price’s outreach. Now Griffin wasn’t so sure anymore.

  Corporal Charpentier met Griffin and Fitz in the lobby of the admin building, then led them down the one flight of stairs to the state’s basement office. Griffin immediately wrinkled his nose at the stale air, while Fitz actually recoiled.

  “I know, I know,” Charpentier said. “In theory, the building is now asbestos-free. As the people actually inhaling, however . . .” He let the rest of the thought trail off. Griffin and Fitz got the picture. They were also both getting a headache.

  Charpentier came to the end of the hall, opened the door and led them into a tiny office. Two desks were set up face-to-face, topped with computer terminals, manila folders and a variety of paperwork. The remainder of the cramped space was taken up by two desk chairs and a wall of gunmetal-gray filing cabinets. No cheery office plants here. Just cream-painted cinder-block walls, gray industrial carpet and dim yellow lights. Police officers led such glamorous lives.

  “They’re bringing him down to the rear hall,” Charpentier said, taking a seat and gesturing for them to do the same. “They need another ten minutes.”

  “All right,” Griffin said. He didn’t sit. He didn’t want anyone to see that his body was beginning to twitch.

  “Personally, I don’t think he knows jack shit,” Charpentier added, then gave Griffin an appraising look.

  “How is he adapting?” Griffin asked.

  “Better than you’d think.” Charpentier leaned back, shrugged. “He’s young, he’s small, he’s a convicted pedophile. Frankly, he’s got jail ‘bitch’ written all over him. But I don’t know. I heard this story from one of the corrections officers. Six guys surrounded David Price in the prison showers. Were going to give him a little prison indoctrination, show him the way this place works for small, flabby-muscled baby-killers. Then David started talking. And talking and talking and talking. The guards were running to the scene, of course, expecting to find carnage, and . . . And David Price was now surrounded by six laughing guys, not hitting him, not pummeling him, but slapping him merrily on the back. Basically, in three minutes or less, he’d turned them into six gigantic, brand-new friends.” Charpentier shook his head. “I don’t get it myself, but in another year, he’ll be running the place, the world’s smallest prison warlord.”

  “He’s good with people,” Griffin said.

  Charpentier nodded, then slowly leaned forward. His gaze went from Griffin to Fitz to Griffin again. “You want to hear something wild? Assaults in maximum have doubled since David was assigned there. I was just looking at the stats again this morning. Code Blue nearly every day for the last nine months. It’s been open season over there. And the only new variable I can see is a man who could still buy his clothes from Garanimals.”

  “You think he’s responsible,” Fitz said bluntly.

  Charpentier shrugged. “We can’t prove anything. The guys always have their reasons for why they did what they did. But . . . David talks a lot. All the time. He’s like some frigging politician, working the yard, passing notes along the cell block. And the next thing you know, we’ll have trouble. A lot of trouble. Guys ending up in the infirmary impaled with sharp metal objects kind of trouble. I don’t know what the hell Price says or does, but there’s something scary about him.”

  “He’s very good with people,” Griffin said again.

  “Let me tell you about your wife . . .”

  The corporal’s phone rang. He picked it up. “All right. They’re ready for us.”

  ACI’s maximum-security building, aka Old Max, is a singularly impressive building. Built in 1878 from thick gray stone, the three-story structure is dominated by a gigantic white-painted center dome. In the old days, a light would burn in that dome, green light if everything was okay, red light if something was wrong. The folks in Providence would then send a horse and buggy to check things out.

  The prison also boasts one of the oldest working mechanical systems in the nation. Most prisons are electronic these days. Push a button to buzz open cell door A or cell block B. Old Max still has working levers for operating the thick steel doors. The inmates probably don’t appreciate these things, but it lights a fire under the history buffs.

  Mostly, Old Max has sheer charisma. The thick stone walls look like prison walls. The heavy, steel-constructed six-by-eight cells, stacked three tiers high and thirty-three cells long, look like prison cells. The black-painted steel doors, groaning open in front of you, snapping shut behind you, sound like prison doors. The steady assault of odors—sweat, urine, fresh paint, ammonia, BO—smell like prison odors. And the rest of the sounds—men shouting, TVs blaring, m
etal clinking, radios crackling, water running, men pissing—sound like prison sounds.

  Tens of thousands of men have passed through these gates in the past hundred years. Rapists, murderers, drug lords, Mafiosi, thieves. If these walls could talk, it wouldn’t be words at all. It would be screams.

  Griffin and Fitz signed in at the reception area. Civilians were required to pass through a metal detector. As members of law enforcement, however, they got to skip that honor, and they and Corporal Charpentier were immediately buzzed through a pair of gates into the main control area. Security was still tight. They had to wait for the gate to close behind them. Then a corrections officer who sat in an enclosed booth gestured for Griffin and Fitz to drop their badges into a metal swivel tray. The officer rotated the tray around to him, inspected the IDs, nodded once, dropped in two red visitor’s passes and swiveled the tray back around.

  Only after Griffin and Fitz had fastened the visitor’s passes to their shirts did the white-painted steel gate in front of them slowly slide back and allow them to proceed into the bullpen. There they stood again, waiting for the gate to close behind them before a new set of gates opened in front of them. Then they had finally, officially arrived into the rear hall of Old Max.

  Half a dozen guards sat around the red-tiled, white-painted space. Directly to the left was the door leading to the left wing of cells. Ahead of that was the lieutenant’s office, where two corrections officers were monitoring the bank of security cameras. Straight ahead was the corridor leading to the cafeteria. And to the right was a visiting room, used by corrections officers for official business. Today, David Price sat shackled inside. Two other corrections officers sat outside. They looked up at Griffin, nodded once, then made a big show of looking away.

  Did they think he was going to attack the kid again? Was this their way of saying that if he did, they didn’t care? It sounded like Price had been keeping the whole facility hopping, whether the officers could prove anything or not. Even in maximum, inmates got a good eight hours a day outside their cell—eating, working, seeing visitors, hanging in the yard, etc. In other words, plenty of opportunities to mingle with other inmates and plenty of time to cause trouble.

  This place really was too good for Price.

  Corporal Charpentier opened the door. Griffin and Fitz followed him in.

  Sitting in a tan prison-issued jumpsuit, David Price didn’t look like much. He never had, really. At five eight, one hundred and fifty pounds, he wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. Light brown hair, deep brown eyes, a softly rounded face that made him look seventeen when he was really closer to thirty-two. He wasn’t handsome, but he wasn’t ugly. A nice young man, that’s how women would classify him.

  Maybe that’s even what Cindy had said, that first day he’d stopped by: “Hey, Griffin, come meet our new neighbor, David Price. So what’s a nice young kid like you doing living in a place like this?”

  David Price was smiling at him.

  “You look good,” Price said. He didn’t seem to notice either Corporal Charpentier or Detective Fitz. They were irrelevant to the matters at hand. Griffin understood this, probably they did, too. God, please keep him from killing David Price.

  David was still smiling. A nice, friendly smile. The kind a kid might give his older brother. That was Price’s thing. He never challenged directly, particularly larger men. He’d play the sidekick, the loyal student, the good friend. He’d be respectful but never gushing. Complimentary but never insincere. And at first you simply dismissed him, but then he kind of grew on you, and the next thing you knew, you were looking forward to his company, even eager for his praise. And things started to shift. Until it was never really clear anymore who was in charge and who was the sidekick, but you didn’t think about it much anyway, because it seemed as if you were doing what you wanted to do, even if you didn’t really remember wanting to do those kinds of things before.

  Men liked David—he was the perfect unassuming friend. Women liked David—he was the ideal nonthreatening male companion. Children liked David—he was the favorite uncle they never had.

  Man, Griffin should’ve just killed him when he had the chance.

  “Have you replaced Cindy yet?” David asked conversationally. “Or is no other woman good enough? I imagine it can’t be that easy to find another soul mate.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Fitz snarled.

  “Tell us about Sylvia Blaire,” Griffin said. He pulled out a chair but didn’t take a seat.

  David cocked his head to the side. He wasn’t ready for business yet. Griffin hadn’t thought that he would be. “I miss having dinners at your house, you know. I used to love watching the two of you together. Cindy-n-Griffin, Griffin-n-Cindy. Gave me faith that there was something worthwhile in life. I hope someday I get to fall in love like that, too.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Hey now, Griff, that’s sorta rude, don’t you think?”

  “I want the name of the man who raped and murdered Sylvia Blaire.” Griffin placed his hands on the table and leaned forward pointedly.

  David merely smiled again and held up his shackled hands. “Hey now, no need to get physical, Griff. I’m quite helpless. Can’t you see?” Another one of those goddamn sugary smiles.

  Griffin’s voice rose in spite of himself. “Give me the name.”

  Instead, David looked at Fitz. “You don’t look the type to bail a guy out,” he said matter-of-factly. “Now Mike Waters, he was a guy. Leapt forward and took the hit, so to speak. And your buddy Griff here, he can pack a punch. Have you ever seen the pictures of Mike’s face?” The kid let out a low whistle. “You would’ve thought he’d gone ten rounds with Tyson. I imagine he got some first-rate plastic surgery when all was said and done, and probably at taxpayer expense. You might want to bear that in mind, Mr. Providence Detective. You look like you could use a little plastic surgery, or at least some liposuction here and there. And there and here. Say, I don’t suppose french fries are your favorite food or anything?”

  “Give us the fucking name,” Fitz snarled.

  David sighed. Blatant hostility had always bored him. He returned to Griffin. “I thought you’d at least write.”

  “You’re going to tell us what you know,” Griffin said quietly. “We both know that you will. Otherwise, you can’t have any fun.”

  “Did you get my letters?”

  Griffin shut up. He should’ve done this sooner. For David to play his game, he had to have input. Take away your participation, and there was nothing left for him to manipulate. No more happy reindeer games. No more jolly schoolboy fun.

  “It’s not so bad in here, you know,” David said, switching strategies. “Food’s actually pretty good. I gather the fuckers in charge have figured out it’s best to make sure the animals in the zoo are well fed. Keeps us from sharpening our fangs on one another—or maybe on them. I’m learning inner peace through quality time in a lotus position, and wouldn’t you know it, I have a natural gift for carpentry. I know, I’ll make you a table, Griff. Carve your initials in the base. For old times’ sake. Come on, any size.”

  Fitz opened his mouth. Griffin shot him a look, and the detective frowned but fell silent.

  “Ooooh, just like a trained seal,” David said. He was smiling joyfully, all smooth round cheeks and big brown eyes. Back with his favorite kind of audience, he was happy. He was horrible. Jesus Christ, he looked like he was barely sixteen.

  “Who raped and murdered Sylvia Blaire?” Griffin said quietly.

  “Eddie Como.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “Griff, buddy, I never met Eddie. That’s what I keep saying. It’s his roommate, Jimmy Woods. We’ve spent some time together here in good ol’ Max.”

  “I’m not interested in your patsy, David. I want to know about the real College Hill Rapist. Tell me, which one of you thought of the douche?”

  For the first time, Price faltered. He disguised it well, recovering swiftly and smiling again.
On his lap, however, his fingers were beginning to fidget with his shackles. “You like this case, don’t you, Griffin? It’s complicated. Clever. You always appreciated that. Which one of the three women do you think hired Eddie Como’s assassin? Or was it a member of their families? Personally, I got my money on the cold one. What’s her name? Oh yeah, Jillian Hayes.”

  “David, you have ten seconds to say something useful, or we’re all walking out that door. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six—”

  “I know who the real College Hill Rapist is.”

  Griffin shrugged. “I don’t believe you. Five, four, three—”

  “Hey, hey, hey, don’t be too hasty, man. Haven’t all those months of therapy taught you anything? Slow it down. Take it easy. It wasn’t my idea to yank your chain. He came to me.”

  Griffin finally paused. “The College Hill Rapist came to you?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  Griffin already knew he was lying. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he heard about my rep. Maybe he just desired a decent conversationalist. I can’t read some guy’s fucking mind. But he came to me, and we, uh, we talked about a few things.”

  “How to commit a crime?”

  “We both had an interest.”

  “How to fuck with the police.”

  David Price smiled. “Oh yeah. We both had an interest.”

  “Congratulations, Price,” Fitz spoke up. “You just became an accessory to multiple rapes and murders. Now you’re going to have to keep talking just to save your dumb-ass hide.”

  David shot the detective a look of disdain. “Save my ass from what? The life in prison I’m already serving? Hey, buddy, haven’t you heard about me? I’m the guy who befriends little kids on the playground. I hand them some candy, I push them on the swings. And then I take them home, down into my soundproofed basement, where I strip off their cute little clothes and—”

  “You still haven’t said anything new yet,” Griffin said. “Three, two, one—”

  “He puts Como’s little swimmers into each douche.”