The Survivors Club

by Lisa Gardner

  “Fuck it, David. I told you that.”

  “It was my idea,” David said seriously. “That DNA is troubling stuff. Hell, that’s why I had to bury my pretty treats. Let decomposition do its nasty work. And then it occurred to me. DNA so likes to be up there in those deep, dark places . . . Why not let it have its way, man? Why not go with the flow? Don’t hide DNA, own it. Man, bring it to the fucking game.”

  Griffin stood up. “Thanks for repeating my own theory back to me. You’re a shithead, David. Always have been. Always will be.”

  Griffin headed for the door. And behind him, David Price said, “He knew Eddie Como. Eddie probably didn’t know him. But he met the great Eddie Como. Met him one afternoon, probably for no more than ten minutes, just enough time for poor dumb Eddie to mention that he worked for the blood center. After that, my friend, his fate was sealed. The College Hill Rapist had his man.”

  Griffin turned slowly. “He stalked Eddie Como?”

  “He did his homework.”

  “And what, stole old condoms out of Eddie’s trash can?”

  David had that sly look back on his face. “I won’t answer that. But it is the key question, isn’t it? How do you steal a man’s mambo jambo? It’s not like we lose track of it.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “What’s so hard to believe, Griff? That I’d help someone attack young college coeds? Or that you still can’t do a thing to stop us? You got a serial rapist on the loose, Detective Sergeant Roan Griffin. Someone who looks like Eddie Como, sounds like Eddie Como and tests as Eddie Como. In other words, you have absolutely no fucking idea who he really is. So you sit down. And you listen up. Because I do know his goddamn name, and you’re going to give me something for it. You’re going to give me whatever I want, or you’ll get to see my face on the five o’clock news, telling the frightened public how some overpumped, overranked state trooper is willfully disregarding critical evidence which could stop the bastard murdering their precious daughters. Now how do you like that?”

  Griffin came forward. Then he took another step, and another step. Breathe deep, part of his mind said. The rest of him didn’t give a flying fuck. His hands were fisted, his muscles were tensed and his face was mean. He should’ve killed David that day. He should’ve pounded his own friends into the ground, just so he could’ve gotten to David and ripped off his too-cute, too-smart, lying head.

  “You’re not getting out,” he said harshly. “No matter what you say, you’re not getting out.”

  “College coeds are dying—”

  “Ten kids are dead!”

  “I can guarantee you a new body by tonight. Count on it.”

  “And I can guarantee you a transfer to Super Max. No more carpentry classes, yoga or cafeteria hours. Just the rest of your life, rotting alone in a six-by-eight cell.”

  “Do you want to punish me, Detective Sergeant, or do you want to stop the man preying on pretty brunettes? Think carefully before you answer. The parents of all the College Hill Rapist’s future victims breathlessly await your reply.”

  “You little fucker—” Fitz snarled.

  Impatiently, David cut him off. “Six o’clock,” he said crisply, eyes on Griffin’s face. “Standard hardship leave for three hours. I get to have street clothes, you get to put me in shackles. I get to go into the outside world, you get to supervise. That’s the deal.”

  “No.”

  “Oh yes. Or I go straight to the press and tell them that the same detective who tried to break my face eighteen months ago, now won’t protect their precious little girls out of spite. Think about it, man. You don’t deal with me, and another girl dies. You don’t deal with me, and the public will eat you for dinner.” David glanced at the overhead clock. “It’s ten A.M. now. You have until noon to decide.”

  “We don’t make deals with pedophiles.”

  “Sure you do. You make deals with whoever has the fucking information. Now ask the question, Griff. Come on, man. Ask me what you really need to know.” David leaned forward. He stared up at Griffin with that wide beaming smile, that round choirboy face.

  “You didn’t hurt her,” Griffin said abruptly.

  David Price blinked.

  “You like to think you did. But you didn’t. Cindy was better than you, David. Let’s face it. She was better than me.”

  “Ask the goddamn question!” David barked.

  “Why do you want a three-hour leave, you little psychopathic shit?”

  David finally sat back. For the first time since the interview started, he appeared satisfied. He glanced at Fitz, he glanced at Charpentier and then he looked at Griffin. “I want to see my daughter. No prison suits, no interview rooms. Just her and I, face-to-face. It’s probably the only time I’m ever going to see her, so I want it to be good. Let’s face it, man, her grandparents are never bringing her here.”

  “Her grandparents?”

  “Tom and Laurie Pesaturo. Or didn’t Meg tell you? Molly Pesaturo is my kid. See, I didn’t kill all the little girls, Griff. Some I let breed.”

  Five minutes later, Griffin, Fitz and Charpentier were back in the parking lot. They were all taking in huge lungfuls of crisp, outside air. Later, they would shower until their skin was raw.

  “He doesn’t get out,” Griffin said flatly. “Not at six P.M., not at any time, not for three hours, not for any hours. The man doesn’t get out, period!”

  Griffin’s arms were moving on their own volition, his left leg twitching, ears ringing. Yeah, ringing, ringing, ringing. Fuck it all, he might as well go crackers. Insanity was probably what it took to deal with the likes of David Price. He turned on Charpentier.

  “I want lists, lots of lists. Names of anyone who visited, wrote, called David Price. Names of all the inmates who could’ve come into contact with David in any way, shape or form. Names of all known friends, families and associates of said inmates, especially those with a criminal past. And then I want a list of which of those inmates have recently been released. Got it?”

  “It’s going to take some time,” Charpentier said grimly.

  “You have two hours. Commandeer whatever resources you need.”

  Charpentier nodded. He got into his car and headed for his dank basement office. That left Griffin and Fitz alone in the parking lot.

  “He doesn’t get out,” Griffin said again.

  “We’ll work on it.”

  “He doesn’t get out!”

  “Then find the fucking rapist!”

  “Then I fucking will!” Griffin thumped the top of his Ford Taurus. Fitz pounded it right back.

  Griffin yanked open the driver’s-side door. “He’s got a plan.”

  “No shit.”

  “He’s thought of this. Set it all in motion. Don’t be deceived by those peach-fuzz cheeks. He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about his daughter. He has something else in mind.”

  “You think?”

  “He doesn’t get out,” Griffin said again. “Not now, not ever.” But as they pulled out of the maximum-security parking lot, they both saw the white Channel 10 news van roll in.

  CHAPTER 32

  Molly

  FITZ DROVE. GRIFFIN WORKED THE PHONE. HE DIALED Waters first.

  “Here’s the deal. David Price is claiming he knows who the real College Hill Rapist is, and he’ll give us that information in return for a personal visit with his long-lost daughter, Molly Pesaturo. We have two hours to decide.”

  “Huh?”

  “No kidding. Look, are you still in Cranston?”

  “Trolling the bars as we speak.”

  “Perfect. Get a picture of Tawnya Clemente. Fuck Eddie Como. Start shopping her picture around.”

  “Tawnya’s picture? You think the loyal girlfriend is in on this?”

  “Half of everything David says is a lie, but he’s right about one thing: Eddie Como was innocent. The real College Hill Rapist set him up, used him as a patsy to commit the perfect serial crime. Now, to do that, the real rap
ist had to get Eddie’s semen from somewhere. Tawnya’s the logical place to start.”

  “She conspired against the father of her child?”

  “Fifty-million-dollar lawsuit, Mike. Think about it. All she has to do is sacrifice one guy. Then she—and Eddie, Jr.—never have to worry about anything, ever again.”

  “Well, when you put it that way . . .” Waters said.

  “Yeah. Now, remember, you got two hours. Have fun!”

  Griffin hit end, then promptly dialed the next number. Thirty seconds later, he had Sergeant Napoleon on the phone.

  “Sergeant! I’m calling on behalf of Detective Fitzpatrick. He’d like you to run a few tests.”

  “Uh oh,” Napoleon said.

  Griffin pretended he hadn’t heard him. “Detective Fitzpatrick has brilliantly deduced the source of the Eddie Como DNA. He believes Como’s semen was injected into the rape victims via the douche. What do you think?”

  There was a moment of silence. Fitz was rolling his eyes at the thick praise. Then Napoleon said, “Well, shit on a stick. That makes some sense.”

  “It could be done?”

  “Sure. You inject the semen into the douche, give the douche a little shake, then expel the contents into the body cavities.The resulting linen stains, vaginal swabs, etc., would test the same as if the douche was being used to flush the semen out. Of course, that assumes the rapist did use a condom, otherwise we’d pick up a second DNA sample as well.”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he used a condom. You still have the douche bags in evidence?”

  “Well, you know us Providence detectives. Every now and then we do practice proper evidence handling and storage.”

  “Really? Huh. Well, so much for that rumor. Okay, so you could test the inside contents of the bag, right? If there’s a DNA sample inside the douche, then definitely . . .”

  “Oh yeah. I’ll look into it. For Detective Fitz, of course.”

  “One last question. You said the semen sample would have to be fresh for it to test positive for spermatozoa. What about if it had been frozen?”

  “You mean frozen at time of ejaculation, then thawed at time of use?”

  “Okay.”

  “Sure,” Napoleon answered promptly. “As long as the semen sample was frozen within seventy-two hours, the spermatozoa would be preserved until thawed again. Sperm banks do it all the time.” Then Napoleon got the full implication. “Ooooh,” he said. “How interesting. And the dead come back to life.”

  “And the dead come back to life,” Griffin agreed blackly. Then muttered, “Even from beyond the grave . . . Thanks, Sergeant. Fitz’ll be in touch.”

  He flipped shut his phone just in time for Fitz to say, “We’re in Cranston. Meg or Tawnya? Who do you want to hit first?”

  “Meg,” Griffin said immediately. “I want to give Detective Waters time to complete his inquiry into Tawnya’s social life. With any luck, he’ll provide the ammo, then we’ll go in for the kill.”

  Fitz glanced over at him somberly. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

  “No. But just for that, I’ll let you go after her first.”

  “Ah, I just love this job!”

  “Come two hours, remember that, Fitz. Remember that.”

  Griffin and Fitz pulled in front of the Pesaturo house shortly before ten-thirty. Already down to an hour and a half and they’d barely made progress. Why, then, Griffin thought, was he surprised to knock on the Pesaturos’ door and have Jillian Hayes answer it.

  “Sergeant,” she started.

  He didn’t give her time to finish. He shouldered past her and stormed down the tiny hall toward the back family room as Fitz followed suit. “I want to speak with Meg. Now!”

  “She’s not here,” Jillian called out behind them, scrambling to catch up.

  “Where is she?”

  Griffin burst into the family room. Meg’s parents, Tom and Laurie, were sitting side by side on the sofa. Tom appeared sullen, Laurie had her arms wrapped protectively around Molly and had obviously been crying. Sitting opposite them were Toppi and Libby Hayes. One big happy family. Christ, just what he and Fitz needed.

  He whirled on Jillian, who was apparently the only speaking member of the party. “Where is Meg?” he demanded again.

  “We don’t know.”

  “You lost her?”

  “She . . . We don’t know.”

  Griffin thought of a word, remembered that Molly was in the room, and bit it back. He homed in on the Pesaturos, jerking his head at their granddaughter. “Get her out of the room.”

  “I don’t really think—” Laurie started vaguely.

  “Get her out of the room!”

  “I’ll do it.” Toppi stood, crossing over to take Molly’s hand, but not before giving Griffin a reproachful look. He glared right back at her. No more friendly Sergeant Griffin. Friendly Sergeant Griffin had gotten royally screwed. Now it was time to put the fear of God into these folks.

  “You,” he gestured at Jillian, who had her chin up and her feet planted for battle. “If you want to remain in this room—”

  “I am a guest of the Pesaturos. They asked me to come here—”

  “If you want to remain in this room—”

  “Probably because they knew you were going to be pigheaded and hostile about this.”

  “I will arrest you for obstruction of justice.”

  She snorted. “Oh get over it. We’re all worried about Meg.”

  “Jillian, sit down and shut up. The Pesaturos have some talking to do, and unless you’re their attorney, I don’t want to hear a single peep out of you.”

  Jillian gave him a look. But after another moment, she crossed stiffly to the wingback chair next to her mother. She sat down. She seemed to shut up. Just in time for Libby Hayes to stick out her tongue at him. Oh for heaven’s sake . . .

  “You.” Griffin stabbed his finger at Tom, because he couldn’t keep yelling while looking at Laurie Pesaturo’s tearstained face. “Start talking.”

  “It was a long time ago. We didn’t think it was relevant—”

  “Your daughter had a relationship with a known pedophile, and you didn’t think it was relevant?”

  “The man’s behind bars!”

  “No thanks to you, and not in another few hours!”

  Tom fell silent. All at once, his massive shoulders slumped. He appeared miserable. “I swear to God, Sergeant, we didn’t know. We never dreamed of a connection until you called . . . Oh God, Meg . . .”

  Griffin and Fitz gave him a moment. Griffin needed to count to ten anyway. So much ringing in his ears. He knew if he looked down now, his hands would be shaking. If he tried to sit, his knee would jog up and down with a mind of its own. Reel it in, reel it in. Whatever these people had done, they were suffering for it now. And he needed to play it cool a little longer.

  “Maybe if you started from the beginning,” Jillian spoke up quietly. She had obviously been briefed on the situation, and she was gazing at Tom and Laurie compassionately. Griffin resented that. He didn’t know why, but he did.

  “Meg was only thirteen,” Laurie murmured. “We had no idea. None at all. Not until I found her one day, curled up weeping on the bathroom floor. She’d just taken a pregnancy test and it was positive. We didn’t even know she was dating.”

  “How did Meg meet Price?” Fitz asked. Griffin turned toward Tom, though he already knew the answer. His former next-door neighbor, the electrician . . .

  “Work,” Tom said predictably. “We were on the same job, wiring a new CVS. He was such a nice kid. I remember thinking that. What a nice kid. Did good work, too. And he mentioned one day that he didn’t have any family. Parents were dead, I don’t remember why. And I felt kinda bad for him. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-four, twenty-five. So I started inviting him over for dinner.”

  “He was always so polite,” Laurie murmured. She couldn’t seem to get over that. “Please, thank you, yes ma’am. Even helped with the dish
es.” She finally looked up. “I knew Meg had a crush on him. He was a nice-looking young man and of course at thirteen, she was beginning to notice that sort of thing. But I thought of it as a schoolgirl’s crush. The kind you have on your father’s hired hand, or the bag boy at the grocery store. She was still so young. I never imagined . . .”

  “You never saw them together?” Fitz again.

  Both shook their heads. “Never,” Tom said. “She snuck out at night. I didn’t even know she’d think of doing such a thing. I’m sure he must’ve suggested it to her. I’m telling you, she’d never been a problem. She was a good girl, got good grades. Oh Meg . . .”

  “So you found out she was pregnant,” Griffin fast-forwarded. “She tell you he was the father?”

  “She was upset,” Laurie said. “She told us everything.”

  “Did you confront him?”

  Tom made a small, uncomfortable motion that led Griffin to understand there had been a confrontation, but it hadn’t involved much talking. Tom’s fists and David’s face, however, had spent some quality time together. Griffin understood completely.

  “If Meg was only thirteen,” Fitz said, “that’s statutory rape. Why didn’t you file a report? Get the kid arrested?”

  Tom and Laurie exchanged miserable glances. “We were embarrassed,” Laurie said softly. “Meg was humiliated—and frightened and confused and heartbroken. She seemed to think she really loved him. According to her, he’d even proposed marriage. We just . . .” She took a deep breath, got herself together. “It all seemed a horrible mistake. We hadn’t been paying enough attention. Meg didn’t show good judgment. Going to the police would just bring it all out in the open and make things worse. You have to understand, we didn’t know David had done this kind of thing before, or have the wildest idea what he’d go on to do next. Seducing a thirteen-year-old girl isn’t right, but still . . . We never would’ve guessed.” She looked at Griffin earnestly. “Please, you have to believe us. We never would’ve guessed.”

  “You covered it up,” Griffin said bluntly, harshly. She wanted forgiveness from him? What about the ten other families David had victimized?