Providence Rag

by Bruce DeSilva

  “Nowhere near the same amount of rage, though,” Mulligan said. “Sue Ashcroft was stabbed only five times.”

  “We figured he was escalating.”

  “You took Diggs’s confession, right?”

  “Yeah. Me and Mello.”

  “He confessed to the Medeiros and Stuart murders, but not the attack on Ashcroft?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  “We got the feeling he was embarrassed about that one because he didn’t finish her off.”

  “No shit?”

  “That’s how it seemed, yeah.”

  “Tell me about the confession.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What was his demeanor?”

  “Boastful.”

  “Run it down for me.”

  “We put him in an interrogation room, chained him to a table, and asked him again if he wanted a lawyer. He said he didn’t.”

  “A teenager can make that decision for himself?”

  “Long as he understands his rights when they’re explained to him, yeah.”

  “Then what?”

  “We asked if he wanted his parents present. He said no way. He actually begged us not to call his mother. We did anyway, of course. Got to notify the parents when you arrest a juvenile. But between you and me, we took our sweet time about it.”

  “You interrogated him before they got there?”

  “We don’t like to question a teenager with the parents in the room if we can avoid it. The kid usually clams up in front of Mom and Dad. And a lot of times, when we ask the kid a question, the parents answer it. So, yeah, we did.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Back then, yeah. There’s still no law against it, but now it would be a violation of the state’s judicial guidelines unless the parents agree to it. That’s how it is in most states now.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I told Diggs we had him dead to rights. Fingerprints at the two murder scenes. Trophies from the victims in his garden shed. No way he was gonna talk his way out of it. Mello told him that if he came clean about what he’d done, the judge might go easier on him at sentencing.”

  “Which was a lie?”

  “Oh, hell yeah.… Diggs stared at us for a minute, thinking it over. Then he nodded and started talking. He told us how he stalked his victims. How he broke into their houses. Where he found the knives in their kitchens. How he broke knife blades off inside of Becky Medeiros and one of the Stuart kids. And Mulligan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The fucker was smiling the whole time, like he enjoyed reliving it. Couple of times he even laughed. Spilled details for nearly two hours before his parents showed up.”

  “They bring a lawyer?”

  “Not then, no.”

  “Did he say why he killed those people?”

  “We were about to get into that when his mother and father stormed in.”

  “So then what happened?”

  “Soon as they barreled through the door, he started bawlin’. Told them he’d never hurt anyone. I got the feeling he was more afraid of his mother than he was of us. He claimed the only reason we’d arrested him was that he was black. Accused us of calling him nigger and beating him with a phone book to make him confess.”

  “Did you?”

  “Call him nigger? Of course not. Beat him? We wanted to, believe you me. Would have loved to kick the smile off that murdering sonovabitch’s face. But we didn’t. We were completely professional. No way we were gonna risk screwing up this interrogation.”

  “But you did,” Mulligan said. The trial judge had thrown out the confession on a technicality the reporter had never fully understood.

  “Not really,” Jennings said. “The judge knew the confession was good, but he concocted a bullshit reason to toss it.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “The physical evidence was more than we needed to convict, so he didn’t want to risk having some bleeding-heart liberal appeals court overturn the verdict by ruling that the kid hadn’t understood his rights or some such bullshit.”

  “Where’d you hear that?” Mulligan asked.

  “From the prosecutor.”

  “Roberts?”

  “Yeah. He said the judge explained it to him in confidence, so you can’t put that part in the paper.”

  So no one but the judge, the police, the prosecutor, and Diggs’s trial lawyer, Mulligan realized, had ever heard Diggs’s confession.

  “The interrogation was videotaped?”

  “It was.”

  “Any way I can get a look at it?”

  “I’ll have to think about that.”

  “You have a copy?”

  “I do. Made copies of the murder books too. Took it all with me when I left the force.”

  “Anything in them that didn’t come out at the trials?”

  “Oh, yeah. Lots of ugly, perverted stuff. Since the fingerprints and the trophies he kept from his victims were all we needed for a conviction, the prosecutor left out some of the sordid details to spare the victims’ families. I had it in the back of my mind that I might write a book about the case someday, but I’m thinking now that’s never gonna happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mary doesn’t want me reliving it all over again. I gotta admit she has a point.”

  “May as well give everything to me, then.”

  “You’d have to give me a real good reason.”

  Mulligan sipped his beer and thought about how he should put this.

  “I’m worried,” he said, “that Diggs is going to get out.”

  “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me.”

  “Wish I were.”

  “What the fuck’s going on, Mulligan?”

  “You’ve heard the rumors about the state faking charges to keep Diggs inside?”

  “Yeah. Of course I have.”

  “It’s probably true. And now somebody’s looking into it.”

  “What? Who?”

  “I’m not prepared to say.”

  “It’s the goddamned ACLU, isn’t it?”

  “Sorry, but I can’t get into that.”

  “Those sons of bitches.”

  Mulligan didn’t say anything. He figured it was best not to straighten Jennings out.

  “So you’re looking for a legal way to keep Diggs locked up?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, okay, then. I doubt I have anything that will help, but if you come over to the house for lunch Saturday, I’ll walk you through what I’ve got.”

  “Not till Saturday?”

  “Mary’s leaving town Friday night,” Jennings said. “Gonna spend the weekend with her brother in Nashua. I don’t want her listening in on our conversation.”

  Mary was Connie Stuart’s twin sister. Andy had grown close to her during the murder investigation, and he’d married the younger woman three years after Diggs was sent to prison.

  It was Mary, Mulligan remembered, who had discovered her sister’s body.

  28

  Mulligan was on his way back to Providence when the theme from The Godfather, his ring tone for Zerilli, started playing in his shirt pocket.

  “Mulligan.”

  “Get your ass over here right fuckin’ now.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “There sure in hell is.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right over.”

  Twenty minutes later, he pushed through the door and found the bookie, scowling and arms crossed, standing by the candy counter.

  “I give you the finest fuckin’ cigars in the world, no charge, and this is the thanks I get?”

  “What are you talking about, Whoosh?”

  “What am I talking about? What this goddam buzzard’s talkin’ about is the problem.”

  Right on cue, Larry Bird said it. “Theeeeee Yankees win!”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Forgot to mention this when you pawned the shitbag off on me,
did you?”

  “Guess I did.”

  “You got any fuckin’ idea how many customers I lost the last week because of you? Just this afternoon Marty Kelley and his wife came in, heard the bird squawk his bullshit, turned around, and walked right the hell out.”

  “I’m sorry, Whoosh.”

  “Sorry? That’s all you got to say?”

  “I’m very, very sorry.”

  “Goddammit, Mulligan. Get this muthafucking Yankees lover out of my store right now.”

  “Okay, okay.… But first, can I collect what I won on the Bruins?”

  Zerilli grimaced, pulled a thick wad from his pocket, and peeled off three fifty-dollar bills.

  “And before you go, you can clean up the bird shit he kicked all over the fuckin’ counter.”

  29

  Mason pushed through the front door of Ward’s Public House on Post Road in Warwick and scanned the room. The bar stools were empty. Five booths were occupied by families, the fathers dining on burgers, the women picking at salads, and the kids wolfing something that looked like chicken nuggets. A guy with Twisted Sister hair sat alone in another booth, a black guitar case by his side and a bottle of Heineken in his fist.

  None of them looked as though they could be Tyrone Robinson, so Mason took a seat at the bar. He ordered a Red Stripe, which he was developing a taste for, and settled down to wait. After the beer was delivered, he slid his notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped through his notes, not that there was anything worthwhile in them. So far, he’d talked to nine former prison guards and gotten nothing useful. Reviewing the notes was just something to do.

  “Hey, man,” someone called out. “You the reporter dude?”

  Mason turned and saw Twisted Sister waving at him. He grabbed his beer, walked over, and slid into the booth.

  “Tyrone Robinson, I presume.”

  “Presumed otherwise when you came in.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Tyrone’s a family name,” he said. “My grandma was a big fan of some old-timey movie dude.”

  “Tyrone Power?”

  “Yeah, him. She slapped the name on my old man, and he passed it down to me. I don’t use it, though. I go by ‘Ty.’”

  “Ready for another beer?” Mason asked.

  “You buyin’?”

  “Sure.”

  “Hey, Donnie,” Ty called out. “Bring us another round.”

  “So,” Mason said, “what can you tell me about Kwame Diggs?”

  “He’s a righteous brother,” Ty said.

  “How so?”

  “Never makes trouble. Keeps to himself. Mostly just sits in his cell and reads books.”

  “Really? According to court records, he assaulted two guards.”

  Before Ty could answer, his cell phone rang. He dug it out of his shirt pocket, checked the number on the screen, and said: “Hey, Chuckie. Thanks for calling me back.… Yeah, yeah. I’ll be on time for the gig if you tell me where the hell it is.… But what’s the name of the place, dude?… I know it’s your brother’s pub. You said that ten times already.… Ohhhhh,” he said, and then he chuckled. “See you at eight thirty sharp.”

  He clicked off and shoved the phone back in his pocket.

  “Turns out the name of the place is My Brother’s Pub,” he told Mason. “For a while there, I thought I was in that Three Stooges routine. You know. ‘Who’s on First’?”

  “Abbott and Costello,” Mason said.

  “Huh?”

  “It wasn’t Three Stooges. It was Abbott and Costello.”

  “Whatever, dude.”

  “So is this how you’re making a living now? As a musician?”

  “Yeah. Our band’s got a regular Thursday night gig at Lupo’s Heartbreak Hotel in Providence, and we get booked all over on weekends. Westerly. Pawtucket. Newport. Fall River. Even opened for Roomful of Blues in Boston a couple of times. I play lead guitar. The bass player’s a former Supermax guard, too, so we call ourselves the Screws.”

  “Catchy,” Mason said. “What kind of music do you play?”

  “Heavy metal. You dig it?”

  “I prefer classical music,” Mason said.

  “Awesome. The Stones. Led Zeppelin. Steppenwolf. Love that retro shit, man.”

  Mason started to laugh, then swallowed it when he realized Ty wasn’t joking. “So,” he said, “can we get back to Diggs now?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Tell me about the assaults.”

  “Never happened,” Ty said.

  “No?”

  “No way.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s an open secret. Everybody knows they’re just fuckin’ with the dude.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “How do you prove a negative, man?”

  Mason had been wondering the same thing.

  “According to court records,” he said, “Diggs assaulted a guard named Robert Araujo on March twelve, 2005. What do you know about that?”

  “The asshole made it up.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because the warden asked him to.”

  “You know this how?”

  “Heard Araujo talkin’ about it in the break room one time.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That the warden wanted to make sure Diggs stayed locked up. Araujo said he faked the assault charge to help out.”

  “Do you remember his exact words?”

  “Hell, no. It was seven years ago, dude.”

  “Who else was there?”

  Ty thought about it a moment.

  “I don’t remember, but I do remember they were acting like Araujo was a big fuckin’ hero. High-fiving him, patting him on the back, and shit.”

  “Close your eyes,” Mason said. “It will help your recall.”

  “You’re shittin’ me, right?”

  “Just try it. Close your eyes and visualize the break room. Araujo is there, bragging about what he’d done. Others are patting him on the back. Who are they?”

  “Chuckie Shaad,” Ty said. “Oh, and Frank Horrocks.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t remember who.”

  “Look around the room,” Mason said. “Who do you see?”

  “Uh. The new guy, John Pugliese, is playing cards at a table by the vending machines. I can’t see who with, though.”

  “Now look at Araujo. Does he have any sort of visible injury?”

  “No.”

  “Okay,” Mason said, and Ty opened his eyes.

  “Damn,” he said. “That actually works, huh?”

  “Sometimes,” Mason said.

  “Think it would help me remember the words to ‘Symphony of Destruction’?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Only Megadeth’s biggest hit ever, dude.”

  “You’d probably be better off writing them on your wrist,” Mason said. “Diggs was also charged with assaulting a guard named Joseph Galloway last fall. What can you tell me about that?”

  “I was out of there by then.”

  “Oh. Right. So you never saw Diggs hit anybody?”

  “Never. And they gave him plenty of reason to, believe me.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “The guards were always trying to provoke him into doin’ something. Trashing his cell. Calling him names. Nigger, nigger, nigger, whenever he was close enough to hear.”

  “And what did Diggs do?”

  “Didn’t do nothing. Just turned the other cheek. He’s a goddamned political prisoner, dude.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “They wouldn’t be doing none of this if he was white.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Come on. It’s sooo obvious. I mean, you don’t see them fuckin’ with Eric Kessler this way, do you?”

  “I see your point,” Mason said, and jotted the quote in his n
otebook. “So, you worked as a guard for six years, is that right?”

  “About that, yeah.”

  “Why did you quit?”

  “I didn’t. They fired me, man.”

  “Why?”

  “They said I was coming to work stoned.”

  “Were you?”

  “It was just a couple of times. They coulda let it slide. But no. They had to make a big fuckin’ deal out of it.”

  “Stoned on what?”

  “Cocaine.”

  Mason hadn’t asked Ty about the drugs supposedly found in Diggs’s cell, but he saw no point in going into that now. A guard who had been fired for drug use had zero credibility.

  30

  Charlie, the fry cook at Mulligan’s favorite diner, had the radio tuned to Iggy Rock’s drive-time talk show on WTOP. The only thing the callers wanted to talk about was Eric Kessler’s looming release from Supermax. Most of them sounded angry. Iggy assured them that they should be.

  Mulligan listened for a few minutes, then tuned it out and folded the Dispatch to the opinion page. The lead editorial demanded that the state find a way to keep Kessler in prison. Just how this was to be done, the writer didn’t say. The op-ed page was filled with letters to the editor, all of them about Kessler. They sounded pretty much like the radio callers. The Kessler story was heating up.

  Charlie turned from the grill to top off Mulligan’s coffee.

  “What the fuck are they going to do about this?” he said. There was no need to define “this.” It was all anyone was talking about.

  “I don’t know, Charlie.”

  “Well, then maybe you oughta find out,” the fry cook said.

  Mulligan nodded, sipped his coffee, and scanned the sports section, finding nothing but bad news about his favorite teams. Then he flipped to the metro page, spotted the headline on Billy Hardcastle’s metro column, and gasped. Everybody already knew that Providence’s fifteen city councilmen never paid their parking tickets, so why did this jerk find it necessary to write about it? It didn’t qualify as news. According to the column, every councilman had at least forty outstanding tickets. Shirley Iannuzzo, who represented the seventh ward, was in first place with 246.