Providence Rag

by Bruce DeSilva

  “Tell me what you remember,” Mulligan said.

  “Her name was Allison Foley. Just turned eighteen. Would have been a freshman at Stony Brook University in the fall.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Brutally. She was stabbed a dozen times in the chest with a jackknife. When the killer figured out the blade wasn’t long enough to pierce her heart, he stabbed her in the neck and then strangled her with her belt.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “In the woods about eighty yards from a cabin she shared with three other camp counselors.”

  “Was the knife recovered?”

  “Yeah. Tossed in the bushes about twenty yards from the body.”

  “Prints?”

  “Nothing usable.”

  “Footprints around the body?”

  “No. When she went missing, counselors and campers searched the woods for her and tromped all over the scene.”

  “Any physical evidence at all?”

  “Yeah. The killer masturbated on her body.”

  “Suspects?”

  “Detectives focused on a known sex offender who lived in a shack few miles away in Shandaken. He didn’t have an alibi, and he had the same blood type as the killer.”

  “They knew that how?”

  “They tested the semen for blood type, and it matched the information in his police jacket. That gave them enough for a warrant to test his DNA, but when they went to pick him up, he was gone. One of the state cops, a detective named Forrest, never did stop searching for him, but the guy was a ghost.”

  “What did the victim look like?”

  “Tall. Athletic. A real pretty girl.”

  “What color was her hair?”

  “Blond,” Hurley said. “So how about telling me why you’re asking about this now.”

  “Think I know who killed her,” Mulligan said.

  * * *

  Jennings rode shotgun in Secretariat as Mulligan cruised south on I-95 toward Connecticut.

  “How come you didn’t bring Gloria along?” Jennings asked. “She earned the right.”

  “She did, but Lomax said he couldn’t spare both of us.”

  “That why you brought the camera?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Jennings cracked open a Narragansett and handed it to Mulligan, who shook his head no. The ex-cop shrugged and took a pull from the can.

  “Doesn’t seem fair,” he said.

  “It isn’t.”

  “She must be pissed.”

  “Oh hell, yeah.”

  At New Haven, Mulligan swung north toward Waterbury, then picked up I-84 west. At Danbury, he pulled off the highway for coffee at McDonald’s. A few minutes later, he crossed the New York State line and took the Taconic Parkway heading north. Just west of the little town of Lagrangeville, he slipped off the parkway and took country roads the rest of the way to Poughkeepsie.

  Shortly after one P.M., nearly five hours after they’d left Providence, he pulled into the parking lot of the Coyote Grill, a pub on South Road, where they found two men in T-shirts and Yankees caps waiting for them at the bar.

  “Mulligan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t you know you can get shot wearing a Red Sox cap in these parts?”

  “I figured I’d risk it. You must be Dan Hurley.”

  “I am. And this is Carter Forrest, the retired New York State cop I told you about.”

  Mulligan shook their hands and introduced them to Jennings. Moments later, the four men were seated in a booth, waiting for their burgers.

  “You really think a fourteen-year-old camper could have done this?” Forrest was saying.

  “He stabbed two women and three little girls to death in my town by the time he was fifteen,” Jennings said. “So, yeah. He definitely could have done this.”

  “And here’s the worst part,” Mulligan said, taking a few minutes to run down Diggs’s legal status. “If we can’t nail him for Foley, they’re going to have to turn him loose.”

  “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Forrest said.

  “’Fraid not,” Jennings said.

  “Okay, then,” Forrest said. “Let’s get to work.” He opened his briefcase and slid out a loose-leaf binder—his copy of the Allison Foley murder book.

  “And you’ll be wanting this,” Jennings said, passing Forrest copies of the Medeiros and Stuart murder books. The two ex-cops started paging through them. Thirty minutes later, after the burgers and beer had been consumed, they were still at it.

  “Why don’t you two save that for later,” Hurley said. “Mulligan wants to visit the scene while it’s still daylight.”

  “Nothing worth seeing up there after all those years,” Forrest said.

  “For a cop, sure,” Hurley said. “But for a journalist who wants to write about the case, it’s solid gold.”

  They piled into Forrest’s Jeep Wrangler, leaving the Bronco in the pub parking lot. They crossed the Mid-Hudson Bridge, bisected the little city of New Paltz, and swung north on a two-lane that passed through a series of small towns and then skirted a large reservoir. As the road wound up into the Catskills, following the course of the swift Esopus Creek, the towns were fewer and the forest thicker, oak and maple gradually giving way to red spruce, hemlock, and balsam fir.

  An hour after they’d started, they reached the village of Big Indian and turned right on Fire House Road. Five minutes later, Forrest braked and pulled onto a weed-choked gravel road past a faded wooden sign: “Little Indian Summer Camp.”

  Mulligan slid down the car window and photographed the sign.

  The Wrangler rolled past athletic fields overgrown with saplings, milkweed, and poison ivy. Off to the right were two large log buildings. One was black with fire damage. The other had a spindly young spruce growing through the middle of its collapsed roof.

  “The administration building and the crafts building,” Hurley said as Mulligan snapped a few more photos. “In the nineties, Frank Hudson and his wife, Julie, ran the place. Before the murder, they were just barely hanging on. Afterwards, they had a lot of trouble attracting customers. Finally, they just pulled up stakes and moved away.”

  Weeds scraped the bottom of the Wrangler as it climbed the gravel trail into the mountains. As they gained elevation, balsam fir and red spruce gave way to beech and birch. A quarter mile in, ramshackle cabins dotted the woods on both sides of the road. The windows were broken, the stoops crumbling, the rotting shiplap siding green with algae and moss.

  “The campers’ cabins,” Forrest said, and kept driving. He continued on for another sixty yards, then pulled over beside a cluster of six somewhat larger cabins.

  “The counselors’ quarters,” he said, and they all climbed out. “Watch out for the poison ivy.”

  He led the way through the weeds to a cabin with a faded “31” painted beside the entrance.

  “Allison Foley slept here,” he said, “with three other young women.”

  The windows were broken, and the door and front stoop were missing. Hurley gave Mulligan a boost, and he climbed inside.

  “Careful,” the editor said. “The floor might be rotted out.”

  Mulligan stood in the doorway, a musty smell filling his nostrils, as he waited for his eyes to adjust. To his right and left, two sets of bunk beds, the mattresses covered with animal droppings. Ahead of him, an open door. Behind it, a yellowed toilet with the seat missing.

  Mulligan took a step. The floor felt spongy under his feet. He stepped back into the doorway. The floor of the cabin was littered with empty beer cans and Thunderbird wine bottles.

  “Looks like somebody had a party in here,” he shouted.

  “Figures,” Hurley said. “Vagrants have taken to camping out in the abandoned cabins. The local cops used to chase them off, but now they just leave them be.”

  Mulligan raised his camera and took a few flash photos. In the corner to his left, something hissed. He wheeled and saw a large opossum rear o
n its hind legs, eyes glowing red.

  “There’s one in here now,” Mulligan said. “The four-legged kind.”

  “Raccoon?” Hurley asked.

  “Opossum,” Mulligan said.

  “Careful,” Forrest said. “A lot of them are rabid.”

  Mulligan turned and jumped down into the late afternoon sunlight. He backed off a few yards and snapped exterior shots of the cabin while Hurley and Jennings climbed inside for a quick look.

  “Stand by the door so I can get you in the shot,” Mulligan told Forrest.

  “I’d rather not,” Forrest said.

  “You’ve chased this case for nineteen years,” Mulligan said. “Like it or not, you’re a big part of the story.”

  Forrest doffed his Yankees cap, exposing a thick crop of steel-gray hair, smiled sheepishly, and reluctantly complied.

  Then he led the men into the stillness of the trees through a thick undergrowth of brambles and giant purple hyssop in full bloom. Briars clutched at their jeans, the thorns biting through and raking their skin. Eighty yards in, they stopped at the base of a large birch.

  “This is where they found her,” Forrest said.

  Mulligan snapped a photo of the retired trooper standing beside the tree. There was nothing more to see.

  * * *

  That evening, Mulligan and Jenkins checked into the Days Inn near Vassar College in Poughkeepsie, then met Forrest and Hurley for a late dinner at the Coyote Grill.

  Over steaks and beer, Forrest flipped through his murder book, running down the fine points of the Foley case. Then Jennings did the same with the Diggs cases.

  “So if the DNA from the Ashcroft case hadn’t been contaminated, you would have nailed the bastard,” Forrest said.

  “Yeah,” Jennings said. “Think the DNA from the semen he spilled on Foley might still be good?”

  “I doubt it,” Forrest said. “It’s been a long time. I’m not sure it’s even still in storage. But it doesn’t matter.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “No. The state crime lab ran a DNA test on it back in ’93. A copy of the result is in the back of the Foley murder book. Get your lab to compare it to a sample from Diggs. If it’s a match, New York will charge him with murder, and he’ll spend the rest of his sorry-ass life getting corn-holed in Attica.”

  “Fantastic,” Jennings said. “My old boss at the Warwick PD can get our state crime lab to expedite this. We should have our answer in a few weeks.”

  * * *

  Early next morning, Mulligan and Jennings were on their way back to Providence when the opening licks of Paul Simon’s “Kodachrome” streamed from Mulligan’s shirt pocket. His ring tone for Gloria.

  “Mulligan.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Good. I think we’ve got him.”

  “Better hurry.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The state Supreme Court just turned down Roberts’ appeal without a hearing. Diggs is going to be released next week.”

  “Aw, shit. Do you have the date and time?”

  “No. The authorities are keeping a tight lid on that. They want to avoid a media circus.”

  “I’ll bet,” Mulligan said.

  72

  “Good morning, Governor.”

  “Mulligan? Calling me at home on a Saturday? Must be a social call.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Oh. Too bad.”

  “You know why I’m calling, Fiona.”

  “You want to know when he’s being released.”

  “I do.”

  “We’re keeping it under wraps. The less publicity the better. No way we want Iggy Rock and his mob waiting for Diggs in the prison parking lot.”

  “You know we’ll handle it the right way.”

  “Just you and a photographer?”

  “Not me. Mason and Gloria.”

  “Noon on Monday,” she said. “His mother will pick him up and take him home.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Anybody going to keep tabs on him?”

  “We’ll give him a police escort to the state line. After that, he’s Massachusetts’ problem.”

  “The authorities there have been informed?”

  “We’ve alerted Brockton PD and the Massachusetts State Police. They’ll keep an eye on him, drop in on him from time to time. That’s all they can do.”

  “Until he kills again.”

  “Yeah. Until then.”

  “Still having fun playing governor?”

  “Right now, not so much.”

  * * *

  Monday, there were only a half-dozen cars in the Supermax visitors’ lot. Only one of them, a gray 2002 Chevrolet Malibu, had Massachusetts plates. Gloria pulled her Ford Focus into the space next to it. A moment later, Felicia drove into the lot.

  At five past noon, Kwame Diggs strode out of the prison gate, his arm around his mother. Esther Diggs looked incredibly small. She glanced up at her son as if she were looking at a stranger. Kwame closed his eyes, tilted his face up to the sun, rolled his shoulders, and grinned. Gloria’s shutter clicked.

  Diggs turned and stared at her. She got the impression he was trying to figure out where he’d seen her before. She was very glad, then, that she’d colored her hair.

  “How’s it feel to be out, Kwame?” Freyer asked. She didn’t sound as though she really wanted to know.

  “Great,” he said. “‘Free at last, free at last.’ Dr. King said that.”

  “What are you going to do first?” Mason asked.

  “I’m heading to McDonald’s for three Double Quarter Pounders with Cheese and a McFlurry with M&M’s. Then I’m gonna go home with my moms.”

  “Then what?”

  “Hell, I don’t know.” He turned to his lawyer. “Thanks so much, Miss Freyer. I owe you my life.”

  “Mason did most of the work,” she said.

  “I know. Thanks, Mason. I owe you big-time.”

  He extended his hand. Mason hesitated, then shook it.

  “Know how you can repay me?” Mason asked.

  “How?”

  “Don’t kill anybody else.”

  Diggs’s eyes flashed cold, but his mouth cracked into a grin. His mother got into her car without speaking and cranked the ignition. Diggs opened the passenger-side door, slid the seat all the way back, and wedged himself inside.

  “Felicia,” he said, “you looking hot today, girl. See you around sometime.” Then he started to close the car door.

  “Hey, Kwame,” Mason said.

  “What?”

  “‘People pay for what they do, and still more for what they have allowed themselves to become.’ James Baldwin said that.”

  Diggs scowled and jerked the door shut.

  Mason, Gloria, and Freyer stood in the parking lot and watched a state police car, lights flashing, lead the Malibu out of the parking lot. A second cruiser tagged along behind.

  “How did his mother look to you?” Mason asked.

  “Scared,” Freyer said. “Jesus! What the hell have we done?”

  PART III

  Predation

  73

  Gloria, Mason, and Mulligan gathered around a speaker–phone in a private office off the main newsroom.

  “What are they using for a DNA sample?” asked Peter Schutter, the retired FBI profiler.

  “His old toothbrush and some other toiletry items from his prison cell,” Mulligan said.

  “How long before the test results come back?”

  “They’re expediting it,” Mulligan said, “but it’s going to be at least a couple of weeks.”

  “And he’s going to be running around loose until then?”

  “He is.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “He’s moved into his mother’s place in Brockton, Massachusetts,” Gloria put in. “Do you think she’s in any danger?”

  “My guess is no, but I can’t say for sure.”

  “Wh
at do you think he’ll do?” Mason asked.

  “Stalk women and stab them to death.”

  “How much time do you think we have?” Mulligan said.

  “Hard to say.”

  “What’s your best guess?”

  The retired agent sighed heavily into the receiver.

  “When Diggs went to prison he was just a kid—an inexperienced, disorganized killer. His crimes had been reckless and poorly planned, leaving evidence all over the place. For the last eighteen years, he’s been reliving the murders over and over in his mind, thinking about all the mistakes he made. He’ll tell himself to be careful now—watchful and methodical. He’ll try to take his time selecting his next victim. He’ll try to plan his crimes carefully. That could slow him down.”

  “But it might not?” Mulligan asked.

  “That’s right,” Schutter said. “Diggs is obsessed with killing women. It’s what he lives for. Assuming you’re right about the Foley homicide, he had a one-year cooling-off period between his murders. He’s been waiting for eighteen years now. The desire and frustration bottled up inside of him must be overwhelming. No matter how much his mind tells him to be careful, he could simply explode at the first victim of opportunity. Best-case scenario? I’d say you’ve got a month, maybe two. But don’t be surprised if he kills tonight.”

  “Any way to know how he’ll select his victims?” Gloria asked.

  “They’ll be blond and vulnerable, of course. Other than that…” Schutter paused in thought for a moment. “Is there any particular blonde he could be obsessing about? A woman he remembers from his past, perhaps?”

  “Mary Jennings,” Mulligan said.

  “Who’s that?” Schutter asked.

  “Connie Stuart’s twin sister.”

  “He would have seen her at his trial?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’d be about fifty now,” Schutter said. “Diggs always liked them young, so she’s no longer his type.” He paused again, then said, “But in his warped mind, he might still picture her as a young woman. You should warn her to take precautions.”