There were a couple questions he still couldn’t answer. If Conrad Darget did plant the gun in Simpson’s car, where did Darget get the gun? And why set up Stutter Simpson?
In the noise of the bar, Figgs tried out the last piece of logic. What kind of man would not only plant the evidence, but prosecute the patsy he’d set up? Answer? A very sick man.
CHAPTER 91
Alves stepped out of Connie’s house into the cool evening air. He had a slight buzz going from the two beers. Fatherhood had turned him into a lightweight, he thought. Connie had killed off the rest of the six-pack and wasn’t showing a thing.
Alves stumbled a little on a crack in the walkway, his mind racing. How could there be nothing in the house linking Connie to the murders? He had shown up unannounced and Connie had taken him through the place from the attic to the basement. He didn’t seem to be hiding anything, except for his basement courtroom. Alves didn’t know what to make of that room. It was bizarre to have gone through the effort to build something like that in a basement, but lots of people did strange things. One of his neighbors built a Dale Earnhardt racecar bed for his son, actual size #3. The courtroom didn’t make Connie a killer.
Connie had explained how being in that room was his way of practicing. People didn’t think it was crazy when professional baseball players had batting cages in their houses, so why was it odd for a professional trial lawyer to have a courtroom in his basement? Especially someone like Connie, who preached the importance of trial preparation.
Still, to build an exact replica of a courtroom… And it was all there-from the American flag, the state flag of Massachusetts, the seal of the Commonwealth, right down to the eight seats for the jurors and alternates.
A little crazy, yes. But nothing he’d seen that night made Connie a killer.
CHAPTER 92
What had Detective Angel Alves been doing in Conrad Darget’s house all that time? Drinking the alcoholic beverages Alves had hidden behind his back? What could they have been talking about? If they had discussed Sleep’s involvement in the murders, then the detective wouldn’t have come stumbling out of the house the way he had. He would have been walking with a sense of purpose, with a mission. And certainly Sergeant Wayne Mooney would have joined them in their victory celebration.
It appeared more as though Detective Alves had just come over to drink and socialize. But that didn’t make sense either. Which got him thinking. Maybe Darget really didn’t know anything. Maybe it was just a coincidence that he was at Natalie’s on Newbury Street. Had the store been robbed recently? Was Darget there on official business unrelated to the murders? That had to be it. Nothing else made sense.
He watched as Alves started his car and drove off. Sleep had to leave too. His Little Things had been in their trunks too long.
He could come back in the morning, early. He could follow Darget, see what he was up to.
He had eaten dinner earlier, but now he was suddenly in the mood for Chinese. He’d pick up a dinner plate at his favorite place, the Pearl Pagoda on Mass Ave. He’d learned that if he put in too large an order, he got too many fortune cookies. Then how could he figure out which one was the real one? Small order, one cookie, and he could save it for a bit, savor the fortune tucked inside. Delight for a while in the anticipation. And when he finally cracked open that brittle yellow cookie, he’d know for sure what to do about Conrad Darget.
CHAPTER 93
Figgs leaned back against the sculpture in front of the DA’s office. He didn’t know what it was supposed to be, but it looked like a giant tooth, a huge white molar maybe. He’d figured Conrad Darget to be an early bird, but it was almost eight o’clock and there’d been no sign of him yet.
He’d wait another half hour then head over to the firing range. See if he could still hit the ten ring from twenty-five yards with the two-inch Smith. It was more satisfying with the old targets, silhouettes of bad guys, instead of the giant, politically correct milk bottles they used today. He just needed to concentrate, get back to the basics. Steady hand, look through the rear sight-front sight sharp like the fin of a shark, target blurry.
The door to the DA’s office opened and Darget stepped out.
“How’d you get in there without me seeing you?” Figgs asked. “I’ve been out here close to an hour.”
“I was in here before you hit the snooze button.”
“You got a minute?”
“Can we walk and talk? I’m heading over to superior court. I’ve got some witnesses coming in to the grand jury this morning, and I’ve got to do some prep first.”
Figgs walked with Darget as they crossed Sudbury and Cambridge Streets toward Center Plaza. “Let me get to the point. I went out to Townsend Street and knocked on some doors. I’ve got a witness says you leaned into Stutter Simpson’s car.”
“Who’s your witness?”
“Let’s just leave it that I have a witness who saw you lean into the car. Is my witness lying?”
“No, your witness isn’t lying.”
“Why did you go into that car?”
“To turn it off,” Darget said. “Stutter crashed the car and took off running. He left the car in gear, up against the curb. Greene and Ahearn went after him. I walked up, threw it into park, and shut it off.”
“Did you put on rubber gloves?”
“Of course. Latex. I always carry a pair when I’m on a ride-along. I was careful not to leave prints or contaminate the car in any way. I knew we’d be dusting, especially with a murder suspect like Simpson.”
The prosecutor had an answer for everything. “That’s all for now. I’ll see you later.” Figgs turned and started toward his car, then stopped. “Darget, one more thing.” He waited for the prosecutor to turn and face him. “Why didn’t you tell any of this to the PS on scene who took your statement?”
“I didn’t think it was important. The car was in gear. I put on a pair of gloves and turned off the engine before someone got hurt.” His gaze was steady, no blinking, no glancing away.
Darget was good. It didn’t matter if there was a witness who saw him messing around that car. Darget claimed he had to turn off the engine. And that he had to use the gloves to do it. Neat. Clean. And neither the witness nor the Shot Spotter said anything different.
CHAPTER 94
It was chilly for an early fall evening. Connie sat on a bench by the Boston Harbor, looking out at Marina Bay, outside the new UMass Boston Student Center. He was there a good half hour before the start of the lecture, situated in a good position for watching cars as they arrived and parked in the North Lot.
Ten minutes before his lecture was scheduled to start, Zardino pulled up. Connie watched him park in the lot, climb the stairs to the bus drop-off and enter the building. Connie took his time crossing the perimeter road and driveway. Zardino would be speaking in the large function room on the third floor of the Student Center. Connie waited a few minutes before heading for the stairs. He didn’t need to hear Zardino speak. He knew his shtick.
What was more interesting was the audience. He found a spot outside the door that gave him a view into the lecture hall. From his vantage point, he scanned the crowd, a surprising mix, older students, professor types in baggy cotton clothes, younger students, bored already and sneaking looks at their text messages. And up on stage, sitting next to Zardino, was Sonya Jordan.
At the podium was Marcy Alves, giving introductory remarks. Connie had forgotten that she taught here. Marcy was introducing, “My esteemed colleague and good friend, the best lawyer anyone could have-Sonya Jordan.” The crowd clapped. “And let’s also welcome back to our campus a remarkable man who has endured and prevailed-Richard Zardino.”
The crowd erupted in applause as Zardino stepped up to the podium. Connie scanned the crowd. At the back, nearly concealed by a group of students who looked ready to bolt the second the lecture was over, backpacks on their laps, jackets still on, was Zardino’s sidekick, Luther. He was the only one in the room not c
lapping for the guest of honor. Why wasn’t Luther front and center, showing support for his buddy during his big presentation?
Connie surveilled the crowd. Tight little groups of classes sitting together, couples holding hands, students taking advantage of the warm lecture hall to catch up on some sleep. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Then he saw her. Second row, staring up at the stage, transfixed by Zardino. And right next to her, a boy mesmerized by her every move. She was not the prettiest girl in the room, but there was something about her that held his attention. Her intensity maybe. Her curiosity. He wasn’t sure if she measured up to Zardino’s standards, but she was dark-haired, small, pretty. She would do.
Connie remembered girls like her from college, girls who would sit up front and make a beeline for the professor the second class had ended. Connie knew she would do that tonight. She would be the first one up to the podium. She would have a personal question, lean in close as Zardino answered her, listen intently to every word. Just the idea that she was talking, standing so close to a semi-celebrity would have her in a near-frenzy. Her boyfriend hoped to carry that excitement over to his private after-party in his car or his apartment.
The boyfriend would work out nicely because he was kind of scrawny. When you had something so special planned for a couple, you didn’t need to be dealing with a big hero.
CHAPTER 95
Luther slumped back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. Why was Richard freezing him out, not telling him what was going on, disappearing on him, not answering his phone? Richard hadn’t been honest about what he was doing tonight. He was letting the kids down. For a lot of them, Richard was the first white dude they had trusted.
A look at the crowd and he understood what was going on. Hadn’t Richard stated it clearly enough a couple months ago? These speaking gigs were a way for him to meet young women. A way to pump up his social life after prison. A way to make himself look like a rock star in front of a bunch of suburban white kids longing to make a difference in the world.
Luther felt the familiar fire of anger flare up in his stomach-and it would burn, he knew, till he took some kind of action. All the good Luther had tried to do. Working with the kids. Hanging at night on street corners. The endless meetings at the Crispus Attucks House with folks who didn’t really understand his kids, didn’t really care beyond their empty words and their sappy smiles-all of it lasting just long enough to take out their checkbooks. Then, consciences appeased, they could go back to their apple-polished suburbs thinking they’d made a difference.
Richard Zardino was no different.
That wasn’t quite true. Richard Zardino was worse. Back in the day, Luther would have put a cap in his ass.
Luther had seen enough. He excused himself, wove his way out of the pack of students half-listening to Zardino’s hard luck story, and slipped out the door.
At least out in the corridor he could breathe some fresh air.
CHAPTER 96
C onnie had watched as Zardino’s sidekick hit the door.
Up front, his little girl was on cue and perfect. She got to Zardino first. Then she did so much more than he’d expected from her. She’d hung on to Zardino, monopolizing him for at least ten minutes as a line formed behind her. She wrote something on a piece of paper torn from her notebook and handed it to him. A phone number? An address, maybe? Quite a system Zardino had. An idealistic kid inviting him into her life. What she didn’t know was that it was an invitation to get killed, along with her unsuspecting boyfriend. Connie played out what would happen next in his head.
Zardino followed the young couple as they made their way out of the hall and down the stairs. The girl gushing. Talking loud, giggling, drunk on her brush with celebrity, notoriety. A wounded man, jailed unjustly, telling his sad story. Perfect girl-bait.
Once outside, the couple walked hand-in-hand past the shuttle bus, motor running and door open, toward the North Lot.
Excellent.
Weaving through the crowd of students, he kept his distance. They must have arrived late and had to park in one of the temporary lots at the edge of campus. The van was parked there. It was late, no one else walking in their direction. Zardino jogged ahead to catch up with them. He needed to steer them toward the van-that was the key. Then he could use the weapon.
“Excuse me,” he said, “I was wondering if you could help me out.” They were so innocent. And he’d just delivered that powerful talk. Shown them how he was a good man, giving back to society in spite of what society had done to him. He could tell them anything and they would walk themselves right into the trap, the horny boyfriend along for the ride. “I’m sorry, but my battery died. I was wondering if you have time to give me a jump.”
“I don’t have jumper cables.” The boy didn’t like sharing his girl’s affections.
“That’s okay. I’ve got them. It’ll just take a minute.”
“We have to help him,” the girl said, high on the emotions of the night. She looked across the lot. There was no one in sight. “We can’t just leave him out here with a car that won’t start.”
She was a sweet kid. He could keep her like that. Forever.
He walked with them toward their car, then pointed out where he was parked. “I’ll meet you over by my van,” he told them, careful not to crowd their space by walking them all the way to their car. He heard the motor start up, saw the lights splash into the darkness and then the boy pulled up close to the front of the van. They both got out.
Good.
They walked toward him. Not giggly kids anymore, but purposeful young adults, the weight of their do-gooding giving them a certain dignity. He felt the heft of the gun in his jacket pocket. The lot was still empty, the only light the twin disks from the car’s headlights.
“Let me get those cables,” he said, swinging the back door to the van open.
“Hi, Connie.”
He looked over to see Marcy Alves. She looked tired.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” she said. “You don’t have enough meetings during the day to keep you busy?”
“How are the kids doing? Angel told me about what happened at Franklin Park.”
“Then he probably told you we’re staying at my mother’s place. We feel safer there.”
“Don’t give up on him, Marcy. Angel’s a good man.” Connie looked around. The room was almost empty. At the front of the room, still standing at the podium was Richard Zardino. And beside him, a half dozen stragglers talking and gesturing.
There was a lot more he could say to Marcy, but he had to stay focused. He put his hand on her shoulder. Together they turned and walked toward the podium. Connie wanted to let Zardino know he was in the audience. Watching him. Give him a little tickle. “Zardino puts on a great show, doesn’t he?”
“It’s more than a show, Connie,” Marcy said. “A man like Zardino reminds us all what can happen when someone is unjustly prosecuted.”
“True enough. That’s why I always make sure I have the right man.”
CHAPTER 97
Alves had spent most of the day looking into Connie’s background. He had to keep it from Mooney for now, but not much longer. He’d checked the registry’s database and verified that Connie was thirty years old. If he was the Blood Bath Killer, it didn’t make sense that he would have started killing for the first time at the age of twenty-seven. Even if he had, there certainly would have been indicators leading up to those murders. But he had checked Connie’s BOP and ran a Triple I. No criminal record, not even as a juvenile. No sealed records.
But the Prom Night killings had started in ’98. Connie would have been twenty years old. A quick call to the registrar at the University of Arizona, and Alves learned that Connie would have been on summer break when the first three couples were murdered. If Connie had come home for the summer, he could have committed those murders and gone back to school. He would never have been suspected of anything.
Alves then made a call
to the Tucson Police Department. If Connie had started killing during his college years, he might have done it out of state. Alves reached a clerk in the Homicide Unit and asked if they had any unsolved murders at or near the school in the mid-to-late ’90s.
That’s when he was passed off to a detective.
“Clairimundo Sanchez, Homicide, how can I help you?” the man shouted into Alves’s ear.
“Detective, my name is Angel Alves. I’m working an active series of homicides up here in Boston.”
“I got that message. You wanted to know if we had any unsolved cases from about ten, twelve years back. What kind of murders you dealing with, Detective Alves?”
“We’ve got young couples, college students. The males are shot close range, in the chest, and the females are strangled. Bare hands.”
“We had some unusual unsolveds dating back. The Dumpster Killer left armless torsos in dumpsters all over Tucson. Let me think. We had a string of bodies found in arroyos. Prostitutes. Migrant workers. Nothing with college students. Wait a minute. We had a college girl, turned up strangled in the U of A library one night. Studying. Library staff found her when they were closing up for the night. No boy, though. Just the girl.”
“Ever make an arrest?”
“No.”
“Any suspects?”
“We had one person of interest. It wasn’t my case, though. I don’t know much about the investigation.”
“Detective Sanchez, anything you can give me would help.”
“What I remember, he was another student. One of the few people in the library at the time of the murder. We didn’t like his attitude. Real smug. The man you want to talk to is Detective Mike Decandia. He figured this kid killed her and then stayed in the library studying to give himself an alibi. Why would a guilty man stay in the library after killing an absolute stranger? Pretty good reasoning. Came in and spoke with Mike, but we got nothing out of him.”
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