“He’s not happy about anything. Still thinks the police care more about white college students getting killed than we do about poor black kids. Like his brother.”
“You think that case will ever get solved?” Connie asked.
Alves shook his head. “How’s your case against Stutter Simpson? Ray Figgs treating you okay? I ran into him last week. Looks like Figgsy went to Bridgewater for a spin dry. Word is he hasn’t had a drink in weeks. Working out at the gym again. Seems on top of things.”
“The grand jury has everything they need to indict, the murder weapon, motive-Stutter and Jesse Wilcox were shooting back and forth at each other for months before Jesse turned up dead. My problem is Figgs. He’s busting my chops, complaining we should do more investigation before we indict.”
“Probably just wants a solid case,” Alves said. “So it doesn’t go south on you at trial.”
“Stutter Simpson is a murderer. I’m going to indict and convict him for killing Jesse Wilcox.”
They ordered coffee. It was nice to be comfortable with Angel again-talking about their cases like old friends. He didn’t like it when Alves was guarded around him, keeping things from him. Things were getting back to normal.
CHAPTER 104
Alves held the door to Silvertone open for Connie, who was still making his way up the stairs. The cold air smacked Alves in the face, waking him up, helping him shake off the effects of the heavy meal and the warm restaurant. “That was the best mac and cheese ever,” Alves said. “Now I need a nap.”
“You really are an old man,” Connie said as he buttoned his coat. “You’re not going to fall asleep behind the wheel are you? I knew I should have driven.”
“How can you call me an old man? You’re the one who drives a minivan. A single man with no kids tooting around like a soccer mom. That’s sad.” Alves could feel himself straining for the playfulness that used to be a natural part of their relationship. “I can’t be seen riding around the city in that thing with you.”
“It’s not just a minivan, it’s the ‘snitch mobile,’” Connie laughed. “My investigators use it to pick up witnesses and victims. And, as we say in the Gang Unit, today’s victim is tomorrow’s defendant. They’re all afraid of being labeled snitches. So we had the windows smoked out. It’s so dark, it’s an illegal tint. I have trouble driving the thing at night.”
“And you’ve got lights, siren, and a police radio installed. But no matter how you dress it up, it’s still a minivan.”
“It’s better than this shit box Ford you’re driving around in,” Connie slapped the roof of the car. “You’re on homicide and they don’t give you the honor of a ride like a Crown Vic or a real police car.”
“Shut up and get in,” Alves laughed. He had to keep the mood light. At some point he needed to get some information from Connie. He didn’t want to confront him yet. He just wanted to talk about the Blood Bath case. Bring up some of the things that were still bothering him.
“You want to come back to my house for a beer?” Connie asked.
“I’ve got a better idea. I have a six pack in the trunk. Let’s go to White Stadium and have a few.”
“Angel, you may not have noticed, but it’s almost November and it’s freaking cold.”
“Don’t be a crybaby. It’s a great place to drink. Back when I was a juvenile delinquent, me and my boys used to hop the fence and get trashed in there. Then we’d end up playing tackle football in the dark. What a blast. That’s where I played my games in high school.”
“Me, too, but I’m not jumping any fences to go have a beer and relive my high school glory.”
“No fence jumping. I used to work the detail for the mayor’s Friday Night Game of the Week. I’ve still got the key to the gate.”
“I don’t even have a drinking glove.”
Alves reached into the back seat and pulled out two ratty looking gloves. “We each have a drinking glove. Now you have no excuses.”
“I’ll go for a beer or two, but no football tonight.” Connie laughed.
CHAPTER 105
Connie held the six-pack in his gloved hand while Alves unlocked the gate. This was an interesting development, coming out to the stadium where they’d both played high school football games. With a fresh coat of paint in the stands and well kept turf, the stadium looked better than it had in years.
As they made their way to the bleachers, Connie imagined the smell of fresh cut grass on a field with neatly painted lines. He felt a rush of adrenaline. It was the same feeling he got every time the “Star Spangled Banner” played before a game or a wrestling meet. Most people never paid attention to the lyrics. Sure, they might mouth the words as the anthem was played, but they didn’t actually think about what the words meant. For Connie, the words meant a great deal.
He would go into a zone while the song played. Everything else around him disappeared. He would imagine himself watching the sun come up over Baltimore Harbor the morning after the Battle of Fort McHenry, the American flag undaunted, standing out like a beacon. No matter how it was bombarded it kept waving in the wind. The flag itself was like an absolute truth that could withstand any attack.
That was how Connie thought of himself, especially before a wrestling match. Connie was an Absolute Truth that could not be defeated. He had never been defeated. Not in high school. And not in college.
Tonight, out on the cold ball field, a hint of doubt edged into his mind. Angel Alves might be acting as though things between them were back to normal. Acting a bit too normal, working him, trying to win back his trust. But why? There had to be more to it. Maybe Alves was working a hunch. Before that hunch developed into a theory and then an indictment, Connie needed to find out what Alves was up to.
It was time for some ultimate truth to reveal itself.
CHAPTER 106
Alves’s butt was numb. He stood up. “These metal benches are brutal. Thank God I never had to sit and watch a game here. It’s like watching a Pat’s game at the old Foxboro Stadium. Or as Sarge says, Shaefer Stadium.”
Connie took a swig of his beer. “What are we doing up here anyway? Let’s go down on the field.”
“The moonlight is brighter up here. And there’s no place to sit down there.”
“I saw some benches down by the locker room entrance. C’mon,” Connie said.
Alves was surprised that the ground was hard, but not frozen. It must have warmed during the day. By morning, the blades of grass would be frozen crystals, snapping under your feet when you walked. But right now it was a perfect football surface. Walking out to the middle of the field felt right.
“Remember how much fun it was to be in high school,” Alves said. “Coming out here and playing games in front of a big crowd. The cheerleaders, the band, the whole atmosphere. How many times did I stand on this field, anxious to return a kick, each time, certain that I would run it all the way for a touchdown? At that moment, nothing else mattered in the world. Everyone in the stands was watching the ball, waiting for the kick. Then, as the ball rotated through the air, end over end, everyone watched to see what I was going to do with it. I was a pretty good ballplayer, so I always gave them a show. I wasn’t the biggest guy on the field, but I had great feet. There was always some big goon or a speedster who thought he was going to come down and drill me as I caught the ball, but I always made them miss. The first guy never got me.”
“If you’d played a few years later, I would have been one of those goons,” Connie said, lunging at Alves.
Alves juked to the left and then back and Connie grasped at air.
“I’m still too quick for you, even as an old man,” Alves said.
The two men laughed and started to walk back toward the bleachers.
Alves looked up into the sky. “Connie, can I ask you something?”
“Sure, pal.”
“How did you know Rich Zardino was the killer?”
“I tried to think like the killer. It’s something I learned
from you and Mooney and from FBI profilers. If you think like the killer, you can catch the killer.”
“But how did that lead you to Zardino? I can see if you came up with some characteristics that made him a possible suspect. But that’s not what happened.”
“I looked past the obvious. Everyone was looking at known sex offenders who had done time. But I got to thinking, what if this guy had never been caught for a sex crime. What if he had just been out of state? What if he had done time for something else? What if he had done time for a crime he hadn’t committed? Bingo. This guy’s flying under everyone’s radar because he’s some kind of martyr, a victim of organized crime and corrupt cops. What a great story. No one else took the time to dig any deeper.”
“So that’s what got you thinking it was him. But how did you know it was him?”
“Like I said, I made myself think like the killer. I became the killer.” Connie grabbed the back of Alves’s neck with both hands.
Alves was startled. He shrugged Connie off and turned to face him.
Connie laughed. “Not literally, but I tried to put myself in his head, to determine the who, what, where, when, why and how of it. How was he selecting his victims? That was the biggest question that needed to be answered. Then the mayor had his annual Peace Conference. I saw a news clip. Zardino and Luther talking about their involvement with the criminal system. I tried to learn more about Zardino and Luther after that. I found out that Zardino was doing his lecture at all the area colleges. That’s when it started to fall into place. I started putting the pieces of the puzzle into Zardino’s life and they all fit.”
“Okay, Connie. That explains the Prom Night killings. But I got a question.” Alves knew that once he started this line of questioning, he’d have to push until he had all the answers. “I spoke with Sonya Jordan and Andi Norton. I need to ask you about Mitch Beaulieu.”
“What about?”
“Nothing big. Just a couple of things I want to clear up.”
“Angel, let’s go sit down. It’s windy out here.” Connie led him toward the row of benches against the concrete wall at the base of the stands. They walked out of the moonlight and into the shadow of the stadium. “I’m going to tell you the whole truth about Mitch, but you realize I’ll have to kill you afterward, right?” Connie laughed.
Alves let out an awkward chuckle, then felt Connie’s hands on his neck again. Connie slipped his left arm around Alves’s arm and pulled it back. Alves struggled to get loose. Connie reached under his chin with his other hand and pulled his head back to the right. The Chin and Chicken. Alves could feel Connie tighten his grip and start to crank with both hands. He tried to elbow Connie with his right arm, but he couldn’t put any force behind it. Connie lifted him in the air.
Alves was immobilized.
CHAPTER 107
Alves tried to move and a pain shot up from his shoulder into his neck. His head was throbbing. The cold metal bench he was lying on didn’t help. He opened his eyes and a gun was pointed at his head: his own Glock. Alves sat up. He tried to speak, but his throat hurt. Connie handed him a beer and told him to drink it. His drinking gloves were sticking out of Connie’s pocket. Connie was wearing latex gloves.
It hurt to swallow. When he finished the beer, Connie gave him another.
“Jesus, Connie, give me a break. I can’t chug beer like I used to.”
“Just drink the beer, detective,” Connie said coldly.
Alves took a swallow and set the bottle down on the bench. He’d better savor the beer. The beers were his hourglass. When they were gone, so was he.
“Detective, I didn’t tell you to enjoy the beer. I told you to drink it. Pretend you are eighteen and trying to win a drinking contest at a frat party.”
Alves took another swallow. The mac and cheese rose in his throat. He finished the bottle and Connie made him drink two more. Alves was feeling the effects of the beer. He usually only drank one or two to get a good buzz. After five beers he was drunk.
When the last beer was gone, Connie took a step away from him. “So you want to know about Mitch Beaulieu?”
Alves didn’t want to know the truth. Not now. Not like this. He needed to be sober. He wanted it to be in an interrogation room with Mooney. He wanted it to be on tape. Video, if possible. He knew that if Connie told him everything now, then he would not live to tell it to anyone else. “I think I already know everything,” Alves said.
“You don’t know shit,” Connie said.
“I know you killed innocent people for no reason.”
“That’s how you see it? Not me. I always kill for a reason. I kill out of necessity. I kill for the good of all men.”
A wave of nausea swept over Alves. He tried to shake it off.
“Who have you killed?”
“Don’t pull that shit on me. You know who I killed. That’s why we’re out here tonight, isn’t it? You thought you could get me to slip up and say something I shouldn’t. Maybe get a confession. Guess what, pal? You hit the jackpot.”
“Who have you killed, Connie?”
“Oh, I get it. You want that full confession you came looking for. I know you’re not wearing a wire and you’re never going to leave this place, so I’ll give you that.”
“That’s good of you,” Alves said.
Just that morning he’d made pancakes for Marcy and the twins. When he was getting ready to leave for work, Marcy had told him to wait a second, then she’d kissed him, told him to be careful, to “drive nice,” like she always used to. Alves needed to find a way out of this. He needed to lure Connie close enough to catch him with a sucker punch, get his gun back.
“Don’t be a wiseass or I’ll just kill you right now. Then you would have died for nothing, without any of the answers you came looking for.” Connie paused. “Detective, I know you’re upset about Robyn Stokes. I never would have killed her if I had known she was your friend.”
The randomness of victims, the crazy logic of killers, the way everything had to fall just right for the right detective to put everything together at just the right moment. It sickened and frightened Alves. “Why, Connie?”
“I showed you why. You’ve been to my house. You still haven’t figured this out, have you? I had to practice.”
An image of Connie’s basement flashed into his mind. The mock courtroom. The judge’s bench. The prosecutor’s table. The witness stand. And the jury box. Seats for eight jurors. There were only six confirmed victims of the Blood Bath Killer. Six bathtubs filled with blood. But if you added Emily Knight, the woman who disappeared walking home from work, and Nick Costa, Connie’s fellow prosecutor, that made eight. But he’d gone over every square inch of Connie’s house. How had he preserved eight human bodies in his basement courtroom?
Then he knew. That’s what that massive laundry table was. An antique embalming table. Alves had seen them at older funeral homes. It was a gruesome thought. If the victims had been preserved, embalmed, they could have sat in that basement courtroom. They could have listened as the great prosecutor delivered his opening and closing statements.
But the bodies were gone. If only he could, he’d get a search warrant, dig up the yard and take the entire house apart, plank by plank, until he found them.
The idea of those bodies in the basement courtroom, the pain in his shoulders, the meal and the beer-all of it was too much. The gorge rose in his throat, and he couldn’t hold it back.
CHAPTER 108
When Alves could focus again, Connie started talking. “You can’t understand why I do what I do. You’re too caught up in the little details to see the big picture.”
“Try me,” Alves said. Not caring about an answer, but stalling for time, for something.
“Detective. Think about all the gangbangers that have been killed with the community.40 that was floating around. The one Greene and Ahearn found under the front seat of Stutter Simpson’s Toyota Tercel the night they arrested him. The very piece of evidence that I’m going to
launch him with, in spite of Ray Figgs. Your problem, and Figgs’s problem, Detective, is that you both get caught up in the crying mothers and grandmothers, the friends who set up sidewalk shrines for their fallen brothers, the value of each human life. I can look beyond that and see that the neighborhood is safer without those gangbangers.”
Alves felt his stomach lurch again. This time he knew it wasn’t the beer and the heavy meal. He couldn’t begin to get his mind around what Connie was telling him. “You killed kids on the street, too? How many people have you murdered?”
“I wouldn’t call it murder, detective. Murder is the unlawful killing of a human being.”
“You think it’s lawful to kill innocent people?”
“Don’t be so surprised, Detective. You gave me the idea. You’re the one who talked about how we could reduce the murder rate if we could catch the serial killer targeting the gangbangers who had just ‘turned their lives around.’ You know, like every good defense attorney argues, ‘But judge, my client was just about to turn his life around, he’s thinking of going back to get his GED, his girlfriend has a baby on the way, he’s good to his mother.’”
“Connie, for God’s sake, I was joking.”
“Okay, Detective. If that makes you feel better. I was trying to give you credit for a brilliant idea. Sure, the homicide rate was up a little over the past year with everyone that was taken out by that one gun, but it should be way down next year. And not with long, drawn-out prosecutions, but with quick hits. How much time and money was wasted trying to put Jesse Wilcox in jail? How many people died in the meantime? Problem solved. And it didn’t cost anything. No one else has been hurt.”
“You killed Jesse Wilcox?” It was almost incomprehensible. How could one horror build on another? Where was the end of this twisted and tangled, knotted rope of a confession?
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