by Lisa Gardner
CHAPTER 6
Maureen
IN DOWNTOWN PROVIDENCE, GRIFFIN AND WATERS WALKED together out of the courtyard. Griffin thought he should say something.
“Tell me about the Eddie Como case.” Okay, he probably should have said something more personal than that.
Waters shrugged. “I don’t know much. Providence handled the case.”
“Give me the headlines.”
“Four women were attacked, one was killed. The first was a student at Providence College, Meg Pesaturo. Guess her family is connected, though that’s news to me. The next victim, the Rosen woman, lives in one of those big, historical homes near Brown, which you can believe got the whole East Side screaming for better police protection. The third attack was at Brown, another college student, except the woman’s sister walked in during the rape. He beat up the older sister pretty badly, and the younger wound up dead. Anaphylactic reaction to latex, something like that.”
“The guy was wearing gloves?”
“Yeah, plus he tied them up with latex tourniquets. You know, the kind they use in the hospital when they’re drawing blood. That’s how the Providence police caught him in the end. Turns out the victims had donated blood at a campus blood drive prior to the attack. Police did a little digging . . . Eddie Como was a phlebotomist with the Rhode Island Blood Center. Theory is he used the blood drives to identify potential targets, then looked up their home addresses in the blood donor database.”
Griffin waved his head from side to side, working out a kink in his neck. “Circumstantial case?”
“No, they had DNA. Perfect match, all three victims. Como’s the guy.”
“Going to get buried at trial?”
Waters nodded vigorously. “Going to get buried at trial.”
“Interesting. So on the one hand, Eddie’s probably going away for life. On the other hand, according to the state marshals, three women still wanted him dead.”
“You haven’t seen the crime-scene photos,” Waters said. And then they arrived in front of the press.
“Sergeant, Sergeant, Sergeant!” The roar went up, followed by an immediate hail of questions.
“Is Eddie Como dead?”
“What about the state marshals?”
“Are there other fatalities?”
“What about the explosion? Was that a car bomb?”
“Who’s going to be leading the case? Providence? State? When will we get a briefing, when will we get a briefing?”
Griffin held up his hand. Bulbs immediately flashed. He grimaced, suffered a spasm of bad memory, then got it under control.
“Okay. This is the deal. We’re not answering any of your questions.”
Collective groan.
“We’re here to ask you our questions.”
A fresh pique of interest.
“I know, I know,” Griffin said dryly, “we’re excited about it, too. In case any of you haven’t noticed, you’re all witnesses to a shooting.”
“It’s Eddie Como, isn’t it? Someone killed the College Hill Rapist!”
The rest of the reporters started in again, kids turned loose in the candy store. “When do we get a briefing? When do we get a briefing?”
“Who’s going to handle the case?”
“What can you tell us about the explosion?”
“Has anyone interviewed the women yet? What do the victims have to say?”
Griffin sighed. Reasoning with the press was such a waste of breath. But in this job, you had to do what you had to do. He and Waters squared their shoulders, shoved aside two of the blue police barricades and waded bravely into the fray. Four microphones promptly appeared in front of Griffin’s face. He pushed them back, homed in on one reporter in particular, and stabbed at the man with his finger.
“You. You and your cameraman can start. Over here.”
He and Waters pulled the two away from the group. The pair weren’t very happy, but then Waters and Griffin didn’t much care. Griffin made the reporter review his notes, while Waters had the cameraman play back his tape. At the last minute, they were rewarded with a grainy image of the back of a man running across the courthouse roof. The focus was all wrong, though. The cameraman had been zoomed in on a close-up shot of his reporter talking in front of the courtyard. When he yanked up the camera after hearing the gunfire, the shooter was too far away to yield a good image.
“He was wearing all black,” the reporter provided. “With something on his head. Maybe a stocking. You know, like bank robbers do in the movies.”
Griffin grunted. Waters noted the names and news affiliate for the twosome, then they moved on. Their second subjects were even better. This cameraman liked gunshots so well, he dropped his five-thousand-dollar piece of hardware onto the lawn.
“I don’t do well with loud noises,” he said sheepishly.
“For God’s sake, Gus,” his reporter snapped, “what happens if they send us to Afghanistan?”
“We work for the UPN affiliate in the smallest state in the nation, Sally. When the fuck are we going to be sent to Afghanistan?”
“Did you at least look up?” Griffin intervened in this lovefest.
“Yeah,” Gus said. “Saw a person, running across the roof.”
“Person?” Waters pressed.
Gus shrugged. “All I could see was the back. Could be a man, could be a woman. In this day and age, who the hell knows?”
“Real observant, Gus, real observant.”
Griffin turned toward Sally. “And you?”
The hard-faced brunette gave Griffin an appraising stare. “I thought it was a man. Broad shoulders. Short, dark hair. Dressed in black coveralls, like the kind mechanics wear. Now then. You’re looking good after your little vacation, Griffin. A sergeant of Major Crimes, light caseload from being gone so long. Twenty to one they’re going to put you in charge of this baby. So why don’t you give me an interview? Five minutes on the record. My boss will clear it with your boss. What do you say?”
Waters was looking at him strangely. He probably hadn’t given any thought to who would be assigned as the primary case officer yet. The decision generally wasn’t made right away. Sally was correct, however. Griffin was a sergeant, he had lead case experience and at the moment he had a remarkably light caseload.
“I’m sure the detective commander will be giving a statement to all of the reporters shortly,” Griffin told Sally. Then he walked back to the crowd. “Next!”
It took him and Waters two hours to make it through the nest of reporters. In the end, they had a description of a white male who was between five and six feet tall, who might have brown hair, blond hair or black hair, who was either heavyset or rail-thin, who was wearing a ski mask, a Zorro-like mask, a stocking mask or nothing at all, and who may or may not bear a striking resemblance to James Gandolfini’s character on The Sopranos.
“That’s it, I think we can arrange for a lineup right now,” Waters said.
“Absolutely. And here I thought it would take all day to learn that nobody saw nothing. Instead it’s been what, two and a half hours?”
“The Boss will be pleased,” Waters agreed.
They both sighed heavily. They wandered away from the reporters, who had spotted the major arriving at the courtyard across the street, and were now resuming their manic cries for a briefing.
“What do you think?” Waters asked quietly, looking around to make sure no gung-ho reporter had spotted their break from the crowd. Acrid smoke from the car explosion still wafted through the air. It gave their voices a raspy edge.
“We’re pissing in the wind,” Griffin said. “Single head shot, so most likely the guy was a pro. Left everything on the rooftop, so most likely he knew the assault rifle, etc., was untraceable. I’m betting the minute he finished shooting, he stripped down to civilian threads and headed into the courthouse where he blended into the rest of the pedestrian traffic.”
“He simply strolled down the street to his getaway vehicle,” Waters fill
ed in.
“Where he made an even bigger exit than he planned.”
“A description’s not going to help much, except down at the morgue,” Waters agreed.
“We’re still going to have to know who he is to confirm his occupation, then figure out who hired him.”
“I don’t know. Based on what we’ve heard, Uncle Vinnie’s looking better all the time. Has a grudge, has the connections to hire a gun. Seems to me that Tom was onto something. Or”—Waters’s voice grew more thoughtful—“the East Side wife obviously has money. Maybe she arranged for the hit. Or maybe all the women conspired together—I heard that they formed some kind of support group. Of course, I’m not sure why they’d kill the hired gun. Then again, once you’ve decided to kill one felon, what’s one more?”
Griffin merely grunted. He didn’t like to rush to conclusions when working a case. He flipped through his spiral notebook. “Hey, Mike, what happened to NBC?”
“I don’t know. Seinfeld ended, ER lost Clooney?”
“No, no, I mean, we haven’t interviewed anyone from WJAR. You really believe Channel Ten didn’t send a news team?”
Waters frowned. He looked around the memorial park. And then his eyes widened. “There, at the end of the block. Doesn’t that white van say News Team Ten?”
“Well, what do you know. Two reporters have actually left the herd and are holed up on their own. Now, why would two reporters run away from the pack?”
“They have something.”
“No, no, Mike, we have something. Let’s get ’em.”
Sixty seconds later, Griffin rapped on the van’s sliding metal door. It didn’t magically open. He knocked louder. Immediately, the voices inside shut up.
“Come on, guys,” he called out. “This is Sergeant Griffin of the state police. Now open up, or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your van down.”
Another long pause. Finally, a click, then the door slid meekly back. Perched inside, Maureen Haverill gave both detectives her best reporter’s smile.
“Griffin!” she said warmly. “I heard you were returning to the fold.”
Maureen Haverill had been working at the local NBC affiliate for five years. A petite blonde, she was perky enough for one of those national morning news shows and probably figured it was only a matter of time. At the moment, her blue eyes were particularly bright. She looked like an addict who’d just gotten a fix. Or a reporter who’d just landed a scoop. Her cameraman was out of sight. Probably frantically dubbing the tape. Damn.
“Both of you, out, now.” Griffin’s voice was harsh.
“Griffin—”
“Out!”
Maureen scowled. She made a big show of carefully maneuvering out of the van, the helpless blonde in a too-short, too-tight pale green skirt. She probably bought her cameraman another thirty seconds.
“So help me God, Maureen,” Griffin informed her, “you dub that tape and I will nail you for tampering with evidence.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Jimmy,” he called out. “You, too. Now.”
A big head of rumpled red hair reluctantly appeared. “We were just making some notes,” Jimmy said sulkily. “Can’t two reporters get a little work done?” The hulking redhead climbed out onto the sidewalk. He kept his eyes carefully averted. There was a fresh sheen of sweat glistening across his forehead.
“I want the tape,” Griffin said.
“What tape?” Maureen tried again.
“The tape you’re frantically copying for your lead story, which will probably be airing at any moment. It would be a shame, Maureen, if some junior reporter had to provide the vocals for the piece because you were detained behind bars.”
“You can’t arrest me! On what grounds?”
“Obstruction of justice.”
“Oh please. That’s horseshit and you know it.”
“It’s been eighteen months. My grasp of the law is a little rusty. I’ll arrest you first, then let the courts sort it out.”
Maureen started to look pissed. “Dammit, I have Fourth Amendment protection against illegal search and seizure!”
“Then it’s a good thing we’re standing next to a courthouse. I’ll stay with you. Detective Waters can run across the street and get a subpoena. Thirty minutes later not only will we still seize the tape, but I promise you that when we’re done, we’ll provide copies of the visual to every single news organization in this state. You understand? Every single one.”
“No way. That’s my scoop!”
“Yes way. That’s our evidence and once we seize it, we can do whatever we see fit.”
“Goddammit, Griffin! I liked you so much better before—” Maureen’s protest ended abruptly. She seemed to realize what she was about to say, then even she had the good grace to blush.
Griffin said nothing. He just stared at her. He’d gotten good at this stare over the last year. Sometimes, especially in the first few months after the Big Boom, he’d find himself standing in front of a mirror just staring like this. Like he was trying to look into his own eyes and get some sense of the man living there.
“I want the tape,” he repeated. “It’s evidence. And anything you do to it, including developing it or copying it, would be considered tampering with evidence. We got sixty state detectives crawling all over this one city block, Maureen, not to mention well over a hundred uniforms. Do you really think the attorney general is going to take kindly to hearing how some local reporter tampered with a potentially critical piece of evidence?”
Maureen gnawed her lower lip, looked a great deal less certain. “I want a deal,” she said abruptly.
“Why, Maureen, are you confessing to a crime?”
“We cooperate, hand over the tape—”
“You mean we seize it.”
“We hand it over. In return for some kind of consideration. An exclusive interview with the colonel.”
Griffin laughed.
“The major,” she amended.
Griffin laughed harder.
“The detective commander. Come on, Griffin. This is exclusive footage you’re taking from me. Best damn visual of my career. We deserve at least an interview. Plus, exclusive rights to the copy of the tape. No releasing it to the general population. If they didn’t look up, it’s their own fucking problem.”
“Your compassion touches me.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. What do you say? Five minutes with the detective commander, exclusive tape rights.”
“Thirty seconds, primary case officer, exclusive tape rights.”
“Three minutes.”
“One, with approval in advance of the questions. Otherwise, you’re only going to get no comment.”
Maureen scowled. She shot him a sideways glance. “Are you going to be the lead investigator, Griffin?”
“A lead investigator will be assigned when a lead investigator is assigned.”
“Because that would be a good story, you know. Rhode Island’s golden boy returning to the war. A lot of people didn’t think you’d come back after the Candy Man case. A lot of people weren’t sure you’d have the interest, and others weren’t sure you’d have the guts. Do you love the job that much, Griffin, or is it one of those things that simply gets under the skin?” She changed tactics. “I understand that he still sends you letters.”
“One minute with the primary case officer. Yes or no, Maureen. The deal is off the table in five, four, three, two—”
“Okay,” she said hastily. “Okay. One minute with the primary case officer. We’ll take it.” She sighed, devoted another moment to looking forlorn as she saw her dream of a lead five o’clock news piece go up in smoke, then got over it. “That’ll teach us not to shoot live,” she muttered. “Well, you might as well come inside. You’re going to want to see this.”
In the back of the van, Jimmy had his huge camera hooked up to an external monitor. He and Maureen hadn’t developed the tape yet, but had been running it over and ove
r again, looking for the best cut. Now Jimmy hit play one last time. The visual lasted seventy-five seconds, and it showed everything. Absolutely everything.
“How the hell did you get this?” Griffin demanded immediately, angrily. He took two steps forward before Waters could stop him, and had Maureen pressed against the control panel running along the side of the van. “Are you toying with us?”
“No, no, I swear—”
“Did you get an anonymous tip? A Deep Throat telling you something big was going down, but you just didn’t feel like sharing it with us?”
“Griffin, Griffin, you have it all wrong—”
“You never taped the ACI van! That entire footage is of the rooftop! There are eleven other news teams out on that lawn, Maureen. All of them were looking at the van, all of them were shooting the van. So why were you looking up? What the hell did you know that they didn’t?”
“I don’t know!” she cried. Her chin came up, her shoulder squared against the control panel. “I just . . . The whole morning I kept thinking someone was watching me. I’m not kidding. I had shivers down my spine, hairs going up on the nape of my neck. No matter where I went, what I did, I could just feel . . . something. Then, I heard a shout that the van was coming, so I started to adjust my mike and I . . . I looked up. One last time. At the roof. I swore I saw a movement. So I hit Jimmy on the arm and told him to shoot the roof. Now.”
“I thought she was nuts,” Jimmy spoke up from the rear. “But hey, it’s not like a shot of the outside of a blue van is anything special. So I focused on the roof of the courthouse and well, what do you know? This guy pops up and opens fire. Really damn freaky. I figure we could get national coverage out of this.”
“Awards,” Maureen spoke up. “Definitely awards.” The light in her eyes had gone full glow again. Pressed against the side of the van, she shivered.
Very slowly, Griffin stepped back. His hands were still fisted at his sides. He worked now on letting his fingers go, forcing his shoulders to come down and his breathing to relax. He felt suddenly disgusted. And he was aware for the first time that Waters was watching him nervously. Maureen and Jimmy, too. Everyone was probably thinking about that damn basement. Maybe they should.
