“Live and learn,” Griffin agreed. He returned to the initial string of rapes, still trying to get a sense of that investigation and how they’d gone from one victim with amnesia to an arrest two months later. “Okay,” he said. “So after the first rape, you didn’t have Eddie Como in mind. You didn’t have anyone in mind.”
“After the first rape, we were chasing our tails. We went through the drill. Looked at past boyfriends, rattled the sex-offender tree—who had been recently released from the ACI, who might live in the area, etc., etc. Frankly, Meg didn’t date much, and all the known perverts were doing other perversions at the time. Probably watching Sex and the City on HBO. None of them go out as much now that they have cable.”
“But then came the attack on the East Side.”
“Right. Four weeks after the Pesaturo rape came the attack on the East Side.”
“Quite a different neighborhood,” Griffin observed.
“It’s also a college area,” Fitz said, but then shook his head. “Yeah, attack number two had some key differences. Carol Rosen’s a forty-two-year-old housewife, not a college coed. She lives with her husband in an old Victorian house, which isn’t exactly the same as a college apartment. Finally, and this is probably the most significant difference, the level of violence was way up. According to the sexual assault nurse, Meg Pesaturo suffered only vaginal penetration, with minor lacerations on her wrists, ankles and mouth from the tourniquets. No sign of beating, and more importantly, no bruising around her throat. With Meg, Eddie apparently got in, got it done and got out.
“Carol Rosen, on the other hand, suffered vaginal and anal penetration. She had bruises on her breasts and buttocks, multiple contusions on her face, multiple lacerations on the inside of her thighs, plus he started flirting with asphyxiation, squeezing her throat so hard he left bruises from his fingertips. He also tied her up so tightly that she still has scars on her wrists and ankles. On a relative scale of things, Meg was lucky. Carol was not.”
“But you’re sure it’s the same guy?”
“Ten latex strips,” Fitz said. “One DNA sample. Oh yeah, it was Eddie again.”
“And where was the husband through all this?”
“Dan Rosen works as an attorney, corporate stuff. He just opened his own practice a few years ago and keeps long hours. He didn’t get home until after midnight, which was when he discovered his wife tied to their bed. We called in uniforms, we tried a canvass, but once again we had no description and once again we had no luck.”
Griffin frowned. “Wait a minute. The first victim has a roommate who just happens to work that night, second victim has a husband who also happens to work late. Does this mean what I think it means?”
“We think he watched the victims beforehand,” Fitz agreed. “He targeted them at the blood drives, then he spent some time doing his homework, hence the lapse of time between when he first saw them and when he attacked. Now, this theory works well when we look at Meg and Trish, who were blood donors. We get in trouble with Carol Rosen, however, because she didn’t actually participate in any blood drives. In her case, we think she was a last-minute substitute. A pretty brunette college student who fits Eddie’s ‘type’ lived just one block away. She’d donated blood during the campus drive, and she remembers someone ringing the buzzer of her apartment that night. She wasn’t expecting anyone, though, so she refused to open the door. Good news for her. Not so good for Carol.”
“That doesn’t explain the husband being gone,” Griffin pressed.
“Hey, you think I have all the answers to life? Maybe in the course of watching the brunette, Eddie also noticed that Carol Rosen pretty much lived alone. Maybe he simply saw Carol’s open bedroom window, conveniently located above the wraparound porch, and decided to go for it. He was hungry. He’d psyched himself up for a big meal and then lo and behold, he’d been denied service. Besides, Eddie was capable of lifting two hundred pounds. Climbing onto a porch overhang was probably nothing to him. And if the woman’s husband was also at home . . . Eddie probably figured he could handle it. After all, it’s late at night, and he’s got a little bit of adrenaline firing through his veins . . .”
“Which he then took out on Mrs. Rosen. So maybe Como was very unhappy at having to change plans. Or maybe he was building to something more.”
“Maybe.” Fitz slanted Griffin a look. “Jillian Hayes was also beaten very badly. Not her sister, but then again, Jillian interrupted that party. I don’t know. It seemed to me after Carol Rosen’s attack that we had a sexual predator with a rapidly escalating penchant for violence. And I thought . . . I thought if we didn’t catch the guy soon, we’d end up with someone dead. Unfortunately, that day came before even I expected. Eddie Como attacked Trisha Hayes just two weeks later. The guy took hardly any time off at all.”
Griffin nodded grimly. “Too bad.”
“Yeah,” the Providence detective said gruffly. “Too bad.”
“So how did you finally determine the perpetrator was Eddie Como?”
“Process of elimination. Once we homed in on the blood-donor angle, we got a list of names from the Rhode Island Blood Center of who worked the relevant blood drives. Lucky for us, the majority of phlebotomists are female. So once we focused on the males we were looking at only ten suspects. Then we started pushing.” Fitz rattled off on his fingers. “One, Eddie had access to two of the victims’ home addresses, plus plenty of latex tourniquets. Two, while Eddie’s not the biggest guy you’ll ever meet, he’s shockingly strong. Used to be a champion wrestler in high school and still likes to work out with weights. Eddie is . . . was . . . five eight and one hundred fifty pounds, but he could bench-press over two hundred. Let’s face it, that’s someone with some muscle. Of course, once we got a DNA sample from him, that cinched it.”
“How’d you get the sample?”
“We asked.”
Griffin stared at him. “You asked, and he just gave it to you? No lawyering up? No pleading the fifth? No claiming illegal search and seizure?”
From behind the steering wheel, Fitz smiled. It was a predator’s smile. “Let me tell you something else about the rapes that very few people know. Eddie thought he was smart. In fact, Eddie thought he was so smart that in fact he was dumb, but now I’m getting ahead of myself. See, Eddie had a book on forensics. Apparently, he’d bought it on-line and thought it made him a bit of an expert. He was pretty good at a lot of it. Three rapes later, we had no hair, no fiber, no fingerprints. Not even tool marks. We think he used social engineering, because in none of the attacks did we find any evidence of breaking and entering. So okay, the kid did all right. But he made one mistake.”
“No condom?”
“No condom. He thought he had a better idea. Berkely and Johnson’s Disposable Douche with Country Flowers.”
“What?”
“Yeah, exactly. See, Eddie had been following the Motyka case—we found newspaper articles of that trial in his apartment. Do you remember the Motyka case?”
Griffin had to think about it. “Tiverton, right? Some handyman who had been doing work on a woman’s house broke back in, raped her, murdered her, then put her body in a bathtub.”
“Yeah. During the trial, the prosecutor argued that Motyka thought immersing the body in water would wash away the semen. Of course it didn’t, they matched the sample to him, and now he’s spending the rest of his life behind bars. Because semen goes up in the body. Because you need more than simple bathwater to wash it out.”
“Something like a douche,” Griffin filled in.
“That’s what Eddie believed. But he wasn’t thinking straight. Sure, a douche can wash out a lot of the semen, but it’s just rinsing it onto the sheet. And when we process a rape case, we don’t just collect samples from the victim, we also collect samples from the sheet. A couple of lab tests later . . .”
“So Como thinks he’s come up with the perfect way of beating DNA, hence he’s not worried about providing a sample, but oops, he’s no
t so good after all.”
Fitz nodded. “There you have it.”
“That’s not a bad plan,” Griffin said honestly. “He have any priors?”
“Nope.”
“History of violence with girlfriends?”
“Nope. In fact, his girlfriend was going to be the primary witness for the defense. She claims Eddie’s really a kindhearted, sensitive guy who wouldn’t hurt a flea, plus she was with him the nights there were attacks.”
“He had an alibi?” Griffin asked with surprise.
Fitz rolled his eyes. “No, he had a pregnant girlfriend who wasn’t interested in the father of her child ending up behind bars. Trust me, we looked into it. We never found another witness who could corroborate seeing Eddie at home those nights. Plus, we still had the DNA. If Eddie was really watching Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, then how did his DNA end up at not one, or two, but three crime scenes?”
Griffin bobbed his head from side to side. Fitz had a point. “So the big break came when you made the connection with the blood drives?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
Griffin narrowed his eyes. Okay, now he had it. “And this club, the Survivors Club, they helped you with that.”
“Jillian Hayes knew her sister had donated two weeks before the attack. She mentioned it because of the latex strips. We went back to check, and sure enough, good ol’ amnesiac Meg had also donated one month prior to being raped. That was the first link we had between the victims. And yeah, everything finally fell into place after that.”
Fitz pulled the car over and parked next to the curb. “We’re here,” he said.
Griffin looked out the window. They had arrived at the rue de l’espoir, a chic little café on Hope Street. Cindy had liked rue de l’espoir. Griffin, on the other hand, preferred its next-door neighbor, Big Alice’s, which served the city’s best ice cream.
Fitz cut the engine. Now that they were here, he was back to looking uptight, a territorial detective claiming his turf. “Here are the ground rules,” he announced. “As the youngest and quietest, Meg’s the weakest member of the group. She also knows the least, so pressuring her doesn’t do any good. Carol’s the most prone to outbursts. I don’t think she’s dealing so well with the attack, and I get the impression it hasn’t done wonders for her marriage. If we play our cards right, we might get something out of her. But here’s the kicker. Jillian runs this show. She organized the group, she dictates the agenda. And she—if you’ll pardon the phrase—has balls of steel. Piss her off, and the interview’s done. She’ll clam up, they’ll clam up and we’ll all end up wasting our time. So the name of the game is prodding just enough to make Carol say something before Jillian gets fed up and sends us packing.”
“You’re anticipating an antagonistic interview.” Which was interesting, because Fitz supposedly had a rapport with these women. After a year of working their cases, he was their police guardian, protector, friend.
“I think these women won’t be losing any sleep over Eddie Como’s murder,” Fitz said carefully. “And I think, even if they are completely innocent, they won’t care for any investigation into the events surrounding his death. Eddie Como . . . he was scum. Now he’s dead scum. How much are any of us supposed to care?”
“Do you think one of them hired the shooter?” Griffin asked bluntly.
Fitz sighed. “None of them are proficient with firearms,” he said finally. “If they wanted Eddie dead, they would require outside help.”
“But do you think they are capable of ordering a hit?”
Fitz hesitated again. “I think they’re rape survivors. And as rape survivors, they are capable of many things they never thought of before.”
“Even killing a man?”
“Wouldn’t you? Come on.” Fitz popped open his door. “Let’s get moving while we’re still one step ahead of the press.”
CHAPTER 10
The Survivors Club, cont’d
INSIDE THE RESTAURANT, IT WAS EASY TO SPOT THE women. They sat alone in a corner, huddled over gigantic red mugs, trying to ignore other people’s curious stares. Taking in the three, Griffin had several impressions at once. First, Como had good taste in women. They were a startlingly attractive group: two older, one younger, as if two former models were having lunch with the next generation of talent. Second, all three women were clutching their oversized mugs much harder than necessary. Third, and most interesting, none of the women seemed surprised that Fitz was there.
Fitz walked over to the table. The other patrons had started to whisper. He didn’t pay them any attention.
“Jillian. Carol. Meg.” He nodded at each of the women in turn. Much more slowly, they nodded back. Fitz didn’t say anything more. Neither did the women, and the silence immediately stretched long. Griffin had to admit he was impressed by everyone’s composure. He let them engage in their staring contest while he did his own sizing up.
Meg Pesaturo looked almost exactly as he’d pictured her. Pesaturo was an old Italian name, and she looked it, with her golden skin, long brown hair and dark gleaming eyes. She was dressed casually this morning, jeans and a brown T-shirt. Definitely the youngster of the group. She was also the first to break eye contact.
In contrast, victim number two, Carol Rosen, looked like middle-aged money. Upswept blond hair, heavily painted blue eyes, pale designer suit. She sat stiffly, back straight, shoulders square. She’d probably gone to some kind of finishing school where girls learned how to drink tea with their pinkies in the air and never let their husbands see them cry. She returned Fitz’s stare with overbright eyes, her lips pressed into a bloodless line and her body quivering with tension.
Griffin had to suppress the urge to take her jogging with him. Or throw her into the boxing ring. He was probably oversensitive, given his own state, but Fitz had been right about this one. She wasn’t coping well. Maybe she thought she was, but take it from an expert. Carol Rosen was heading for a Big Boom of her own, and when it came, she was going down hard.
He wondered if her husband could read the signs. And if he could, had he been willing to trade Eddie Como’s life for his wife’s peace of mind?
He turned his gaze to the last member of the group. Jillian Hayes. Never actually raped, but beaten and otherwise victimized. Ad hoc leader. Grieving sister. And at the moment, as cool as a crisp fall day.
She was much older than he’d anticipated, given the young age of her sister. He’d thought she would be mid-twenties, but she looked closer to mid-thirties, a mature woman comfortable in her own skin. She sat loosely, wearing a tan pants suit with a white linen vest. Her thick brown hair was pulled back in a clip at the nape of her neck. She wore simple gold hoops in her ears, and a chain bearing some kind of medallion around her neck. No rings on her fingers. Short, manicured nails.
Stupid thought for the day—he found himself thinking that Cindy would like that suit.
Man, he wanted to go running now. And then he realized that Jillian Hayes was no longer looking at Fitz. Instead, her brown/gold/green eyes were staring straight at him.
“You’re from the state,” she said. A statement, not a question.
“Detective Sergeant Roan Griffin,” he supplied. Fitz shot him a dark look. Maybe he’d wanted the pleasure of making the introductions. Fuck him. It was now out of their hands.
“Tell us what happened,” she said. An order, not a statement.
“We have a few questions,” Fitz began.
“Tell us what happened.”
“What makes you think something happened?” Griffin spoke up, earning another scowl from Fitz.
“Why else would you be here?”
Good point. Griffin glanced at Fitz, understanding now that this really was going to be fun, so hey, here you go, Fitz. Run the show. Fitz did not look amused.
“We need to know where you were around eight-thirty this morning,” Fitz said.
Jillian shrugged. Actually, she raised one shoulder in a cool gesture that was as dismissi
ve as it was submissive. Fitz was right—she was clearly the spokesperson of this group. The other two women didn’t even open their mouths but simply waited for her to address the question.
“We were here,” she said. “Together. The three of us. As most of this restaurant can attest. Now, Detective, please tell us what has happened.”
“There was an incident,” Fitz said carefully. “Eddie Como is dead.”
Griffin and Fitz simultaneously tensed, waiting for the coming reactions. Griffin homed in on Meg: she’d be the most likely to give something away. But if she was a co-conspirator, she was a damn good one. Because at the moment she appeared mostly confused. She cocked her head to the side, as if listening to something inside her brain.
Carol, on the other hand, released her pent-up breath as a sharp hiss. She leaned forward and grabbed the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip.
“Are you sure?” she demanded.
“What do you mean?” Fitz asked.
“Have you seen his body?”
“Yeah,” Griffin replied. “I’ve seen the body.”
She turned on him fiercely. “Tell me. I want every detail. How he looked. How long it took. Was he in pain? Was it horrible? Was it bloody? I want every detail.”
“We’re not at liberty to discuss the case—” Fitz began.
“I want every detail!”
The other patrons turned to stare again. Griffin didn’t blame them. Carol was definitely wound a wee bit tight. Not enough blood in the world to satiate her lust. And probably not enough justice to right her wrong.
“It was quick,” Griffin said.
“Fuck!” Carol cried.
Okay, maybe Maureen had a point about her. Griffin amused himself by waiting to see who would do what next. Jillian Hayes simply raised her mug and took a sip of chai, her expression carefully blank. Meg Pesaturo still had her head cocked, listening to something only she could hear. Only Carol appeared agitated. She remained breathing too hard, her hands gripping the edge of the table while she waited for something, anything, to make her feel better about things. Maybe Griffin should’ve lied and told her that Eddie Como had been shot to pieces one limb at a time. She would probably sleep better at night.