White media vans choked off the main artery of South Main Street. Choppers flooded the air. He’d already figured that most of the local news stations had sent reporters to cover the opening day of Eddie Como’s trial. Apparently, at the first sound of rifle fire, the reporters had yelled a collective yippee and called in every station resource they could muster. Now if only the police could manage such great coverage of the scene.
Griffin drove his car up onto the curb, parking on cobblestones that technically formed a courtyard around one of the RISD buildings. Three students hastily scrambled out of his way, cursing. About four dozen more remained rooted in place, staring awestruck at the unfolding drama.
Climbing out of his Taurus, Griffin was immediately assaulted by the acrid stench of burning gas and scorched metal. Thick black smoke poured out of the parking lot just across the street, where men were frantically shouting orders and shooting four streams of water onto a mangled heap of flame-covered autos. The state fire marshal was already there, along with a collection of rescue vehicles and illegally parked police cars. A slew of Providence detectives stood alongside the fire marshal, waiting for the firemen to squelch the flames so they could move in to secure the scene.
“Jesus,” Griffin muttered, coughing twice, then wishing he hadn’t because it sucked more of the smoke into his lungs. Plus, this close, he caught another, richer smell underlying the odor of gasoline.
Griffin turned toward the courthouse on his right and found more chaos. Reporters, hastily contained on the grassy lawn of the memorial park, strained against blue police barricades and shouted questions in the ears of the poor Providence cops assigned to stand guard. Across from them, an ambulance was perched on the courthouse curb, along with the ME’s van and more police cars than Griffin could count. Providence, state, marked, unmarked, even one belonging to Brown University’s campus police. Apparently if you wore a badge, you were now part of this party.
Griffin shook his head. He pushed his way through the swelling crowd of city gawkers as a young officer in a Providence uniform and slicked-back black hair spotted him from across the street and jogged over to meet him.
“Sergeant!”
“Hey, Bentley. Imagine meeting you here.” Bentley played softball with Griffin’s younger brother, Jon. For the record, the state’s team had creamed their corn three years in a row.
Bentley pulled up in front of Griffin, looking a little jazzed. Griffin didn’t blame him. In all his years, he hadn’t seen anything like this. He kept thinking he’d stepped out of his car into LA. All they needed now was a movie producer hawking film rights on the nearest street corner.
“I’m first responder,” Bentley said in a rush. “I was across the river on patrol. Heard the rifle crack myself and stepped on the gas. My God, you shoulda seen the press. I thought they were gonna scale the courtyard fence to get more photos. We spent the first five minutes just getting them under control, never mind looking for the shooter.”
“No kidding?” First responder. Griffin was suitably impressed. “You’ll be the stuff of legends,” he assured the young Providence cop as he headed across the street with Bentley in tow. “So what do we got?”
“One down, Eddie Como, DOA at the scene. Shot was fired shortly after eight-thirty A.M. as he was unloaded from the ACI van. According to initial reports, it was a rifle shot from the roof. Five, ten minutes later, an explosion came from the RISD parking lot.”
“Car bomb?”
“Fire marshal isn’t saying anything yet, but between you and me, five cars are wrecked, so I’m guessing that’s a safe bet.”
“Fatalities?”
“Don’t know. Scene’s too hot. I saw what looked like an arm, though, so there’s at least one victim. Plus there’s the, well . . .”
“Smell,” Griffin filled in for him.
“Yeah.” Bentley swallowed heavily.
“Uniforms searching the area?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stopping anyone with an overcoat?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any luck?”
“No, sir.”
Griffin nodded. “Yeah, your arm probably belongs to a guy who used to be good with a rifle. Didn’t anyone ever tell him there’s no honor among thieves?”
“Sounds like the Mafia,” Bentley volunteered.
Griffin shrugged. “What does the Mafia care about the College Hill Rapist? Dunno. One thing at a time. I gotta go here. Keep us posted on the search, okay?”
Griffin had arrived at the yellow crime-scene tape. Across the street, several of the reporters spotted him and a fresh shout went up.
“Sergeant, Sergeant—”
“Hey, Griffin!”
Griffin ignored them, focusing instead on the state uniform posted outside the yellow tape. Griffin didn’t recognize the female officer, who was now asking his name, rank and badge number for the crime-scene logbook. Of course, in eighteen months, some things were bound to change. He told himself that was all right, though the thought left him feeling uncomfortable. Work was work. Just like riding a bike. He ducked beneath the tape.
Inside the enclosed courtyard, he saw several things at once. The blue ACI van pulled over to the left, doors still open and the interior emptied out. Three gray-clad state marshals standing to the right, talking to another Major Crimes detective. A strung-out row of blue- and khaki-suited prisoners still shackled together and now seated on the ground. In the middle was a really big pool of blood, topped by what was left of Eddie Como’s body. The guy shackled to the left of Como’s body was covered in blood and brains and sat in stunned silence. The guy to the right was also covered in blood and brains, but he wouldn’t shut up.
“No way. No fuckin’ way. Not happening. Really, really not happening. Why are we still tied up, man? I mean, like we’re really going to run off right now. Because of course this isn’t happening. Really not happening. Get these fucking things off me!”
The state marshals ignored him. So did Jack-n-Jack, the crime techs from CIU. Both were already moving around the flagstone courtyard with a digital camera, capturing the scene. Deeper in, the two death investigators from the ME’s office were also diligently recording their findings. At the moment, they were standing over what might have been a man’s jaw.
“Hey, Griffin,” Jack Cappelli said, finally looking up.
“Look at you,” Jack Needham said, also looking up. “Ooooh, that’s gotta be Italian.”
Griffin obligingly ran a hand down the silk-wool blend of his blue-gray sports coat. Cindy had picked it out for him. It had been one of her favorites. “Of course. Nothing but the best for this job. Now tell me the truth. Did you miss me?”
“Absolutely,” they said in unison.
“Jack killed your plant, Griffin,” the first Jack piped up.
“Can’t prove it,” the second Jack said.
“Bet I can. I shot a round of black-and-whites documenting the scene.”
“In other words,” Griffin deduced, “it’s been a little slow lately.”
They both nodded glumly. Then the first Jack perked up again. “But not anymore. Hey, do us a favor. Kill those choppers, Griff.”
“Yeah, they’re messing with our scene, Griff.”
Griffin obligingly looked up at the swarm of media helicopters buzzing the sky, then grimaced. Media choppers were such a pain in the ass. If it wasn’t bad enough to have to worry about an overly aggressive photographer capturing some sensational image of the victim, the wash from the rotor blades ruined half the evidence. He picked up his radio to contact the State Aeronautics Department just as the guy shackled to the left of Como’s body raised his hand to his blood-spattered face.
“Stop!” Jack-n-Jack ordered as a single unit. “No touching! Remember, you are part of the crime scene. We need your face to analyze spray.”
“Ahhhhhhh,” the guy said.
Jack-n-Jack looked at him and snapped a fresh photo.
Griffin suppressed a grin. Yea
h, just like old times. You know, other than the fact that they’d never had an assassination at the state courthouse before. He finished securing the airspace above the judicial complex, then returned his attention to Jack-n-Jack.
“What do we got?”
“Single head shot. Entrance wound top of the skull. Exit wound beneath the chin. No sign of powder burns. We’re guessing a rifle with a soft-point slug, which would provide enough force to penetrate the skull and enough spread to do . . . well, to do that.”
Jack-n-Jack pointed to the body. It was a good thing Griffin had seen Eddie Como’s face on TV, because he definitely couldn’t see it now. Soft-point bullets expanded on impact, creating a wonderful mushrooming effect.
“So a steeply vertical rifle shot.” Griffin looked up. A rooftop sniper would be consistent with initial reports. Unfortunately, from this angle inside the courtyard, he couldn’t see anything tucked back from the roofline six stories up. That didn’t bode well for witnesses. On the other hand, that’s why they paid him the big bucks. He pulled out his Norelco mini-recorder and focused on the five shackled prisoners.
“Anybody,” he said. “I’m pretty sure all of you could use the brownie points.”
None of the guys looked particularly impressed. Finally, the first guy shook his head.
“Man, we don’t know nothin’. We were just climbing out of the van and then boom! We hear this crack like fuckin’ lightning overhead and the next instant, we all get yanked off our feet. Look back and Eddie’s on the ground, state marshals are yelling gun, gun, and Jazz here”—the first guy gave the kid shackled to the right of Eddie’s body a derisive glance—“is already screaming, ‘I’ve been hit, I’ve been hit.’ Course he ain’t been hit. He’s just wearing most of Eddie’s brains.”
Griffin looked down the inmate line. They all nodded. This seemed to be the official summary of events. He glanced back up at the roofline, trying to figure out if he should separate them all and push the issue. Not worth it, he decided. Even knowing there were two crime-scene techs on the roof, he couldn’t see a damn thing from this angle. Across the street, on the other hand . . .
A voice came over the radios secured to Jack-n-Jack’s waists.
“We got a gun,” a crime-scene tech reported from the roof. “AR15 assault rifle with a Leupold scope, two-twenty-three Remingtons in the magazine. Also have three Army blankets, black coveralls, a pair of shooting gloves, and a pair of shoes. Oh, and three empty wrappers from snack-sized packages of Fig Newtons. Apparently our guy didn’t just want ordinary cookies, but fruit and cake.”
“Cigarette butts?” one Jack asked hopefully.
“No cigarette butts,” the tech reported back. “Sorry, Jack.”
“Bummer.” The first Jack looked at the second Jack morosely. Cigarette butts contained such a wealth of information, from brand specifics to DNA-yielding saliva.
“Cheer up,” Griffin said supportively. “You have shoes. Think of everything you can get from shoes.”
The Jacks brightened again. “We like shoes,” they agreed. “We can do things with shoes.”
Griffin gave the pair another encouraging nod, then walked over to the state marshals. Detective Mike Waters had the three men huddled around his Norelco Pocket Memo, making official statements.
“Griffin!” the first marshal said. He pulled back from the recorder long enough to vigorously pump Griffin’s hand.
“Hey, Jerry. How are you?” Heavyset with thinning gray hair, Jerry was an old-timer with the state marshals. He’d helped train Griffin’s older brother, Frank. Then again, Jerry had helped train just about everyone in the gray uniform.
“Fine, fine,” Jerry was saying. “Well, okay, could be better. Jesus, I heard you were coming back but I didn’t realize it would be today of all days. You always could pick ’em, Griff. Hey, you actin’ as ringleader of this circus?”
“Nah, just another working stiff. Hey, George. Hey, Tom.” Griffin shook the other two men’s hands as well. Beside him, Detective Waters cleared his throat. Griffin belatedly turned toward his fellow officer. Mike Waters was five years Griffin’s junior. He was tall and lanky, with a penchant for navy blue suits that made him look like an aspiring FBI agent. He was smart though, deceptively strong and thoughtfully quiet. A lot of suspects underestimated him. They never got a chance to make that same mistake twice.
There had been a time when Griffin would have greeted Mike with a hearty “Cousin Stinky!” And there had been a time when Waters would have responded with a booming “Cousin Ugly!” That time was gone now. One of the open questions in Griffin’s life was would that time come again.
“Sergeant,” Waters said, nodding in greeting.
“Detective,” Griffin replied. The three state marshals perked up, gaze going from officer to officer. They had probably heard the story. For that matter, they had probably helped spread the story. Griffin tried but couldn’t quite keep his gaze from going to Waters’s nose. That was okay. Waters’s gaze had gone to Griffin’s fist.
Both men jerked their eyes back to the marshals. The silence had gone on too long, grown awkward. Griffin thought, Shit.
Waters cleared his throat again. “So as you guys were saying . . .”
“Oh yeah.” Jerry picked up the story. “We secured the courtyard.”
“We opened the van doors,” George supplied.
“We took up position,” Tom filled in. “Started the unloading—”
“Boom!”
“Ka-boom!” George amended.
“Definitely a high-powered rifle. Nice sharp crack. I honestly thought for a second that someone was shooting deer.”
“Then I saw red. Literally. Stuff sprayed everywhere.”
“Kid dropped straight down. Dead before he hit the ground. You hear about this stuff, but I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I yelled ‘gun.’ ”
“He did. Jerry yelled ‘gun,’ we all dropped into a crouch. You know, with the sun coming up behind the roof like that, you just can’t see a damn thing. Scariest goddamn moment of my life.”
“I thought I saw movement. Maybe somebody running. That’s it, though.”
“Then we could hear all the reporters yelling across the street. ‘On the roof,’ they were shouting. ‘There he goes, there he goes.’ ”
“Distinguishing features?” Waters prodded. “Height, weight?”
“Couldn’t even make out if it was a man or woman,” Jerry said bluntly. “I’m telling you, it was more like catching the flash of a silhouette. Moved fast though. Definitely one well-conditioned sniper.”
Waters gave the marshal a look. “‘One well-conditioned sniper,’ huh? Well, let me run straight to my lieutenant with that. I mean, by God, Jerry, let’s get out the APB.”
The three marshals squirmed. “Sorry, guys,” Jerry finally said with a shrug, “but from here . . . Look up yourself. You can’t see a damn thing.”
“Try the reporters, though,” George spoke up. “They had a much better vantage point. Hey, they might have even gotten the guy on film.”
The three marshals, not above getting a little revenge after they’d been put in the hot seat, smiled at them. While they’d been talking, the roar from the reporters had grown even louder outside the courthouse. Now they sounded kind of like King Kong—right before he burst his chains.
Waters sighed. Looked miserable. Then morosely hung his head. He hated the press. Last time he and Griffin had worked together, he’d let a statement slip within a reporter’s earshot and paid for that mistake for weeks. Besides, as he’d later confided to Griffin, his butt looked even bonier on camera. Two fine citizens had written letters to the editor requesting that somebody in the Rhode Island police department start feeding him.
“Are you sure you didn’t see anything?” he prodded the state marshals one last time.
The state marshals shook their heads, this time a bit gleefully. But then, Jerry, kind-hearted bastard that he was, took pity on him. r />
“If you don’t want to mess with the press, you can always go straight to the women,” Jerry said.
“The women?” Griffin spoke up.
“Yeah, the three women Eddie attacked. Haven’t you seen them on the news?”
“Oh, those women,” Griffin said, though in fact he hadn’t watched the news in months and knew very little about the College Hill rape case.
“Let’s face it,” Jerry was saying. “If anyone has reason to turn Eddie into liver pâté, it’s the three ladies. My money’s on the last one, the business one, what’s her name? Jillian Hayes. Yeah, she’s a cool one, could kill a man with her eyes alone. Plus, after what Eddie did to her sister . . .”
“No, no, no,” George interrupted. “The Hayes woman wasn’t even raped. You want to know who did it, it was the second one, Carol Rosen, the high-society wife from the East Side. My brother’s wife works in the ER at Women & Infants and she was there the night they brought in Mrs. Rosen. Man, the things Eddie had done to her. It’s a miracle she didn’t need plastic surgery to repair her face. Twenty to one, the shooter wore pearls.”
“You’re both wrong,” Tom spoke up. “One, no way some woman made this shot. Like an ad executive or rich socialite is going to go climbing all over the courthouse roof with an assault rifle. Key to this shooting is the first victim. The pretty young coed, Pesaturo—”
“Oh, leave the girl alone.” Jerry looked stern. “Meg Pesaturo doesn’t even remember anything. ’Sides, she’s just a kid.”
“She says she doesn’t remember anything. But that always sounded pretty fishy to me. Maybe she just wanted to keep it private. A family matter. And you know who her family is.” Tom gave them all an expectant look. They obligingly leaned forward, even Griffin. Law enforcement officers were never above a bit of juicy gossip.
“Vinnie Pesaturo,” Tom said, in the waiting hush. “Yeah, the Carlone family’s favorite bookie. If Vinnie wanted something done, you can be sure it got done. So maybe pretty little Meg doesn’t remember anything. Or maybe she’s adopting the party line, while Vinnie sets everything in motion. A rooftop sniper, a nearby explosion. Oh yeah, this has got the Carlone family written all over it. Mark my words, Meg Pesaturo is the one.”