The Survivors Club

Chapter 12

“WELL, THEY CERTAINLY HAVE THEIR ACT TOGETHER.”

“Jillian, Carol and Meg?” Fitz was once more navigating his battered Ford Taurus through narrow city streets. He glanced over at Griffin from behind the steering wheel. “Don't let them fool you. It's been a rough year. I've seen them all break down a time or two.”

“Even Jillian Hayes?”

“Well”-Fitz had to think about it-“maybe not Jillian.”

“The sister was quite a bit younger than her. Fifteen, sixteen years? Seems like they might have had less of a sibling relationship and more of a parent-child.”

“Possibly. The mother, Olivia, isn't well. Had a stroke several years back and has been wheelchair-bound ever since. Jillian takes care of her with the help of a live-in aide.”

“So Jillian's been the head of the family?”

Fitz shrugged. “She's thirty-six, you know. It's not that tragic.”

“No. I'm just thinking… It's hard enough to lose a sibling. But thanks to Eddie, Jillian lost both her sister and her surrogate child. That's gotta be hard.” Griffin thought about Cindy. “That's gotta make you mad,” he added gruffly. “Truly, royally pissed off.”

Fitz was looking at him strangely. “Guess I hadn't thought about that.”

“She was dressed nicely,” Griffin said, more neutrally. “What does she do?”

“She owns a small marketing firm. It's fairly successful, but she also has some other assets. You follow blues music at all? Her mom, Olivia Hayes, was a fairly well known singer in her day. She banked hundreds of thousands, and Jillian has turned it into millions.”

Griffin 's eyes widened. “That would certainly buy an assassin or two.”

“It would.”

“She's cool enough.” Griffin 's tone was goading. He knew Fitz hated this topic.

Fitz didn't say anything.

“In her own words, she's grateful,” Griffin pressed.

Fitz flexed his hands on the steering wheel, remained quiet.

“She's also got the most powerful motive, and apparently she's been studying her best defense.”

“She doesn't outsource,” Fitz said abruptly. “All right? I've spent a year with the woman. Hell, she didn't even trust us to catch her sister's killer without her. Ask D'Amato how many phone calls he received from her each day. Ask my lieutenant how often she personally stopped by. Why do you think she formed the Survivors Club? Why do you think she spent so much time in front of the press? What Jillian wants, Jillian goes out and gets.”

“Why, Fitz, it almost sounds like you like her.”

Fitz growled behind the steering wheel. “Don't make me kill you, Griffin.”

Griffin had to smile at that. Even if Fitz managed to land a blow, he'd probably just break his hand. “So personally, you're not betting on Jillian Hayes?”

“If Jillian really wanted Eddie Como dead, she would've pulled the trigger herself.”

“Even if she wasn't proficient in firearms?”

“She'd hire a teacher and learn. First day she came into my office, she was carrying a crime-scene textbook, and Robert Ressler's book on sex offenders. After we learned of the DNA match on Eddie Como, she asked our BCI sergeant for a recommended reading list on DNA testing. I'm pretty sure she now knows more than most of our crime-scene techs. The woman can be annoying, but she's never dumb.”

“So who do you like for the shooting?”

Fitz thinned his lips. He definitely didn't want to have this conversation. Griffin understood. After the last year, suspecting one of the women was, for Fitz, like suspecting a fellow cop.

“Uncle Vinnie,” Fitz said grudgingly.

“An enraged uncle with Mafia ties. I can see that. Though personally, I'm still interested in Meg. That amnesia thing. Something about that bugs me.”

“A girl can't forget?”

“Her entire life?”

“Rape is a powerful trauma.”

“Yeah, but it also happened a year ago, and trauma-induced amnesia is supposed to get better with time.”

“Whose idea of time? I know vets still suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome and it's been thirty years since the Vietnam War. You need as long as you need, simple as that.” Fitz was looking at him sideways again. Griffin wasn't an idiot.

“Personally,” he said lightly, “I don't think anyone should need more than eighteen months.”

Fitz rolled his eyes, but apparently decided not to pursue the subject. “Dan Rosen,” he said abruptly.

“Carol's husband?”

“Yeah. I've interviewed the guy half a dozen times and I don't know… There's something about him I don't like. He thinks too much before he speaks. You can practically see the wheels turning in his head as he picks each word, weighs each syllable. For God's sake, I know the man's a lawyer, but his wife was raped in their bedroom. It's bad enough he didn't come home to help her. The least he could do now is stop mincing words.”

“They have money?”

“Nah, they got a house that bleeds them dry. At least that's how it looked a year ago when we pulled financials. Back then the practice was pretty new and the house freshly renovated. In other words, they had plenty of assets and not a dime to spare. Maybe his practice is doing better by now, maybe not.”

“And assets can always be turned to cash,” Griffin pointed out.

“True.”

“What about Jillian Hayes's family?”

“What family?” Fitz shrugged. “She's got an ailing mother and a live-in adult-care aide. That's it.”

“That's it? No father?”

“Nope. I get the impression that her mom only rented men, never bought.”

“She and Trisha were half sisters then?”

“Yep.”

“And what about the men in Jillian's life? Was she seeing anyone seriously at the time of the attack?”

“Not that she mentioned.”

“And now?”

Fitz slid him another look. “Getting awfully personal, aren't you, Griff?”

“Just making conversation.” Griffin drummed his fingertips on the dash. “Hey, Fitz, where are we going?”

“As long as I have backup, we're paying a visit to Eddie's mom.”

Ten minutes later Fitz and Griffin arrived at the Como residence. This time, they hadn't beaten the press. Two oversized news vans were already clogging the tiny street of the rundown residential neighborhood. A bank of microphones dominated the postage-stamp-sized yard. Fitz and Griffin didn't see any members of Eddie Como's family outside yet, but that didn't mean anything. Either they'd just finished giving a statement or they were about to speak to the press. Either way, it didn't bode well for Griffin or Fitz.

“Eddie's mother hates me,” Fitz announced, parking his Taurus up on the crumbling curb. “Eddie's father died when he was a kid, or he would probably hate me, too. Now, however, it's just his mom, his girlfriend and his baby. Oh, and the girlfriend, Tawnya, she bites.”

Griffin, who was about to pop open the car door, stopped and stared at Fitz.

“Bites?”

“Yeah. And sometimes she scratches, too. She's got these nails. They're about three inches long. She likes to paint them with little palm trees and flamingos. Then she sharpens them into points, so that you're thinking about Key West right before she goes for your eyes.”

“Is there a back door?”

“A kitchen door.”

“Good, because we absolutely, positively, can't have that kind of reunion scene in front of the press.”

Fitz looked down the street at the news vans. “Good point. No wonder they pay you state boys the big bucks.”

Griffin opened his door. “We also get better cars.”

He and Fitz had no sooner headed down the quiet street than the doors of the news vans slid back and two reporters, armed with cameramen, poured out. Griffin and Fitz said no comment a dozen times each before they finally reached shelter behind the tiny white house. There they paused, exchanged grimaces, then knocked on the back door. After a moment, a faded yellow curtain covering the window on the top half was drawn back. They found themselves face-to-face with a small Hispanic woman who regarded them somberly with deep black eyes.

“Mrs. Como.” Fitz gave a little wave, a nervous smile. “I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm afraid we need to speak with you.”

Mrs. Como made no move to open the door. “I know what happened,” she said from behind the glass. “Tawnya, she was there. At the courthouse. She told me.”

“We are very sorry for your loss,” Fitz said.

Mrs. Como snorted.

“We're here now to investigate what happened to Eddie,” Fitz continued bravely. “I know we've had our differences in the past, but… I'm here about your son, Mrs. Como. Surely you could give us just a moment of your time-”

“My Eddie is dead. Go away, Mr. Detective. You have hurt my family and I don't have to talk to you anymore.”

Right about then, a strikingly beautiful girl rounded the back corner of the house. Griffin had one moment to think, Whoa-she looks just like Meg Pesaturo, before the young lady was hurling herself at Fitz with neon pink nails unsheathed and white teeth flashing.

“Hijo de puta!” Tawnya cried.

“Ahhhhhh!” Fitz said.

He threw his arm up to defend his face just as Griffin snaked out one hand and caught the girl around the waist. He hefted her into air, where she kicked out her legs and beat at his forearm with her puny fists.

“What do you weigh, about ninety-five pounds?” Griffin asked conversationally.

“Son of a bitch! Miserable shit-eating pig-”

“I got a good hundred and ten pounds on you,” Griffin continued. “That means I can pretty much hold you like this all day. So if you want to get down anytime soon, maybe you should take a deep breath. Cool the language. We're just here to talk.”

Tawnya whacked his arm again. Then she lashed out with her leg. When he still didn't flinch, she finally eased her struggling, though her dark eyes remained locked on Fitz, who was now huddled against the house with his hand cupped protectively around his cheek. Mrs. Como stood behind the closed door, watching it all with an impassive face.

“Ready to play nice?” Griffin asked when a full minute elapsed without Tawnya trying to kill anyone.

She nodded grudgingly.

He released his hold.

She bolted for Fitz, who managed to grab one of her attacking arms this time, twist it behind her back and slap on a pair of handcuffs.

“That's it!” Fitz exclaimed, breathing heavily. “You're in bracelets until I leave. Just be happy that I don't charge you with assaulting a police officer.”

“It's not a crime to kill a swine,” Tawnya spat at him.

“Jesus, girl, the father of your child just died. Haven't you had enough violence for one day?”

The bruising words did the trick. Tawnya's shoulders sagged. Her chin came down. For just one moment, it looked to Griffin like Eddie's little spitfire was going to cry. She didn't, though. She pulled it together, then nodded at Mrs. Como, who finally opened the door.

Inside, the house was pretty much as Griffin had expected. Cramped kitchen with a ripped-up vinyl floor and stacked-up flats of baby food. A living room with threadbare gold carpet and a sagging brown sofa. The most expensive item in the room was easily the powder-blue playpen, positioned in front of the window. Tawnya headed for it immediately, then turned and glared at Fitz when she realized she couldn't pick up her son. She rattled the handcuffs.

“Hey, next time think before you scratch,” Fitz called back from the kitchen.

Griffin, who had a soft spot for babies-he really loved their smell-crossed over to inspect the playpen himself. Tawnya's son-and Eddie's too, he presumed-was sleeping soundly on his stomach, his diapered butt stuck up in the air as little bubbles blew contentedly out of his mouth.

“Name?” he asked Tawnya.

“Eddie, Jr.,” she said grudgingly.

“How old?”

“Nine months.”

“He's a cutie. Sergeant Griffin, by the way. State police.” Griffin flashed a smile.

“Have you arrested those bitches for killing my Eddie?”

Griffin took bitches to mean Meg Pesaturo, Carol Rosen and Jillian Hayes. “No.”

“Then fuck you.” Tawnya turned and stormed down the hall. So much for playing good cop. Griffin returned to the kitchen, where Mrs. Como was banging around pans, probably to have something to do. Now sitting at the worn kitchen table and obviously not sure how to proceed, Fitz was chewing on his lower lip.

“Hey, state boy.” Tawnya again, yelling from the other end of the house. “Come here. There's something I want to show you.”

“Watch the nails,” Fitz muttered. “And the teeth.”

Griffin walked warily down the narrow hallway. But it seemed that Tawnya no longer had death and destruction on her mind. Instead, she was gesturing awkwardly with her cuffed hands at a brown-and-gold photo album sticking out from a sagging bookshelf.

“Get that. There's something I want you to see.”

Griffin inspected the rickety bookshelf. Seeing no sign of booby traps, he gingerly removed the album. When Tawnya still didn't bite him, he followed her back to the kitchen, where she informed him where to place the album, how to open the album and what photos to look at. Griffin was beginning to wonder if Eddie hadn't gone to prison in order to escape.

“Look!” Tawnya told him when he'd finally turned to the desired page. “See that. That's Eddie and me. Look at that face. That the face of a rapist?”

“They don't come with stamps on their forehead,” Griffin said mildly, though he got her point. Eddie was a good-looking guy. Small, but trim, neatly dressed in tan khakis and a dark-blue shirt. Clean-cut features, tidy black hair. If you passed him on the street, you wouldn't think twice.

“Now look at me,” Tawnya ordered, jerking her chin toward the photo, where she posed in a skimpy black dress, draped luxuriously over Eddie's arm. “I'm hot. Plain and simple. Been beating away the boys since I was twelve. And I know how to make my man happy. A guy has a girl like me, you can be sure he comes home for his meals.”

“How much cooking were you doing six months pregnant?” Fitz spoke up.

Tawnya shot him a look of pure venom. “I made Eddie happy. I made Eddie fucking delirious.” She glanced at the stove. “No offense, Mrs. C.”

Mrs. Como didn't say anything. Her expression had scarcely changed the entire time they'd been here. No grief, no rage, no denial, no fear. Now she stirred something in a giant metal pot. It smelled to Griffin like bleach. Then he got it. She was preparing to wash diapers by boiling them on the stove. He looked around the kitchen, the cramped quarters filled with baby food, baby clothes, baby toys. And he got the rest of it. For Mrs. Como, Eddie had already been gone for nearly a year. Now her life was about her grandson.

Two Como males gone, one left to go. Did she wonder about that late at night? Did she cry when no one was looking? Or was it simply a fact of life for a woman like her, in a place like this? Seemed like too much of Griffin 's job was spent dealing with these kinds of scenes. He felt suddenly, unexpectedly, sad, and that bothered him even more. You needed walls for this kind of business. You needed to compartmentalize if you were going to be a cop and maintain your peace of mind.

He should go for a run soon. Find a punching bag. Beat at the heavy leather until all the tension was drained from him and he had no emotions left. Then he could pretend that sad old ladies didn't twist his conscience and that two years later he didn't desperately miss his wife.

“You were with Eddie the nights the women were attacked?” Griffin asked Tawnya.

“Yeah. I was. Not that Detective Dickwad believed me.” She gave Fitz another dark look. Fitz smiled sweetly. “We had an apartment then,” Tawnya went on. “A decent place, over in Warwick. Eddie, he made good money with the Blood Center. That's not easy, you know. He had to get special training, take some courses. Eddie was smart. He had plans. And he really liked what he did. Helping people and all that. We were doing all right.”

“No one saw you two together those nights.”

“Mierde! You sound just like him.” Chin angled toward Fitz. “Come on, Eddie had a tough job. He was on his feet six, eight hours a shift. He got home, he was tired. He wanted to relax. You know what Eddie liked to do best? He liked to stretch out on the sofa, watch a rented movie and place his hand on my belly so he could feel his baby kick. Yeah, that's your College Hill Rapist. Hanging out with his pregnant girlfriend and telling stories to his baby. And now… now. Ah, fuck you all.”

Tawnya turned away. In front of the stove, Mrs. Como picked up a pile of cloth diapers and threw them into the pot. Round and round she went with a big metal spoon. The kitchen filled with the smell of bleach and baby powder and urine.

“You know he called the women,” Griffin said quietly.

Tawnya whirled back around. “Of course he called them! They fucking ruined his life. Railroaded the police into his arrest. Worked the public into a frenzy talking on the news about this horrible, horrible rapist, gonna kill your daughter next. You know we got death threats, thanks to those women? Even Mrs. C. here, and what'd she do? One day, some guy called a radio station saying that if there was any justice in this world, Eddie, Jr.'s, little penis would fall off before he could turn into his father. Jesus Christ! Someone should lock that man up, threatening a baby like that. I couldn't bring Eddie, Jr., to the courthouse 'cause I was too afraid of what people might do. What the fuck is up with that?”

“You don't think Eddie did it.”

“I know Eddie didn't do it. He was just a poor dumb spic working in the wrong place at the wrong time. That's the way the world works. White girls get hurt, some yellow or black man loses his ass.”

“The state found Eddie's DNA at the crime scenes.”

“Bah! Cops fake DNA all the time. Everyone knows that.”

“Cops fake DNA?” Griffin glanced over at Fitz as if to ask if such a thing could be true. Fitz shrugged.

“Cops don't handle the DNA,” Fitz said. “And in this case, we had two different nurses and one medical examiner handing evidence over to three different couriers to be sent to the Department of Health. That's a lot of people for conspiracy, but hey, I'm just the poor dumb cop who gets accused of corruption anytime I do my job. You know-that's the way the world works.” He looked at Tawnya, his voice dripping sarcasm.

“Why would the cops tamper with evidence?” Griffin asked Tawnya more reasonably.

“The pressure, of course! Come on-three white women, attacked in their homes. One in a big fancy house on the East Side. Cops can't ignore that kind of thing. Then one dies and the whole state goes apeshit. Cops gotta arrest someone then. Next thing you know, cops are looking at blood drives and there you go. Young Hispanic male. Can't even afford an attorney. Eddie was guilty before they ever asked him a question. Cops got their arrest, mayor got his headline, and hey, who gives a fuck about the rest of us?”

“Eddie was victimized by the state?”

“Damn right.”

“Because he was a minority?”

“Damn right.”

“So if the state already had him on the rapes, who do you think shot him this morning?”

Tawnya finally drew up short. She inhaled deeply, held the breath in her lungs, then blew it out all at once. “Everybody thinks Eddie's a rapist. Everybody wants a rapist dead.”

“The threats on the radio station?”

“Yeah. And in the newspaper. And in prison.” She added hotly, “Tell me the truth, you really gonna do something about this?”

Griffin thought of the bank of microphones outside. He said honestly, “As of this morning, we had every state detective working this case.”

Tawnya narrowed her eyes. She wasn't dumb. “It's 'cause he was shot at the courthouse, isn't it? If they'd got him in prison, you wouldn't even be here right now. But they shot him in public. In front of cameras. That makes you guys look bad.”

“Murder is murder. We're on the case. I'm on the case.”

Tawnya snorted again, unimpressed. She did know how the world worked.

“Do you have any specific names?” Griffin asked. “People you know of who threatened Eddie? People you heard say they wanted him dead?”

“Nah. Check the papers. Talk to the prison guards. They should know. If they can be bothered to tell you.”

“Anyone else we should consider?”

“The fucking women, of course.”

“The three victims?”

“Victims, my ass. Those bitches are the ones who picked Eddie. They pushed for his arrest, harassed the cops all the time. Maybe they wanted to make sure it was done all the way. Eddie can't defend himself now. And hey, they don't have to worry about anything unpleasant coming out at trial.”

“Was something unpleasant going to come out at trial?” Griffin asked sharply.

“You never know.”

“Tawnya,” Fitz began warningly. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, but Tawnya shook her mass of dark hair.

“I'm not doing your job for you, Dickwad. You wanna know what was gonna happen, you figure out what was gonna happen. Now come on. I gotta feed my kid.” She turned around, gesturing at the handcuffs with her fingers. When Fitz still hesitated, she shot out, “I'll call the ACLU!”

Fitz grudgingly undid the bracelets, though Griffin noticed the Providence detective now leaned farther away, mindful of his face. Tawnya flashed her teeth at him, then smiled when he flinched.

“I don't care what you guys think,” Tawnya said right before she left the room. “I was with Eddie those nights. I know he didn't hurt those women. And you wanna hear something else? You guys are screwed. 'Cause that dude's still out there. And now Eddie's gone. No one to blame anymore. No one to hide behind. It's a full moon tonight. Perfect weather for when the College Hill Rapist rides again.”

Fitz and Griffin didn't speak until they were back on the street, climbing into Fitz's beat-up detective's car.

“Is it just me,” Griffin said, “or is Tawnya the spitting image of Meg Pesaturo?”

“Wait 'til you see a photo of Trisha Hayes. Oh yeah, Eddie definitely had a type.”

“She would've made a good witness for the defense,” Griffin commented.

“Yes and no. Eddie's phone calls to the women… One way it could've been done was if someone on his approved calling list, say his girlfriend, had a phone feature, say call forwarding, and, ignoring the recorded warning which specifically says do not forward this call, did it anyway.”

“Ah, so pretty little Tawnya takes her girlfriend duties seriously.”

“ACI has tapes of the calls if you want to listen.”

“Anything good?”

“Only if you buy into conspiracy theories. Eddie seemed convinced that the women were out to get him. Of course, the inmates know their calls are taped, so it might have merely been window dressing for the trial.”

“That was going to be his defense? That three strange women were picking on poor little innocent him?”

“The perpetrator as victim. It's a classic.”

“And unfortunately, it seems there's always someone in the jury box who buys it.”

“Damn juries,” Fitz muttered.

“Yeah, whatever happened to good old-fashioned mob justice? String 'em up, cut ' em down. Saves a ton of money on appeal.”

Fitz eyed Griffin suspiciously, probably trying to figure out if he was toying with him or not. Griffin kind of was, kind of wasn't. The jury system was a royal pain in the ass.

Fitz glanced at his watch. “It's three o'clock now. Somehow, I don't think we're going to have this wrapped up in time for the five o'clock news.”

“Doesn't look it.”

“In fact, given that nobody seems to want to magically confess, I'm guessing this might take a bit.”

“It might.”

“That gonna be a problem?” Fitz's gaze went to Griffin 's overpumped chest and hard-lined face. Griffin understood what he was asking.

“Not for me,” he said.

“I was just wondering-”

“I'm back. When you're back on the job, you're back on the job. You can't do policing halfway.”

“I never thought so.” Fitz's eyes were still narrowed, appraising. “Look, I'm just going to lay it on the table. If we're going to work together on this, I think I have the right to know a few things.”

“Such as?”

“I heard about that Candy Man case, that it went on a little too long, then got a little too personal. Did you really beat up two detectives in the kid's house? Nearly put one of them in the hospital?”

Griffin was silent for a moment. “That's what I'm told,” he said at last.

“You don't remember?”

“It's a bit of a blur. I wasn't aiming for Detective Waters or O'Reilly anyway. They were simply doing the honorable thing and throwing themselves in the way.”

“You were going after Price.”

“Something like that.”

“And if you'd gotten to him?”

“We'll never know, will we?”

Fitz grunted at that. “You on Prozac?”

“I don't take any meds.”

“Why not?”

Griffin smiled. “Not that kind of crazy.”

“Just wear my hockey mask?”

Griffin 's smile grew. “You could try, Detective, but I don't make any promises.”

“Hey now-”

“Look,” Griffin said, his tone serious because they weren't going to get this wrapped up by five so they might as well clear the air. “I'm not going to attack you. Two years ago, when my wife died… I let too many things go. Personally. Professionally. Life, this job… You gotta take care of things. We all learn, one way or the other. Last year was my lesson. I got it. I'm on top of things now.”

Fitz remained silent, so maybe he had his own opinions on that subject.

“I'm sorry about your wife,” Fitz said at last.

“I'm sorry, too.”

“I know a lot of the guys who went to the service. She sounded like a really neat lady.”

“She was the best,” Griffin said honestly, and then, because two years wasn't nearly long enough, he had to look away. He fidgeted with the door handle. Fitz put the car in gear. They both cleared their throats.

“So what are you going to do now?” Fitz asked as he pulled away from the curb. “About the case.”

“Return to headquarters and set up command central. Then, I'll probably go for a run.”

“I'll follow up with the crispy corpse. With any luck, we got enough skin to print.”

“Hey, Detective, as long as you're returning home, get me a copy of the College Hill Rapist file.”

Fitz stopped immediately, his foot hitting the brake and stalling the car in the middle of the street. Griffin kind of thought that might happen.

“Come on!” Fitz exclaimed. “Don't let Tawnya get to you. The College Hill case was a good investigation. We had MO, we had opportunity, we had DNA. Took us six months to put it all together, and I'm telling you now, we did just fine. Eddie Como raped those women. End of story.”

“Didn't say he didn't.”

“I don't need the state reviewing my work! That's bullshit.”

“Life sucks and then you die.”

Fitz scowled at him.

Griffin returned the look calmly. “I want the file. The shooting is connected to the case, ergo, I need to learn the case.”

“I told you about the case.”

“You told me your opinions.”

“I'm the lead investigator! I built the goddamn theory of the case, I am the opinion!”

“Then explain this to me: You found Eddie once you started looking at blood drives. And you started looking at blood drives because of the latex strips.”

“Yeah, absolutely.”

“So why did Eddie, who left behind no hair, no fiber, and no fingerprints, leave behind ten latex strips? Why did he on the one hand learn how to cover his tracks, and then on the other hand leave you a virtual calling card?”

“Because criminals are stupid. It's what I like best about them.”

“It's inconsistent.”

“Oh Jesus H. Christ. We didn't plant DNA evidence! We did not frame Eddie Como!”

“Yeah,” Griffin said. “And frankly, Detective, that's what worries me.”