The Survivors Club (27 page)

She pulled into her garage with the normal drill. Car doors still locked. Gazing out the rearview mirror and watching the opening until the garage door had closed all the way. Checking out the shadowy depths of the garage for other signs of intruders. The coast appeared clear. She finally unlocked her car door, and entered her home.

Toppi had left her a plate covered with plastic wrap on the kitchen counter. A chicken sandwich in case she was hungry. Jillian put the plate in the refrigerator, poured a glass of water and made the rounds. Doors still locked. Windows secure. Nothing out of place.

The house was quiet this time of night. Just the ticking of the hallway clock, and the occasional fluttery snore from behind Toppi’s bedroom door.

One
A
.
M
. now. Jillian should go to sleep. She kept prowling the house, driven by a compulsion she couldn’t name.

Had she failed Carol? In the past, Carol and Meg had accused her of carrying too much guilt. Then, just this afternoon, Griffin had implied she took too much responsibility for things. No one could keep everyone safe.

It was her job, though. For as long as she could remember. Libby had led the wild life. Jillian held things together. Baby Trish required stability. Jillian made them a home. Her mother’s health declined. Jillian took her in as well. They were her family, she loved them and with love came responsibility. So she did everything she could for them. She just never let them get too close.

Just as she had done with Carol and Meg.

For the first time, it occurred to her—was she feeling guilty that Trisha was dead, or was she feeling guilty that she had not loved her more when she was still alive? All those summers with Trisha racing along the beach and Jillian alone beneath an umbrella. Why hadn’t she run out into the sand? Why hadn’t she splashed through the waves with her sister? What had she been so afraid of?

Strong, responsible Jillian who had never had a serious relationship. Independent, serious Jillian who focused on work work work, all of the time. Proud, lonely Jillian who marched through life as if it were a battlefield and she didn’t want anyone taking her prisoner. Not her mother. Not her sister. Not Eddie Como and not the Survivors Club.

Poor, stupid Jillian who, at the age of thirty-six, still knew so little about what was important in life. Griffin had been right before. Trisha had loved her. And it shouldn’t have taken Jillian nearly a year to remember that.

Jillian moved into the hallway. She thought of Trisha again, and the days that would never be. And then she thought of her mother, and all the years still to come. Proud, fierce Libby tapping, tapping, tapping. Sad, silent Libby who so longed to visit her daughter’s grave. Jillian walked down to her mother’s bedroom. She pushed in the door. She spotted Libby, lying upon her bed, bathed in the icy blue glow of a night-light. Libby’s eyes were wide open. She’d been watching the door and now she stared straight at Jillian.

“You’ve been waiting for me to come home,” Jillian said softly, with genuine surprise, genuine wonder.

Her mother’s finger tapped the bedspread.

“You wanted to make sure that I got home safe.”

Her mother’s finger, rising and falling on the bedspread.

Jillian went farther into the room. “You can rest now. I’m home, Mom. I’m . . . safe.” And then, a heartbeat later, “And I love you, too, Mama.”

Her mother smiled. She held out her arms. And for the first time since she was a little girl, Jillian went into her mother’s embrace. And it didn’t hurt so much after all. All of these years, all of these miles later, it finally felt right.

While the clock ticked down the hall. And the spotlights lit up the house. And the uniformed officers sat in their patrol car, waiting to see what would happen next.

CHAPTER 30

Griffin

F
OUR A.M.,
W
EDNESDAY MORNING,
D
ETECTIVE
S
ERGEANT
Roan Griffin drove to state police headquarters in North Scituate. He was early. Very early. Good thing, too. He had contact interviews to review, witness statements to consider and detective activity reports to analyze. Then he needed to prepare a time line of events. Oh, and he wanted to produce a chart, filling in the recent findings on their key suspects. That ought to make Lieutenant Morelli happy.

Yep, Griffin had gotten a whole five hours of uninterrupted sleep last night. No new rapes, no new shootings, no new lawsuits. Now he was feeling downright chipper. He should’ve known better.

Walking into the Investigative Support Service building, he was immediately greeted by the uniform on duty. Griffin nodded back, then proceeded down the narrow, yellow-lit hallway to Major Crimes. The ISSB, a flat, dull-brown 1960s building that could’ve passed as any government office, was divided into a series of wings. The Criminal Identification Unit took up the back right corner of the building, with one large office space for the five CIU detectives to share and a series of smaller rooms to house their toys—the lie detector room, the two Automatic Fingerprint Information System (AFIS) rooms, the significantly sized evidence-processing room, the photo lab.

In contrast to the CIU suite, the Major Crimes detectives were granted a small corner in the front of the building, where they had five gray cubicles crammed into one blue-carpeted space. Of course, they considered themselves to have the nicer room. The ten-foot-high drop ceiling only had a fraction of the yellow water stains found in the rest of the building. Plus, the detectives kept their tidy desks free of paperwork and openly displayed nicely framed family photos. A few detectives had brought in plants over the years, and now massive green vines draped cheerfully down the cubicle walls. All in all, the place could’ve been an accountant’s office—if accountants had a back wall covered with “Most Wanted” photos and a front wall bearing a white board with homicide notes.

Griffin liked the Major Crimes office. Not nearly as dreary as other law enforcement facilities, say, for example, the Providence station where Fitz worked. That place ought to be condemned, and maybe would be once the new headquarters was completed across the highway. It was a thought.

Griffin stuck his head across the hall, where Lieutenant Morelli had her office. Nobody home. Perfect. He’d sit down, whip the case notes into order and know exactly what was going on in the Eddie Como homicide file by 8:00
A
.
M
. Just like a good case officer. Hell, maybe he’d surprise them all and actually have the case solved by 9:00
A
.
M
. Oooh, he was a cocky son of a bitch.

Griffin’s optimism lasted until 7:00
A
.
M
., when his cell phone rang. It was Fitz, and he didn’t sound good.

“You gotta get down here,” Fitz said without preamble.

“Where’s here?”

“Providence,” Fitz said tensely. “Hurry.”

“Has there been another attack?”

“Just get here. Now. Before the press finds out.”

Fitz hung up the phone. Griffin sat there a moment longer, staring at his silent cell phone. Ah, shit.

He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. Halfway down the hall, he ran into Waters, who was just getting in for the day. Mike was moving a little stiffly this morning, which under other circumstances would’ve made Griffin proud. Now, however, he simply swapped notes.

“I gotta run to Providence. Something’s up.”

“Another attack?” Waters asked immediately.

“I don’t know. Have you heard the morning news?”

“Drive time was quiet.”

“Well, then, whatever it is, we’re still one step ahead. That’s worth something. Listen, can you follow up with the other detectives? See if they’re making any progress with the rape-crisis groups. Oh, and take a few more bodies with you to the Cranston bars. I’m guessing we’re going to need progress, mmmm, now.”

“Got it. You’ll let us know?”

“When I know what I know, you’ll be the first I’ll let know.” Griffin headed down the hall.

“Hey, Griffin,” Waters called out behind him. Griffin turned. “I’ll call ACI. Just in case.”

Griffin hesitated a fraction of an instant. “Yeah,” he said more slowly. “Just in case.”

He went out the door, no longer feeling so good about the day.

The Providence Police Department was located right off I-95 in downtown Providence. The rapidly aging building took its role as an active urban police station quite seriously. Ripped-up gray linoleum floors, water-stained drop ceilings, scuffed-up walls, exposed pipes. The Providence detectives liked to joke that their offices were straight out of
Barney Miller
. For interior decorating, their color options were dirt, dirty and dirtier.

Definitely a far cry from the state police’s White House in North Scituate. Not that there was any resentment or anything.

Griffin arrived shortly after seven-thirty. He parked his Taurus in the tow-away zone near the front entrance. A Providence uniform would ticket him out of spite. Fitz would make it go away. Every organization had its rituals.

He walked through the exterior glass doors, passing three black youths in baggy jeans and sleeveless sweatshirts who glared at him balefully. He stared back and, by virtue of size, got them to look away first. Inside was a small dark foyer. Griffin took the door to the left into another small dark foyer, where three receptionists sat behind bulletproof glass. This room was crowded with various people pleading various cases. “Man, I gotta see so-and-so.” “Hey, this parking ticket’s bogus!” The receptionists didn’t have the power to do anything, of course, but that didn’t stop the masses from trying.

Griffin pushed to the front, flashed his shield and was promptly buzzed through the main doors, into the heart, or rather, bowels of the police station. Lucky him.

He took the stairs up. He’d tried the elevator only once and it had groaned so badly and moved so painfully he’d vowed never again. The way Griffin saw it, the Providence police would be lucky to get out before the whole building came down on their heads.

The Detective Bureau was on the second floor, adjacent to the Bureau of Criminal Identification. Griffin tried the main room, didn’t see Fitz, then moved down to the locker room. Still no Fitz, but plenty of artwork; the detectives liked to hang photos of their more interesting cases on their lockers. The victim who was folded in half when hit by an oncoming train. The badly decomposed body of a victim who wasn’t found for several weeks. A pair of hands, covered in marijuana leaves, found in the trunk of a car after it was pulled over for a routine traffic stop. The body, found a day later, that went with the hands . . .

Griffin continued through the labyrinth of tiny gray rooms until he came to the end of the hall. There, Providence had their evidence-processing center, basically two adjoining rooms, each the size of a coat closet, crammed full of cabinets, tables, gear and AFIS. Fitz was standing in front of the folding table, deep in hushed conversation with a sharply dressed black man whom Griffin recognized as Sergeant Napoleon, head of the BCI. Both men looked up the minute he filled the doorway.

“’Bout time,” Fitz muttered.

“You rang, I ran,” Griffin said lightly. Fitz’s face had an unhealthy flush. His eyes had sunk deeper into the folds of his face and his sparse hair stuck up in unusual disarray. He’d finally changed clothes since yesterday, so he’d obviously managed to make it home. Unfortunately, the break didn’t seem to have done him any good.

“Griffin, Napoleon, Napoleon, Griffin.” Fitz made the introductions.

“We’ve met,” Griffin said as he and the sergeant obligingly shook hands. In contrast to Fitz, Napoleon appeared excited. He had a light in his eyes, a fervor to his face. Oh no, Griffin thought immediately. When the forensics guys got excited . . . Oh no.

“You got the reports back,” Griffin said abruptly.

“Uh huh,” Fitz said.

“The DNA?”

Fitz looked at the open door. He dropped his voice to nearly a whisper. “Uh huh.”

Griffin leaned forward. He lowered his voice as well. “And?”

“We got a match,” Fitz whispered.

“A
good
match,” Napoleon emphasized.

“We know who raped Sylvia Blaire,” Fitz said grimly. “According to the Department of Health, it was Eddie Como.”

“This has got to be a mistake,” Griffin declared five minutes later. He, Fitz and Napoleon had commandeered the lieutenant’s office, shut the door and resumed their earnest huddle. They kept their heads together and their voices down. In a police station, there were eyes and ears everywhere.

“Of course it’s a mistake!” Fitz snapped, then immediately dropped his voice again. “A dead man did not rape and murder Sylvia Blaire. Now do you want to tell me who did?”

Griffin turned to Napoleon. “Could it be a family member? What about an uncle, a cousin, a father? Hell, what about a long-lost brother?”

Napoleon shook his head. “We got a preliminary match in seven out of seven sample sites. We’ll send it out for further analysis, but we’re looking at a dead-on hit.”

“Okay, a long-lost identical twin brother.”

“Identical twins don’t have the same DNA. It would be close, yeah, but again, seven out of seven sample sites . . .”

Griffin raked his hand through his hair. “Shit,” he said.

“It is not Eddie Como,” Fitz muttered. “It is not
fucking
Eddie Como.”

“Okay, okay, okay.” Griffin held up his hand. “Let’s be logical about this. Assume for a moment that the DNA from the Blaire crime scene really does match the sample taken from Eddie Como. What if someone else had somehow saved semen from Eddie Como and smeared it at the scene?”

He and Fitz promptly stared at Napoleon, who at least seemed willing to consider the possibility.

“Swabs are first tested for semen, to see if we have something for DNA testing,” Napoleon mused. “Now, spermatozoa only tests positive for seventy-two hours, so if someone had gotten a Como ‘sample,’ so to speak, it would have to be fresh. Otherwise the spermatozoa would be dead, the swabs would test negative for semen and nothing else would be done.”

“The man’s been behind bars,” Fitz growled. “How do you get a fresh sample from a man in prison?”

Griffin just looked at him.

“Hey,” Fitz said. “I know there’s more sex in prison than in most bordellos, gimme a break. But we’re not talking about someone smuggling out a stained sheet and dropping it at the scene. The match was seven out of seven sample sites, meaning they found matching DNA on the sheets, the nightgown, vaginal swabs, etc., etc. You wanna explain that scenario to me?”

“That makes it trickier,” Griffin confessed. “Eddie could’ve preserved a sample somehow. I don’t know, jacked off in a Dixie cup and sent it out?”

It was Fitz’s turn to stare at him. “Now why the hell would he do that? This is a guy who’s been swearing to anyone with a microphone that he’s innocent. Wouldn’t he kind of wonder about a request for, gee, seminal fluid?”

“Conjugal visits?” Napoleon tried.

“Not at Intake,” Griffin said.

“This is crazy,” Fitz muttered.

“This is nuts,” Griffin agreed. “Okay, what if we’re going about this backward? What if the swap wasn’t made at the scene? What if the swap was made with Eddie Como’s sample?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, the samples from the crime scenes are showing a match with another sample
labeled
Eddie Como. But what if
that
is where we have the mistake?”

“No way,” Fitz said immediately.

“Couldn’t happen,” Napoleon seconded. “Standard operating procedure for executing a search warrant for DNA samples: Detective Fitzpatrick and Detective McCarthy picked up Eddie Como and brought him to the Reagan Building, where two clinicians and I were waiting. The clinicians drew two vials of blood, plucked several strands of hair from Como’s head, then took additional combings from his pubic region.
I
personally packaged each sample and labeled it as evidence to preserve chain of custody. So that’s what, five people who can vouch that Eddie Como was in the room—”

“I’m not saying you guys had the wrong man,” Griffin interrupted.

“And four
samples,
” the BCI sergeant continued relentlessly, “all properly sealed and labeled that you would have to swap. What are the chances of that?”

“It would be difficult,” Griffin said grudgingly.

“Try impossible,” Fitz countered hotly. “Try fucking impossible. We know how to do our goddamn jobs!”

“Then how did we get this match?” Griffin’s voice was rising.

“I don’t know! Maybe it was Eddie Como. We haven’t seen his body.”

“Eddie Como is dead! The ME already confirmed his fingerprints. The guy is dead, deader and deadest. So once again, how the hell did his DNA wind up at another rape-murder scene?”

“I don’t know!”

“Someone is fucking with us,” Griffin said. “Someone is playing a game.” And then, on the heels of that thought. “Shit!”

“What?” Fitz asked wildly.

“Shit! Shit! Shit! I gotta make a phone call.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, now. Where’s a landline? How the hell do I dial out?”

“Who are you calling?”

“The Easter Bunny, who do you think?” Griffin impatiently punched in the number. “Detective Waters,” Mike said thirty seconds later.

“Mike, Griffin. You talk to ACI? What did he say?”

“Price said . . . Price said, he told you so, and he’s still waiting for your visit.”

He told you so
. . . Who murdered Sylvia Blaire, David? Eddie Como.

Ah shit. Griffin hung his head. The room simultaneously closed in on him and fell away. Eighteen months later. Eighteen painful, careful, deliberate months later, here he was again. Knee-deep in some strange, twisted David Price game. Griffin took a deep breath, struggled to pull it together. A dead man couldn’t have killed Sylvia Blaire. Something else had to have happened. Something else that put Como’s DNA at the scene.