The Survivors Club (9 page)

“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 not 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

I
NSIDE 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 dismissive 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.

And maybe pay the shooter a bonus? Oh wait, he’d already received one.

Jillian or Meg must have kicked Carol under the table, because she finally sat back and seemed to work on regaining some measure of control.

Fitz cleared his throat. “We think it would be best if you all came with us,” he told them.

“Why should we go with you?” Jillian set down her mug. She gestured with her hand to include her fellow Survivors Club members. “We’ve been here all morning. If Eddie Como’s dead, we obviously didn’t do it.”

“There are a few things we’d like to discuss with you—” Fitz tried again.

“I don’t understand,” Carol interrupted. “He’s dead. It’s over. We don’t need to talk to you anymore. The case, the trial, everything, it’s done.”

“The detective is fishing,” Jillian told her calmly. “While we didn’t shoot Eddie Como, he’s thinking we might have arranged for whoever did.”

“How did you know he was shot?” Fitz asked sharply. “I didn’t say he was shot.”

“Detective, haven’t you seen the morning news?” Jillian paraphrased softly: “‘Shortly after eight-thirty this morning, shots broke out at the Providence County Courthouse. According to initial reports, it is believed that the alleged College Hill Rapist, Eddie Como, was gunned down as he was being unloaded from the prison van. Sources close to the investigation believe an unidentified man fired the fatal shot from the rooftop of the courthouse. Also, an explosion in a nearby parking lot has left one dead.’ Isn’t that about right? I think that’s about right.”

She smiled, cool and undaunted, while Fitz muttered something harsh under his breath. Griffin could only shrug. Of course the press had gone ahead with the story even without confirmation of Eddie Como’s identity. The College Hill Rapist was big news. Real big news. And why act responsibly when you could further fuck up a murder investigation?

Maureen, Maureen, Maureen, he thought again, and suddenly had a bad feeling about that tape.

“All right,” Fitz said grudgingly. “Eddie Como was shot. He’s dead. But I don’t think this is the place to have a discussion about that. I think it would be best if all of you accompanied us down to the station.”

“No,” Jillian said firmly. “But thanks for asking.”

“Now, ladies—”

“We don’t have to go with them,” Jillian cut in. She turned her gaze to Meg and Carol, and once more Griffin was impressed by her composure. “We don’t have to answer any questions. Without probable cause, Detective Fitzpatrick and Sergeant Griffin can’t make us do or say anything. I would keep this in mind, because Detective Fitzpatrick didn’t come here to pay us a friendly visit. This is a big day for us, ladies. Eddie Como was shot, and we’ve just graduated from rape victims to murder suspects.”

“She’s right, you know,” Griffin spoke up.

“What?” Jillian Hayes zoomed in on him with narrow eyes. Fitz was scowling at him.

“Well, aren’t you going to tell them the rest of it?” he asked innocently.

“The rest of it?”

“Absolutely. The rest of it. These women are your friends, right? Surely you want them to understand everything. For example, if you ladies don’t want to speak with us, then we’ll just have to move on down the list. Contact your friends, your family. Husbands, fathers, uncles, mothers, sisters, aunts. Coworkers. Subject them all to police scrutiny. Oh, and we’ll subpoena your financial records, of course.” All three women sat up straighter. Griffin shrugged. “You have motive and opportunity, that gives us probable cause. We’ll pull your bank records, the bank records of every member of your family. Maybe even your uncle’s business.” He gazed serenely at Meg. “Or maybe a husband’s law practice.” He gazed at Carol. “Any recent payments that can’t be accounted for . . .” He gave another helpless shrug. “A murder is a murder, ladies. Cooperate now, and maybe we can work out a deal where you don’t serve life.”

Meg and Carol didn’t look as certain anymore. Jillian, on the other hand . . . Jillian was looking at him as if she’d just noticed an unpleasantly buzzing fly in the room, and was now about to squash the bug with her bare hand.

“Diminished capacity,” she challenged.

“Not for a hired gun. Requires premeditation. If you were going for a plea, you should’ve showed up in the courthouse and shot Como yourself.”

“Not necessarily. Diminished capacity simply means outside influences made you commit an act you otherwise wouldn’t have done—that you were not operating in your proper mind, so to speak. You could argue the trauma of being raped, the fear of being attacked again, drove you to employ a hired gun.”

“Sounds like you’ve been thinking this over.”

“You never know what you’ll need to know until you need to know it.”

“Do you have a legal background, Mrs. Hayes?”

“Ms. Hayes. I have a marketing background. But I know how to read.”

“Defense statutes?”

“You’re not asking the right question yet, Sergeant.”

“And what question is that?”

Jillian Hayes leaned forward. “Did we have reason to be afraid? Did we have probable cause to fear for our lives?”

“I don’t know. Did you?”

“He called us, Sergeant. Did Detective Fitzpatrick tell you about that? For the last year, Eddie Como has been phoning and mailing us constantly. Do you know what it’s like to get a shiver down your spine every time the phone rings?”

“I’ve suffered through my fair share of telemarketers,” Griffin said. But he was looking at Fitz questioningly.

“He shouldn’t have been able to call them,” Fitz supplied. “In theory, inmates have to enter a pin number into the pay phones to get a dial tone, and each pin number has only so many numbers approved for calling. Trust me, none of the women were ever approved, but then again, this is prison. For every rule the officials impose, the inmates find a way around the rule. Probably with outside help.”

“You can ask to censor outgoing mail,” Griffin said with a frown. “Impose a no-contact order.”

“If an inmate is threatening. Eddie never threatened them, so we couldn’t deny access. Basically, they changed their phone numbers, he went to mail. They put a hold on prison mail, he got someone to mail his letters from a different location. Eddie was persistent, I’ll give him that.”

“And what was he so persistently trying to say?”

“That he was innocent,” Jillian said dryly. “That we had made a huge mistake. He never meant to hurt anyone. This was all some big misunderstanding. And then, toward the end, of course, he was demanding to know why we were ruining his life, why we were taking him away from his child. He murdered my sister, Sergeant, and then he’s asking
me
how come I’m denying him access to a child?”

“He wouldn’t leave us alone,” Carol interjected vehemently. “For God’s sake, he even contacted my husband at work! He asked him for a list of recommended attorneys! My rapist, consulting my husband for a good legal defense! And when that didn’t yield results, he started mailing us countless letters with all the free stamps available to inmates. Think about that. My rapist, harassing me, with stamps I provide as a taxpayer. The man was a fucking monster!”

Griffin looked at Meg. She merely shrugged. “My parents don’t let me answer the phone or get the mail.”

“The point is,” Jillian spoke up, pulling attention back to her, “you’re barking up the wrong tree, Sergeant. So someone blew away Eddie Como. We don’t care who did it. And we don’t need to know who did it. Frankly, we are damn grateful that he’s dead.”