2 In The Hat Part 23
CHAPTER 95.
Luther slumped back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. Why was Richard freezing him out, not telling him what was going on, disappearing on him, not answering his phone? Richard hadn't been honest about what he was doing tonight. He was letting the kids down. For a lot of them, Richard was the first white dude they had trusted.
A look at the crowd and he understood what was going on. Hadn't Richard stated it clearly enough a couple months ago? These speaking gigs were a way for him to meet young women. A way to pump up his social life after prison. A way to make himself look like a rock star in front of a bunch of suburban white kids longing to make a difference in the world.
Luther felt the familiar fire of anger flare up in his stomach-and it would burn, he knew, till he took some kind of action. All the good Luther had tried to do. Working with the kids. Hanging at night on street corners. The endless meetings at the Crispus Attucks House with folks who didn't really understand his kids, didn't really care beyond their empty words and their sappy smiles-all of it lasting just long enough to take out their checkbooks. Then, consciences appeased, they could go back to their apple-polished suburbs thinking they'd made a difference.
Richard Zardino was no different.
That wasn't quite true. Richard Zardino was worse. Back in the day, Luther would have put a cap in his a.s.s.
Luther had seen enough. He excused himself, wove his way out of the pack of students half-listening to Zardino's hard luck story, and slipped out the door.
At least out in the corridor he could breathe some fresh air.
CHAPTER 96.
Connie had watched as Zardino's sidekick hit the door.
Up front, his little girl was on cue and perfect. She got to Zardino first. Then she did so much more than he'd expected from her. She'd hung on to Zardino, monopolizing him for at least ten minutes as a line formed behind her. She wrote something on a piece of paper torn from her notebook and handed it to him. A phone number? An address, maybe? Quite a system Zardino had. An idealistic kid inviting him into her life. What she didn't know was that it was an invitation to get killed, along with her unsuspecting boyfriend. Connie played out what would happen next in his head.
Zardino followed the young couple as they made their way out of the hall and down the stairs. The girl gushing. Talking loud, giggling, drunk on her brush with celebrity, notoriety. A wounded man, jailed unjustly, telling his sad story. Perfect girl-bait.
Once outside, the couple walked hand-in-hand past the shuttle bus, motor running and door open, toward the North Lot.
Excellent.
Weaving through the crowd of students, he kept his distance. They must have arrived late and had to park in one of the temporary lots at the edge of campus. The van was parked there. It was late, no one else walking in their direction. Zardino jogged ahead to catch up with them. He needed to steer them toward the van-that was the key. Then he could use the weapon.
"Excuse me," he said, "I was wondering if you could help me out." They were so innocent. And he'd just delivered that powerful talk. Shown them how he was a good man, giving back to society in spite of what society had done to him. He could tell them anything and they would walk themselves right into the trap, the h.o.r.n.y boyfriend along for the ride. "I'm sorry, but my battery died. I was wondering if you have time to give me a jump." And he'd just delivered that powerful talk. Shown them how he was a good man, giving back to society in spite of what society had done to him. He could tell them anything and they would walk themselves right into the trap, the h.o.r.n.y boyfriend along for the ride. "I'm sorry, but my battery died. I was wondering if you have time to give me a jump."
"I don't have jumper cables." The boy didn't like sharing his girl's affections.
"That's okay. I've got them. It'll just take a minute."
"We have to help him," the girl said, high on the emotions of the night. She looked across the lot. There was no one in sight. "We can't just leave him out here with a car that won't start."
She was a sweet kid. He could keep her like that. Forever.
He walked with them toward their car, then pointed out where he was parked. "I'll meet you over by my van," he told them, careful not to crowd their s.p.a.ce by walking them all the way to their car. He heard the motor start up, saw the lights splash into the darkness and then the boy pulled up close to the front of the van. They both got out.
Good.
They walked toward him. Not giggly kids anymore, but purposeful young adults, the weight of their do-gooding giving them a certain dignity. He felt the heft of the gun in his jacket pocket. The lot was still empty, the only light the twin disks from the car's headlights.
"Let me get those cables," he said, swinging the back door to the van open.
"Hi, Connie."
He looked over to see Marcy Alves. She looked tired.
"I'm surprised to see you here," she said. "You don't have enough meetings during the day to keep you busy?"
"How are the kids doing? Angel told me about what happened at Franklin Park."
"Then he probably told you we're staying at my mother's place. We feel safer there."
"Don't give up on him, Marcy. Angel's a good man." Connie looked around. The room was almost empty. At the front of the room, still standing at the podium was Richard Zardino. And beside him, a half dozen stragglers talking and gesturing.
There was a lot more he could say to Marcy, but he had to stay focused. He put his hand on her shoulder. Together they turned and walked toward the podium. Connie wanted to let Zardino know he was in the audience. Watching him. Give him a little tickle. "Zardino puts on a great show, doesn't he?"
"It's more than a show, Connie," Marcy said. "A man like Zardino reminds us all what can happen when someone is unjustly prosecuted."
"True enough. That's why I always make sure I have the right man."
CHAPTER 97.
Alves had spent most of the day looking into Connie's background. He had to keep it from Mooney for now, but not much longer. He'd checked the registry's database and verified that Connie was thirty years old. If he was was the Blood Bath Killer, it didn't make sense that he would have started killing for the first time at the age of twenty-seven. Even if he had, there certainly would have been indicators leading up to those murders. But he had checked Connie's BOP and ran a Triple I. No criminal record, not even as a juvenile. No sealed records. the Blood Bath Killer, it didn't make sense that he would have started killing for the first time at the age of twenty-seven. Even if he had, there certainly would have been indicators leading up to those murders. But he had checked Connie's BOP and ran a Triple I. No criminal record, not even as a juvenile. No sealed records.
But the Prom Night killings had started in '98. Connie would have been twenty years old. A quick call to the registrar at the University of Arizona, and Alves learned that Connie would have been on summer break when the first three couples were murdered. If Connie had had come home for the summer, he could have committed those murders and gone back to school. He would never have been suspected of anything. come home for the summer, he could have committed those murders and gone back to school. He would never have been suspected of anything.
Alves then made a call to the Tucson Police Department. If Connie had started killing during his college years, he might have done it out of state. Alves reached a clerk in the Homicide Unit and asked if they had any unsolved murders at or near the school in the mid-to-late '90s.
That's when he was pa.s.sed off to a detective.
"Clairimundo Sanchez, Homicide, how can I help you?" the man shouted into Alves's ear.
"Detective, my name is Angel Alves. I'm working an active series of homicides up here in Boston."
"I got that message. You wanted to know if we had any unsolved cases from about ten, twelve years back. What kind of murders you dealing with, Detective Alves?"
"We've got young couples, college students. The males are shot close range, in the chest, and the females are strangled. Bare hands."
"We had some unusual unsolveds dating back. The Dumpster Killer left armless torsos in dumpsters all over Tucson. Let me think. We had a string of bodies found in arroyos. Prost.i.tutes. Migrant workers. Nothing with college students. Wait a minute. We had a college girl, turned up strangled in the U of A library one night. Studying. Library staff found her when they were closing up for the night. No boy, though. Just the girl."
"Ever make an arrest?"
"No."
"Any suspects?"
"We had one person of interest. It wasn't my case, though. I don't know much about the investigation."
"Detective Sanchez, anything you can give me would help."
"What I remember, he was another student. One of the few people in the library at the time of the murder. We didn't like his att.i.tude. Real smug. The man you want to talk to is Detective Mike Decandia. He figured this kid killed her and then stayed in the library studying to give himself an alibi. Why would a guilty man stay in the library after killing an absolute stranger? Pretty good reasoning. Came in and spoke with Mike, but we got nothing out of him."
"Do you remember his name? The victim's name?"
"Can't say I do."
"Is Decandia around?"
"Vacation. He'll be back in a week."
"Can you give him a message to call me when he gets back?"
"Sure thing."
Alves hung up the phone. He looked at the clock on his computer screen. It was almost nine. He'd been at this most of the day. The red light on his office phone was lit. There was a single message on his phone. He punched in his code and heard Mooney's voice.
"Angel, Connie stopped in. He's got a solid lead. We're heading over to East Boston. Paris Street. Richie Zardino's house."
CHAPTER 98.
Mooney negotiated the Expressway traffic, exiting off the ramp to the tunnel. "I don't understand. Why didn't I know about this sooner?" Mooney asked. "You talk with Angel just about every day, and you didn't tell him about Zardino?" the tunnel. "I don't understand. Why didn't I know about this sooner?" Mooney asked. "You talk with Angel just about every day, and you didn't tell him about Zardino?"
Mooney shot a look at his pa.s.senger. Connie was facing straight ahead. The tunnel lights created flickering shadows across his face. "I did tell him," Connie said, his voice edged in anger. "He wouldn't listen. And tonight I figured out that Zardino's picking his victims from the audience. He's using his celebrity as a wrongly convicted man to work these college kids, to gain their trust."
"You've confirmed that?" Mooney asked.
"Earlier I checked with BU and BC. Both schools had Zardino in for his lecture."
"Did any of the vics go to those lectures?"
"I haven't confirmed that yet, but each of the female victims bears a striking resemblance to a woman Zardino grew up with. Her name is Natalie Fresco."
"And?" Mooney said.
"She claims he used to be her stalker. She was so spooked by him ten years ago that she got him fired from his job. Around the time of the first murders."
"Where was he working?" Mooney asked.
"A store across the street from her shop. Newbury Street."
"Right near the Fens," Mooney said. "He had opportunity."
"I had the manager at the store check their old records. Zardino used to help set up window displays. Lugged around props, helped move the mannequins."
"So he dressed up dolls? I wonder if he likes dressing people?" Mooney asked.
"I know a lot of this is circ.u.mstantial, but there's more. The day I went to interview Natalie at her store, guess who was parked out front in a white van?" The prosecutor was quiet for a beat. For effect. "Sarge, I saw him in the same van, stuck in traffic on Walter Street the night Tucker and Pine were found on Peter's Hill. Both times he had a Bruin's cap pulled down over his head. It's enough to bring him in for questioning. And it's enough for a search warrant."
"I think I need to have a talk with Mr. Zardino," Mooney said. "Maybe freeze the house and get that search warrant."
"Look for the white van in his garage. Older model, mint condition, registered in his mother's name. Used to be his dad's," Connie said. "Probably sat in the garage all those years until he needed it again."
"Does Zardino know you saw him tonight at UMa.s.s?"
Connie nodded. "After the speech, I went up and said h.e.l.lo. It made me nervous, seeing him so close to Marcy Alves. I walked Marcy to her car, then I tried to call Angel, but he didn't pick up. So I drove over to talk to you. I don't think Zardino knows I suspect him of anything."
"We can't take that chance." Mooney flipped on his wigwags and strobes, accelerating through the tunnel. He struggled to control his anger. What the h.e.l.l had Alves been thinking? Connie had come up with some of the best leads in the investigation. This was not the time for some bulls.h.i.t p.i.s.sing contest. He had eight dead kids on his hands. He'd deal with Alves later. Now he needed to get to Zardino's house before he took off or tried to destroy any potential evidence.
Or worse, before Zardino went out in his van, trolling for his next victims.
CHAPTER 99.
Connie watched as the roof of 2252 Paris Street crashed down onto the attic below, sending up a plume of flames and smoke darker than the sky. Richard Zardino's old colonial was fully engulfed. Fanned by the steady wind off Boston Harbor, the fire was burning almost blue hot. Once an object as dry as the timber skeleton of an old house began to burn hot, there was no putting out the flames. The only thing the Boston Fire Department could do was control the fire and try to save the other houses by wetting down neighboring roofs. the attic below, sending up a plume of flames and smoke darker than the sky. Richard Zardino's old colonial was fully engulfed. Fanned by the steady wind off Boston Harbor, the fire was burning almost blue hot. Once an object as dry as the timber skeleton of an old house began to burn hot, there was no putting out the flames. The only thing the Boston Fire Department could do was control the fire and try to save the other houses by wetting down neighboring roofs.
He and Mooney stood across the street as the old house and the garage with its white van full of trace evidence burned with roaring heat. He could feel his face and hands tingling with it, his lungs filling with the sooty warm air.
The fire reminded him of the times he helped his grandfather with his annual smudge fire to get rid of brush and trash on the farm. But as his grandmother predicted, the conservative little smudge fire always bloomed into a ma.s.sive bonfire.
But those fires weren't as fascinating as the incinerator the old man had designed using an old oil tank with an attached blower. You could burn anything in that thing. You could feed even a good-sized log in and it would disintegrate as you pushed. Fire could burn evidence clean. He knew it and Richard Zardino did too.
Connie felt a hand on his shoulder. "What a tragedy," Angel Alves said. "Is he in there?"
"That's the fifty-thousand-dollar question," Connie said, turning to Alves. He hadn't noticed the crowd that had gathered along the street, just beyond the barriers set up by the police department.
"Thanks to you, we're not going to know until they put out this d.a.m.n fire," Mooney said, his face flushed with heat and anger. "I wanted to talk to Zardino. I wanted the evidence to wrap up this case. Now we don't have either. We don't know if he's dead or alive. All because someone bruised your ego."