2 in the Hat (20 page)

“The condom was found outside the apartment in a sewer,” Alves said with resignation.

“Of course it was. It wouldn’t be a very good frame-up if someone had left it on the bed with a name tag. The condom was hidden, but in a place that the police were likely to find it.”

“Why would anyone think we’d find a condom in a sewer?”

“Because Wayne Mooney was the lead investigator. Remember, I’ve looked at your case files. I’ve seen Mooney’s work. He processes a crime scene as thoroughly as anyone I’ve ever seen. And he understands the importance of making his crime scene as large as possible. Spares no expense on the yellow tape. Anyone who knows Mooney would have known the condom would be discovered.”

“What about the shoe print?” Alves felt like he was manning a sinking ship. “That was recovered at a crime scene several months and several victims
before
we focused on Beaulieu.”

“Think about it. If someone was planning on framing Beaulieu, they didn’t decide to do it the day before you interrogated him. The real killer had probably been planning it for months, possibly from the beginning. He may have known how it was all going to end before he even started killing.”

Another blow. More like a kick than a punch. If he subscribed to Bland’s theory, someone—most likely someone Alves knew personally—was responsible, not only for the Blood Bath murders, but for setting up and, in effect, causing Mitch Beaulieu’s suicide. “That doesn’t explain why the killing stopped after Beaulieu was dead.”

“It’s not unusual for a killer to stop for a variety of reasons,” Bland said, “especially an organized killer. If the end game was to kill as many people as he could before police caught his scapegoat, then he had accomplished his goal. He couldn’t then go out and kill more people in the same way. Not without bringing the attention to himself. That doesn’t mean he’s not still killing. Remember, no bodies were ever recovered. We have no idea why he took the bodies or what he did with them. For all we know, he could be doing the same thing, only without leaving a bathtub full of blood for the police to find.”

It was a stunning idea. That the Blood Bath killer could still be out there. The dark and threatening shadow of a terrible idea crossed his mind. Could the Blood Bath Killer also be the Prom Night Killer?

“I’ll FedEx that stuff right away,” Alves said.

T
he Healey Library at UMass Boston maintained all the student
yearbooks from its first graduating class in 1969. Connie discovered that Richard Zardino had never graduated. But the yearbooks were full of the photos of the students around him who did. Connie wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Maybe for a good-looking dark-haired girl. Maybe a name or a face he recognized from Alves’s files. Anything tying Zardino to Kelly Adams. Hours of searching, and there was nothing. Maybe he’d wasted a day off coming here this morning.

Connie took the catwalk to the Registrar’s Office in the new Campus Center, flashed his prosecutor’s badge, and worked his way through the phalanx of state workers guarding the Registrar. A skeleton of a man with tobacco-stained fingers came out from behind a bank of computers.

Connie flashed his credentials again and introduced himself. “I’m conducting a grand jury investigation into a serious matter. I’ll need to see a complete list of students registered to take classes at the time a certain student was enrolled here. We’re looking back ten years,” Connie said.

The Registrar gave a cough that seemed to allow him to speak. “I would need to see a subpoena before I could turn over those kinds of records.”

“I understand. I’ll have my secretary fax one over right now. If you
don’t mind, I’ll wait for the records.” Connie took out his cell phone and hit #1 on his speed dial.

Within minutes the Registrar was holding a subpoena under the heading of a John Doe investigation.

“Records just for that one year, 1997–’98,” Connie reminded him.

“Probably take more than an hour. There’s a coffee kiosk on the lower level,” he told Connie as he turned away.

In less than two hours, Connie was back at the library. The printouts listed the names and addresses of every student in attendance that year. Connie sorted through the sheets of names, looking for anything that might be significant.

Connie’s cell rang. He didn’t recognize the number but he caught it on the second ring. A couple of students stared at him for interrupting their studies, but he was glad to have picked up. It was Luther on the line. He waited while Connie made his way out of the library.

“Mr. Darget,” Luther said, “Rich Zardino and I would like to meet with you.”

“What about?”

“We need to see you in person. We have information on a homicide. It came from some kids we work with. You need to consider this an anonymous tip.”

“When do you want to meet?”

“As soon as you’re available.”

“One hour. At the Victoria Diner.” Connie looked down at the printouts. He flipped to the end of the alphabet.

Richard Zardino.

Residence: 2252 Paris Street

East Boston

Rich Zardino’s address had not changed in more than ten years.

R
ay Figgs parked across from Grady’s Barber Shop on Columbus
Avenue. The antique barber’s pole was turning and the “OPEN” sign was in the window. Beyond that, there didn’t seem to be any sign that Grady’s was open for business. Figgs checked his reflection in a car window. Good enough for a meeting with Stutter Simpson.

The little bell on the door jingled when Figgs stepped inside. A short, chubby man with a mustache and beard appeared from a door at the back of the shop. Grady. He waved Figgs in and waited for him to step into the back room. He closed the door behind Figgs.

Stutter Simpson sat on the edge of a cot in the small office. There was a duffel bag serving as a pillow at one end of the bed. Stutter had a moth-eaten wool blanket draped around his shoulders. A barbershop hideout. Simpson had been hiding out from the police and his enemies. Figgs had never seen Stutter in the flesh, only in booking photos. The boy looked as though he’d lost twenty pounds since his last drug arrest a year ago. The irony of the situation did not escape Figgs. Simpson’s hair was in serious need of a trim and he hadn’t shaved in a week. Probably the last time he showered, too.

Figgs sat on a little stool across from Stutter’s bed. Let the kid get uncomfortable
with the silence, he told himself. Let him make the first move.

“W-w-what chou want with me?” Stutter asked.

No mystery how he got his nickname. The impairment probably accelerated with an injection of nerves. And he was plenty nervous right now. Figgs took his time answering. “I want to talk with you about your brother Junior. I need you to tell me who would have shot him.”

“N-nobody.”

“Let’s try this one. Who wants to kill you?”

“Everybody.”

“Narrow that down for me.”

“I can’t trust no one. My dogs don’t want n-n-nothing to do with me. Think I’m a marked man. Jesse Wilcox’s boys are gunning for me.”

“You have anything to do with Jesse’s death, Stutter?” Figgs asked.

“No, I s-swear.”

“Why haven’t you cooperated with the police in the investigation?”

“Can’t trust Five-O neither. I’m not talking about getting busted. I’m talking about getting p-popped.”

“By Five-O?”

Stutter Simpson nodded. “Some funny shit going on. Only reason I’m meeting you is my moms said you’s okay. You one of us. Says you’ve got a good rep for helping people. I can’t hide out here much longer. Grady’s stressing. Thinks he’s gonna get straightened if I chill here much longer. Look at me, man. I’m living in the back room of a barber shop. Can’t even get a haircut.”

“What do you know about Junior’s death?”

“Heard a van rolled up on him. The kind with the sliding doors on both sides. Smoked out windows. Junior walk right up to it. Someone he knew. Trusted. Then …pop, pop, pop. No chance to jet.”

“You have any idea who was in that van?”

Stutter Simpson nodded. “I told him not to trust no one on the street. So it had to be someone who wasn’t street. That’s all I know.”

“You’re not going to do anything stupid, right?”

“Can’t say what I m-might do. I find who killed Junior, likely, I’ll smoke him.”

“Your mother’s already lost one son.”

“She lost both her sons. Look around, detective. This ain’t no way to
live. I’m doing this for her. Least she’ll know her boys went down fighting. Not a couple of bitches. That’s all, and that’s it.”

The kid was scared enough to be telling the truth, Figgs thought. And if what he said
was
the truth, then Junior Simpson was killed by someone with a badge, or someone like a church worker, a teacher, a parole or probation officer. Someone comfortable in the neighborhood. Someone he trusted.

I
t was starting to fit into place. It had to be Zardino. It made perfect
sense. Connie had been on the computer since he got back from his meeting at the Vic with Luther and Zardino.

The information the two Street Saviors gave him was interesting. Their sources told them that Shawn Tinsley never touched a gun in his life. If that was true, Tracy Ward had lied up the grand jury so he could get a cigarette. Now Tinsley was dead and the shooter—the same one that killed his own friend Ellis Thomas because he thought he’d snitched—was still out there. Connie told Luther and Zardino he’d speak with Figgs and they’d figure out what to do about Michael Rogers, the real shooter.

But that could wait. Connie was focused on the Prom Night Killer, and he’d read every article ever written about Zardino’s arrest and wrongful conviction.

Mooney and Alves had it all wrong. They were focusing on recently released, known sex offenders that went to jail around the time the killings stopped. Their next step would be to look at all recent parolees, no matter what their crime. That was too broad a net to cast.

Did they ever think to look at someone who got out of jail, not because he was paroled, but because he had been exonerated? Rich Zardino fit perfectly. When the first murders were committed, Zardino was a kid
with no record. The murders stopped when he was taken into custody. Eight years later, he was kicked loose, exonerated. Then the victims started turning up dead again. But not for two years. What happened during those two years?

Connie’s study of serial killers had taught him the way they think, the way they act, how stressors trigger their acts. Connie sat back down at his computer and Googled the name Zardino. It didn’t take long to find the mother’s obituary.

Rose Zardino. Dead of heart failure. May 7, 2008.

Not six months later, before Columbus Day, 2008, Courtney and Josh, then Nathan and Karen were all dead.

T
he conversation with Bland had gotten Alves thinking. He
remembered what Mooney had said when they were close to catching the Blood Bath Killer.
Everyone’s a suspect
.

Alves walked into Mooney’s office. “How’d it go with the hypnotist?” he asked before he took a seat.

“Waste of time. It took awhile to get him under. Couldn’t remember anything else about the van,” Mooney said. “I had the BRIC cross-reference our list of sex offenders with the RMV. See if any of them owns a white van. Checked their known relatives. Killer could have borrowed the van. Reached out to the Sex Offender Registry Board too. Got about a dozen level three sex offenders who live in the areas where the vics were last seen. All of them tracked on GPS bracelets. No one anywhere near their exclusion zones, which include parks and playgrounds.”

“You have their addresses?”

“Right here.” Mooney tapped the top folder on his desk. “How’d it go with you?” he asked.

“Still looking into Karen Pine. Checked every roster at BU, every professor, tutor and teaching assistant from every class she ever took. Nothing. I’m going to run all their BOPs,” Alves said. “I’ve got the list of
recent DOC releases. If you want, I can focus on parolees with links to the area around your Emerald Necklace.”

“I spent some time trying to figure out who would be interested in Boston’s Emerald Necklace. Called a few people. The Superintendent of the Parks Department for one. He gave us Rangers, tour guides, Duck Tour drivers, even the kids who pedal tourists around on the Swan Boats. Then I tried a professor of American Urban History over at UMass Boston. No hits for students writing theses on the Necklace in the last couple years, although I did learn quite a bit about the Great Molasses Flood of 1919. A lot of the workers at the Parks Department have records. You want to start with them or the sex offenders?” Mooney stood up and reached for the jacket hanging on the back of his chair.

Alves had had enough of his quiet house. Late-night cups of coffee alone. No line for the bathroom. He wanted Marcy and the twins back home where they belonged. “Let’s flip a coin. Can I buy you a coffee?” he asked, knowing Mooney never refused anything free.

T
he early morning sun shone through the windows of the catwalk at
UMass Boston. Connie watched the students changing classes. They moved in slow groups, texting and talking on their cell phones.

He’d come prepared with subpoenas for four professors. Zardino’s math teacher was dead, and his psychology and economics professors had nothing to add, as the classes were held in lecture halls with hundreds of students.

One old-timer left to talk to.

He took the elevator to the sixth floor and checked the office schedules on the wall outside the main office. He located the office he was looking for and took a seat at a small round table designed for students to meet with their tutors. On the table was a stack of school newspapers, the
Mass Media
. He thumbed through the pages full of safety tips:
avoid being alone in the deserted spots like the library’s upper floors
, and
always walk to isolated parking spots with a friend
. The school was implementing a Safe Escort program that would operate nights and Saturdays. It was his habit to read everything—from the front page to the sports reports.