2 in the Hat (21 page)

He was almost finished when he saw the quarter-page announcement for an upcoming lecture.

Brown Bag Lecture Series

It seemed Richard Zardino was everywhere.

When she finally showed up, herbal tea in hand, Zardino’s silver-haired English professor held Connie up for what seemed like an hour while she dug through old mimeographed files and dusty student essays. But it was worth the time. Richard Zardino, student in English 101, section 18, had written an essay about a myth. “Sleep, and Death, his brother, dwelt in the lower world. Dreams too ascended from there to men. They passed through two gates, one of horn through which true dreams went, one of ivory for false dreams.” The professor had given him an F, with the notation: “Source is Edith Hamilton. Always properly cite your sources.” The plagiarized essay was presented to the Dean of Students, who promptly ruled that Richard Zardino receive an F for a class grade.

Within a month, Kelly Adams and Eric Flowers were dead.

N
o one would be in the office yet, not on a Saturday morning
… except for one person.

It was a little after seven a.m. when Connie stepped into the assignment office where the closed case files were archived. Jason Reece had worked in the office for close to twenty years. He had started in the assignment office out of college, and he took his job seriously. He was the first one in every day, including Saturdays, making sure he kept the information in his database active.

Every time he went near Jason’s office, Connie stopped in to say hello and chat. A rabid Bruins fan, Jason was always willing to talk about the good old days when the NHL let the Black and Gold inflict a lot more black and blue. His ultimate fantasy would be an early ’70s home game at the old Garden—not an unobstructed seat in the house—with the Philadelphia Flyers, the Broad Street Bullies, in town to take on the Big Bad Bruins. Every hockey fan in Boston knew they would never witness that style of hockey again.

“Hey, Jay,” Connie called out. But Jason wasn’t at his desk. He was in, though. Otherwise the door would have been locked. Not so much to protect the files that were stored there, but the Bruins memorabilia on the walls. They were covered with autographed photos and sticks and
pucks. There was a 1972 pennant signed by Derek Sanderson, Bobby Orr and Pie McKenzie and a framed, autographed Cam Neely jersey.

“What’s up, Connie?” Jason popped out of the back room where the case files were stored. “You’re here early.”

“I’m trying to draft an opposition to a motion for a new trial that’s due next week. Could you pull a file for me? It has some good motions and oppositions that I can use as samples.”

“Case name, buddy?”

“It’s an old one, but the motions were just heard within the last few years. I’m hoping you haven’t sent it off to the state archives. Defendant’s name is Richard Zardino.”

“I remember that one. He got a new trial.”

Connie nodded. “The DA eventually had us assent to the motion. Then we dismissed the case. But the motions that were filed early on were good. Mind if I take a look through the file? I’ll get it back to you Monday morning, first thing.”

“No hurry. Keep it as long as you want. Let me see if I still have it.”

“Jason,” Connie called. “Nine days, thirteen hours, and fifteen minutes.”

“You’re the man, Connie,” Jason called back. “Can’t wait for that first puck to drop.”

A
lves lay in bed listening to the comforting sound of the shower
running. The twins would wake up any minute. Then everyone would rush around getting ready for church, just like it used to be, before the killings started again. And after church, there was the big dinner at Marcy’s mother’s house, where Marcy and the twins were bunking out. They were back for the weekend—so Marcy could catch up on the laundry and her paperwork for school. Give him a taste of all he was missing.

Even with all the pleasant distractions, Alves couldn’t keep his mind off work. After his conversation with John Bland, he understood that it was at least a possibility that Mitch Beaulieu was not the Blood Bath Killer. That meant that someone else was. Because his old friend from the neighborhood, Robyn Stokes, was one of that killer’s victims, he couldn’t talk to Marcy about his doubts. Robyn had been one of Marcy’s best friends growing up, and Marcy was already nerved up enough about the Prom Night killings, never mind rehashing cases they all considered closed.

The last person he could talk to was Wayne Mooney. Mooney hated the feds. His last face-to-face meeting with John Bland and his partner had ended in a dustup of epic proportions. He’d basically thrown the feds off the case and gotten himself launched to Evidence Management. Besides, the Blood Bath case was closed. Solved. Why open up all the grief for the victims’ families and friends? For the Department? Still …

It bothered Alves not to tell Marcy. Despite their recent problems, they had a strong marriage. They trusted each other and kept no secrets. He couldn’t think of any other way to put it. They knew each other at the core.

The shower stopped and he could hear Marcy singing “Winter Wonderland.” Down the hall, he could hear the twins giggling. Slowly, things would return to normal. It would be great to sit in the stuffy church, go through the paces—up-down-kneel-stand. Great to offer a silent prayer that his family seemed to be coming through the horror of the past few weeks. His wife was humming, his children were outside the bedroom door, arguing over which one of them got to turn the doorknob. In that peaceful moment of thankfulness, a thought came to him.

How do you find out who a man really is?

Simple enough.

You go talk to the woman.

W
ayne Mooney knew he was ambitious, trying to make the run
from the Common to Franklin Park, taking the scenic route along the Emerald Necklace. It had to be five miles, maybe closer to seven or eight. A gorgeous Sunday afternoon in late September might not have been the best time for him to make the journey. People were everywhere, with kids in strollers, on bikes, riding Razors, and those sneakers with the wheels. It was a freaking obstacle course.

The killer wouldn’t be setting up his couples now. He would wait until dark, during the quiet time, somewhere between midnight and four in the morning. Any earlier, he could run into people coming home from a night out. Any later and he’d likely be spotted by some early bird runner, a newspaper delivery man. Mooney needed to talk to the Commissioner about borrowing some bodies from the Strike Force, setting them up at strategic locations around the Necklace. But which locations?

The killer had started out at the Fens. He’d skipped the Common, the Public Garden and Commonwealth Mall. Why? Too wide open, heavily populated with the homeless, runaways, and the elderly. Then he goes from the Fens to the Riverway. Next stop Olmsted Park, where Mooney was right now, where the MDC skating rink used to be.

Then he stops killing for ten years. Logically, he should pick up where he left off. Jamaica Pond should be next. Sure, there are houses around
the perimeter, but there are still secluded spots that would create beautiful backdrops. But he skips the Pond and starts working from the other end of the Necklace. Why? Why go to Franklin Park then the Arboretum? Why start working back in the opposite direction?

As Mooney jogged down the hill toward the Jamaica Pond, he saw the boathouse, some of the sailboats already tipped over in neat lines, in preparation for winter. He saw the groomed walking paths, the woods surrounding the pond, the thick shadows cast on the little spans of neat grass. This had to be the next spot. Besides the risky spots near the Common, Jamaica Pond was the one Jewel missing in the killer’s Necklace. This was where the killer would come next.

M
ichael Rogers felt something warm and sticky on the ground
under him. His legs were useless and it hurt to use his arms. His insides were messed up pretty good, otherwise he wouldn’t be tasting blood in his mouth, coughing it up from his lungs.

His legs had gone numb the second he heard the shot. If he had only seen the van coming down Walnut. He’d gone behind that thorn bush to take a leak. When he stepped back under the street light, the van was parked not ten feet away. The sliding side door was already open. Funny thing, he hadn’t heard it slide. And the interior lights weren’t lit. Right away he knew something was wrong, but he hadn’t had time to run. No time to reach for his toast. It had happened so fast.

The first shot tore into his gut. He felt the burning in his back and belly, but nothing else. Once he hit the ground, he was useless.

The dude that got out of the van had a dark hoodie drawn tight around his face, black gloves and jeans. Maybe dude was one of Tracy Ward’s crew, maybe one of Ellis Thomas’s cousins. Payback. But he couldn’t make out anything familiar about him. Not even his walk.

Michael Rogers wanted to see his face. He tried to tell the shooter, but the words wouldn’t come out. Only choking and more blood. He tried to gather enough saliva in his mouth to spit, but he couldn’t. He
wasn’t afraid to take chrome to the dome. But he wanted to see who the shooter was first.

Dude stood over him for what seemed like the longest time before he took the heater out of his waist and aimed it down at his head. Then Dude opened up his hoodie enough so the street light lit half his face.

Michael Rogers nodded.

At least he had an answer.

F
iggs spotted something. A small shiny object threw back the light
of his flashlight. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and knelt in the mulch groundcover of the playground. Michael Rogers was lying ten feet away in this quiet corner of Mothers’ Peace Park. Ironic. What mother would be at peace knowing her kids were playing here? At night, this kiddie playground was the most dangerous area of the park. Surrounded by tall shrubs and isolated from neighbors by an old church on one side and a school across the street, it offered the perfect seclusion necessary for drug dealing.

Aside from the first responders who found the body, no one had been in or out of the playground. Figgs had ordered everyone to stand by while he made a cursory walk-through. He reached forward and picked up the object. A shell casing: .40 caliber. He placed it back down where he had found it. His knee popped as he stood up: another sign of aging.

Figgs made his way toward the patrol supervisor from District B-2. He motioned toward the broken street lights. “We need the lighting crew out here. Ballistics, too. Sergeant Stone, if you can get him.”

Michael Rogers lay on the mulch, eyes staring skyward, a dark bullet hole in his forehead. The blood pooling beneath him was thick and glistening. Another mother had lost another son. Another mother’s life would come to nothing but grief here in what was supposed to be a place of healing.

I
t was almost noon on Monday before Connie entered the main office
of East Boston High, flashed his badge, and asked to speak with the headmaster.

The weekend had been productive. He’d spent time in his basement going through the two archive boxes that made up
Commonwealth v. Richard Zardino
. Police reports, grand jury minutes, trial transcripts, motions for new trial. Everything.

Zardino had been set up good. The prosecution had a single witness who testified that Zardino had murdered a local thug. The witness had a bad record, and that came out at trial. What didn’t come out was that he was an FBI informant who caught a break for trafficking guns and drugs. The witness had to have been looking at thirty years, on a good day. To give him a break on a serious case, the feds needed something big in return. Information that helped solve a murder was good. But testifying for the prosecution at a murder trial was winning the Triple Crown.

When the information became public, a judge allowed Zardino’s motion for a new trial. The DA decided not to prosecute the case and Zardino was free. Since he’d been exonerated, his name would not appear on a list of parolees from the DOC.

That’s why Mooney and Alves had overlooked Zardino as a suspect.

He’d returned the files to Jason Reece early enough, but it had been
almost ten o’clock before he reached his contact at the School Department. The power of another grand jury subpoena, and he had records showing Zardino’s school assignments from elementary through high school. And he’d confirmed that the first two victims hadn’t attended the Boston Public Schools.

On the drive through the Ted, Connie had thought how there was a lot of information in old yearbooks, most of it useless, until you needed a youthful detail on a person that could only be found in those depositories of nostalgia.

The headmaster was a small, tidy woman wearing the kind of dark suit a politician might wear. Connie flashed his badge and she was on the phone, requesting a copy of the yearbook from Zardino’s graduation year, 1997, the year before the murders began.

“Could you tell me again why you need this yearbook, Mr. Darget?” she asked while they waited. She was so slight she seemed to float when she moved.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. A grand jury investigation is a secret proceeding. To protect the innocent more than anything else. Suppose I tell you I’m looking for information on a Jane or John Doe and my investigation ultimately turns up nothing,” Connie wanted to soften her up, win her over to his side. “You would still know that we investigated that person and it might damage his or her reputation.”

Her assistant appeared with the book, and the headmaster held it close to her chest like armor. She didn’t offer it to Connie. “I understand, Mr. Darget. But I would have to make some calls first.” She still held the book close. “I’m the one getting sued if a student’s privacy is violated.”