2 In The Hat Part 16

"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.

CHAPTER 60.

Ray 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. 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-n.o.body."

"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 Wilc.o.x'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 s.h.i.+t 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 b.i.t.c.hes. 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 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. 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.

CHAPTER 61.

It 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. 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 s.e.x 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.

CHAPTER 62.

The conversation with Bland had gotten Alves thinking. He remembered what Mooney had said when they were close to catching the Blood Bath Killer. remembered what Mooney had said when they were close to catching the Blood Bath Killer. Everyone's a suspect 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 s.e.x 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 s.e.x Offender Registry Board too. Got about a dozen level three s.e.x 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 a.s.sistant from every cla.s.s 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 UMa.s.s 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 Mola.s.ses Flood of 1919. A lot of the workers at the Parks Department have records. You want to start with them or the s.e.x 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.

CHAPTER 63.

The early morning sun shone through the windows of the catwalk at UMa.s.s Boston. Connie watched the students changing cla.s.ses. They moved in slow groups, texting and talking on their cell phones. UMa.s.s Boston. Connie watched the students changing cla.s.ses. 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 cla.s.ses 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 Ma.s.s Media Ma.s.s Media. He thumbed through the pages full of safety tips: avoid being alone in the deserted spots like the library's upper floors avoid being alone in the deserted spots like the library's upper floors, and always walk to isolated parking spots with a friend always walk to isolated parking spots with a friend. The school was implementing a Safe Escort program that would operate nights and Sat.u.r.days. It was his habit to read everything-from the front page to the sports reports.

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

Brown Bag Lecture Series Learn how unjust our criminal justice system is. Meet Rich Zardino, a man who spent eight years in prison for a crime he didn't commit. Hear, in his own words, about his nightmare. His is a story told with power and emotion. Don't miss it.Cookies and beverages provided by the Anarchists ClubSponsored by the Philosophy Club 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 pa.s.sed 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 cla.s.s grade.

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

CHAPTER 64.

No one would be in the office yet, not on a Sat.u.r.day morning ... except for one person. ... except for one person.

It was a little after seven a.m. when Connie stepped into the a.s.signment 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 a.s.signment office out of college, and he took his job seriously. He was the first one in every day, including Sat.u.r.days, making sure he kept the information in his database active.

Every time he went near Jason's office, Connie stopped in to say h.e.l.lo 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 un.o.bstructed 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 a.s.sent 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."

CHAPTER 65.

Alves 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. 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 rehas.h.i.+ng 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 doork.n.o.b. 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.