Part 23 (1/2)

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 gus.h.i.+ng. 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?”