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Authors: Lisa Gardner
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the rape. He beat up the older sister pretty badly, and the younger wound up dead. Anaphylactic reaction to latex, something like that.”
“The guy was wearing gloves?”
“Yeah, plus he tied them up with latex tourniquets. You know, the kind they use in the hospital when they’re drawing blood. That’s how the Providence police caught him in the end. Turns out the victims had donated blood at a campus blood drive prior to the attack. Police did a little digging . . . Eddie Como was a phlebotomist with the Rhode Island Blood Center. Theory is he used the blood drives to identify potential targets, then looked up their home addresses in the blood donor database.”
Griffin waved his head from side to side, working out a kink in his neck. “Circumstantial case?”
“No, they had DNA. Perfect match, all three victims. Como’s the guy.”
“Going to get buried at trial?”
Waters nodded vigorously. “Going to get
buried
at trial.”
“Interesting. So on the one hand, Eddie’s probably going away for life. On the other hand, according to the state marshals, three women still wanted him dead.”
“You haven’t seen the crime-scene photos,” Waters said. And then they arrived in front of the press.
“Sergeant, Sergeant, Sergeant!” The roar went up, followed by an immediate hail of questions.
“Is Eddie Como dead?”
“What about the state marshals?”
“Are there other fatalities?”
“What about the explosion? Was that a car bomb?”
“Who’s going to be leading the case? Providence? State? When will we get a briefing, when will we get a briefing?”
Griffin held up his hand. Bulbs immediately flashed. He grimaced, suffered a spasm of bad memory, then got it under control.
“Okay. This is the deal. We’re not answering any of your questions.”
Collective groan.
“We’re here to ask you our questions.”
A fresh pique of interest.
“I know, I know,” Griffin said dryly, “we’re excited about it, too. In case any of you haven’t noticed, you’re all witnesses to a shooting.”
“It’s Eddie Como, isn’t it? Someone killed the College Hill Rapist!”
The rest of the reporters started in again, kids turned loose in the candy store. “When do we get a briefing? When do we get a briefing?”
“Who’s going to handle the case?”
“What can you tell us about the explosion?”
“Has anyone interviewed the women yet? What do the victims have to say?”
Griffin sighed. Reasoning with the press was such a waste of breath. But in this job, you had to do what you had to do. He and Waters squared their shoulders, shoved aside two of the blue police barricades and waded bravely into the fray. Four microphones promptly appeared in front of Griffin’s face. He pushed them back, homed in on one reporter in particular, and stabbed at the man with his finger.
“You. You and your cameraman can start. Over here.”
He and Waters pulled the two away from the group. The pair weren’t very happy, but then Waters and Griffin didn’t much care. Griffin made the reporter review his notes, while Waters had the cameraman play back his tape. At the last minute, they were rewarded with a grainy image of the back of a man running across the courthouse roof. The focus was all wrong, though. The cameraman had been zoomed in on a close-up shot of his reporter talking in front of the courtyard. When he yanked up the camera after hearing the gunfire, the shooter was too far away to yield a good image.
“He was wearing all black,” the reporter provided. “With something on his head. Maybe a stocking. You know, like bank robbers do in the movies.”
Griffin grunted. Waters noted the names and news affiliate for the twosome, then they moved on. Their second subjects were even better. This cameraman liked gunshots so well, he dropped his five-thousand-dollar piece of hardware onto the lawn.
“I don’t do well with loud noises,” he said sheepishly.
“For God’s sake, Gus,” his
“The guy was wearing gloves?”
“Yeah, plus he tied them up with latex tourniquets. You know, the kind they use in the hospital when they’re drawing blood. That’s how the Providence police caught him in the end. Turns out the victims had donated blood at a campus blood drive prior to the attack. Police did a little digging . . . Eddie Como was a phlebotomist with the Rhode Island Blood Center. Theory is he used the blood drives to identify potential targets, then looked up their home addresses in the blood donor database.”
Griffin waved his head from side to side, working out a kink in his neck. “Circumstantial case?”
“No, they had DNA. Perfect match, all three victims. Como’s the guy.”
“Going to get buried at trial?”
Waters nodded vigorously. “Going to get
buried
at trial.”
“Interesting. So on the one hand, Eddie’s probably going away for life. On the other hand, according to the state marshals, three women still wanted him dead.”
“You haven’t seen the crime-scene photos,” Waters said. And then they arrived in front of the press.
“Sergeant, Sergeant, Sergeant!” The roar went up, followed by an immediate hail of questions.
“Is Eddie Como dead?”
“What about the state marshals?”
“Are there other fatalities?”
“What about the explosion? Was that a car bomb?”
“Who’s going to be leading the case? Providence? State? When will we get a briefing, when will we get a briefing?”
Griffin held up his hand. Bulbs immediately flashed. He grimaced, suffered a spasm of bad memory, then got it under control.
“Okay. This is the deal. We’re not answering any of your questions.”
Collective groan.
“We’re here to ask you our questions.”
A fresh pique of interest.
“I know, I know,” Griffin said dryly, “we’re excited about it, too. In case any of you haven’t noticed, you’re all witnesses to a shooting.”
“It’s Eddie Como, isn’t it? Someone killed the College Hill Rapist!”
The rest of the reporters started in again, kids turned loose in the candy store. “When do we get a briefing? When do we get a briefing?”
“Who’s going to handle the case?”
“What can you tell us about the explosion?”
“Has anyone interviewed the women yet? What do the victims have to say?”
Griffin sighed. Reasoning with the press was such a waste of breath. But in this job, you had to do what you had to do. He and Waters squared their shoulders, shoved aside two of the blue police barricades and waded bravely into the fray. Four microphones promptly appeared in front of Griffin’s face. He pushed them back, homed in on one reporter in particular, and stabbed at the man with his finger.
“You. You and your cameraman can start. Over here.”
He and Waters pulled the two away from the group. The pair weren’t very happy, but then Waters and Griffin didn’t much care. Griffin made the reporter review his notes, while Waters had the cameraman play back his tape. At the last minute, they were rewarded with a grainy image of the back of a man running across the courthouse roof. The focus was all wrong, though. The cameraman had been zoomed in on a close-up shot of his reporter talking in front of the courtyard. When he yanked up the camera after hearing the gunfire, the shooter was too far away to yield a good image.
“He was wearing all black,” the reporter provided. “With something on his head. Maybe a stocking. You know, like bank robbers do in the movies.”
Griffin grunted. Waters noted the names and news affiliate for the twosome, then they moved on. Their second subjects were even better. This cameraman liked gunshots so well, he dropped his five-thousand-dollar piece of hardware onto the lawn.
“I don’t do well with loud noises,” he said sheepishly.
“For God’s sake, Gus,” his
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