Bruce DeSilva - Providence Rag

“You look familiar,” the detective finally said, “but I don’t know why. I don’t remember seeing your sorry ass around the station.”

“You haven’t. I usually cover college sports.”

“Wait a minute. Are you Liam Mulligan? Didn’t you play for the Friars?”

“I’m surprised you’d remember. I was Dickey Simpkins’ backup, so I didn’t get much playing time.”

“I know. I’m a big Providence College fan. Got me a pair of season tickets right behind the visitors’ bench.” He extended his hand, and Mulligan shook it. “I’m Andy Jennings. PC Class of ’71.”

“Nice to meet you, Detective Jennings. I just wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Call me Andy.”

“Well, Andy, you and I have a mutual problem.”

“And what would that be?”

“You know Hardcastle?”

“Yeah. He’s an asshole.”

“I agree. And I’m pretty sure he’s planning to name Miller as a suspect in tomorrow’s paper.”

“So stop him.”

“Stop him? He won’t listen to me. I was sent to help him out, but he gave me the brush-off.”

Jennings sighed, cranked the ignition, turned on the headlights, and pulled away from the curb.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll find out when we get there.”

As he turned onto West Shore Road, the detective snapped the radio on and tuned it to WPRO, a local news and talk station.

“Lincoln Chafee, son of former U.S. senator John Chafee, formally announced his candidacy for mayor of Warwick this afternoon,” newsman Ron St. Pierre was saying. He cued a tape of the candidate’s statement, then cut it short to break in with a bulletin.

“This just in. Warwick police have arrested Walter Miller, a thirty-four-year-old Narragansett Electric employee, in connection with the overnight murder of his girlfriend, Becky Medeiros, and her four-year-old daughter. We’ll have more on this breaking story at the top of the hour.”

“Aw, shit,” Jennings said. “I was afraid that was gonna happen. After what he’s been through, the poor bastard doesn’t need this.” He rubbed his jaw and added, “Guess I’m gonna have to call the station-and your editor-to set the record straight.”

“Two out of three Rhode Islanders read the Dispatch, ” Mulligan said, “so it’s the best way to straighten out anything. But there’s still a problem. If all we have is a short statement from you, the story will get buried inside the metro section where most people will never see it.”

Jennings didn’t say anything.

“But maybe we can fix that.”

“How?”

“If you give me enough details about what happened inside that house, the story might end up on page one.”

Jennings gave him a sideways glance. “Bet that would get you in solid with your boss, huh?”

“It would. And it would really piss off Hardcastle.”

“I’m all for that,” Jennings said, “but I gotta give this some thought.”

He turned onto Greenwich Avenue and pulled into Dunkin’ Donuts. Inside, they ordered two cups of coffee, black for Jennings and lots of milk and sugar for Mulligan. They found a table, and the detective took a sip.

“Sit tight,” he told Mulligan. Then he got up and walked outside.

Through the window, Mulligan watched the detective pull a mobile phone out of his jacket and make a call.

In April, after the Dispatch ’s best advertising quarter in a decade, editors had bought Nokia mobile phones for the entire reporting staff. Mulligan fished the newfangled toy out of his pants and punched in a number.

“City desk, Lomax.”

“It’s Mulligan, Mr. Lomax.”

“Where the hell have you been? Hardcastle got back two hours ago.”

“I’m developing a source.”

“Got something for me?”

“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

“Oh, really? Hardcastle says you’re useless.”

“Useless, huh? Give me another hour to prove him wrong.”

Before Lomax could reply, Mulligan ended the call and turned the phone off. Outside the window, Jennings was still talking, gesturing emphatically with his free hand. It was fifteen minutes before the detective tucked the phone into his pocket and strolled back inside.

“You called the chief?” Mulligan asked.

“Yup.”

“And?”

“He says this will have to be off the record.”

“Off the record? That means I can’t use it.”

“Oh, right. I meant not for attribution. The chief wants you to say it came from a source close to the investigation. That work for you?”

“Sure thing,” Mulligan said.

Jennings looked out the window and composed his thoughts.

“Becky Medeiros and Walter Miller were planning to get married,” he said. “They already sent out invitations and ordered flowers. Becky picked out dresses for herself and Jessica, her daughter from her first marriage, at Ana’s Bridal Boutique in East Providence.”

“You know that how?”

“A little detective work.”

Mulligan pulled out a notebook and pen and started scribbling.

“The neighbors never heard the couple fight. They say Miller doted on the little girl, always bringing her presents, playing with her in the yard, taking walks with her around the neighborhood.”

“So what happened this morning?”

Jennings ran down what he’d found when he’d arrived at the murder house. Occasionally, he consulted his notes. Mostly he talked with his eyes closed, as if a video of the scene were playing inside his head.

“Jessica bled out from one slice across the throat. But Becky? In twenty years on the job, I’ve never seen anything like it. The killer really went to town on her.”

Mulligan dropped his Bic on the table and rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands. This wasn’t the kind of story he had signed on for. Jennings drained his coffee and ordered another for both of them. Mulligan ignored his. The first cup felt like acid in his stomach.

“By afternoon, the front yard was full of cops,” Jennings said. “The sidewalk was crawling with reporters shouting questions and snapping pictures of everything that moved. The mayor and two city councilmen showed up to grandstand for the TV cameras. It was a goddamned circus. The chief figured we better make a public statement and announce that we had a suspect in custody.”

“He thought you had your guy?”

“At the time, we all did. When you find the boyfriend at the scene of a murder and his hands and shirt are covered in blood, what else are you supposed to think?”

He took off his glasses, rubbed his jaw, and went on with the story.

Jennings and his partner, Detective Mello, drove Miller to the police station. They photographed him, confiscated his clothes, cleaned him up, fingerprinted him, and asked if he wanted a lawyer. He didn’t. They stuck him in an interrogation room, gave him a cup of coffee, and managed to get him calmed down enough to tell his story.

The previous evening, he’d helped Becky tuck Jessica into bed, kissed them both good-bye, and headed to his overnight job at Narragansett Electric. He finished work at six A.M. and drove home, stopping off at the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-in window on Post Road to pick up a couple of doughnuts for himself, a toasted cinnamon-raisin bagel for Becky, and two large coffees. He pulled his car into the garage, entered the house through the connecting door, and set the food and coffee on the kitchen counter. Then he turned toward the hallway and saw a scene from a slaughterhouse.

He rushed into the hall, slipped on the blood-slick floor, and nearly fell. He pulled the sheet aside, saw the bodies, and completely lost it.

Did he touch anything besides the sheet?