Bruce DeSilva - Providence Rag

“You know we’ll handle it the right way.”

“Just you and a photographer?”

“Not me. Mason and Gloria.”

“Noon on Monday,” she said. “His mother will pick him up and take him home.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Anybody going to keep tabs on him?”

“We’ll give him a police escort to the state line. After that, he’s Massachusetts’ problem.”

“The authorities there have been informed?”

“We’ve alerted Brockton PD and the Massachusetts State Police. They’ll keep an eye on him, drop in on him from time to time. That’s all they can do.”

“Until he kills again.”

“Yeah. Until then.”

“Still having fun playing governor?”

“Right now, not so much.”

Monday, there were only a half-dozen cars in the Supermax visitors’ lot. Only one of them, a gray 2002 Chevrolet Malibu, had Massachusetts plates. Gloria pulled her Ford Focus into the space next to it. A moment later, Felicia drove into the lot.

At five past noon, Kwame Diggs strode out of the prison gate, his arm around his mother. Esther Diggs looked incredibly small. She glanced up at her son as if she were looking at a stranger. Kwame closed his eyes, tilted his face up to the sun, rolled his shoulders, and grinned. Gloria’s shutter clicked.

Diggs turned and stared at her. She got the impression he was trying to figure out where he’d seen her before. She was very glad, then, that she’d colored her hair.

“How’s it feel to be out, Kwame?” Freyer asked. She didn’t sound as though she really wanted to know.

“Great,” he said. “‘Free at last, free at last.’ Dr. King said that.”

“What are you going to do first?” Mason asked.

“I’m heading to McDonald’s for three Double Quarter Pounders with Cheese and a McFlurry with M &M’s. Then I’m gonna go home with my moms.”

“Then what?”

“Hell, I don’t know.” He turned to his lawyer. “Thanks so much, Miss Freyer. I owe you my life.”

“Mason did most of the work,” she said.

“I know. Thanks, Mason. I owe you big-time.”

He extended his hand. Mason hesitated, then shook it.

“Know how you can repay me?” Mason asked.

“How?”

“Don’t kill anybody else.”

Diggs’s eyes flashed cold, but his mouth cracked into a grin. His mother got into her car without speaking and cranked the ignition. Diggs opened the passenger-side door, slid the seat all the way back, and wedged himself inside.

“Felicia,” he said, “you looking hot today, girl. See you around sometime.” Then he started to close the car door.

“Hey, Kwame,” Mason said.

“What?”

“‘People pay for what they do, and still more for what they have allowed themselves to become.’ James Baldwin said that.”

Diggs scowled and jerked the door shut.

Mason, Gloria, and Freyer stood in the parking lot and watched a state police car, lights flashing, lead the Malibu out of the parking lot. A second cruiser tagged along behind.

“How did his mother look to you?” Mason asked.

“Scared,” Freyer said. “Jesus! What the hell have we done?”

Gloria, Mason, and Mulligan gathered around a speaker-phone in a private office off the main newsroom.

“What are they using for a DNA sample?” asked Peter Schutter, the retired FBI profiler.

“His old toothbrush and some other toiletry items from his prison cell,” Mulligan said.

“How long before the test results come back?”

“They’re expediting it,” Mulligan said, “but it’s going to be at least a couple of weeks.”

“And he’s going to be running around loose until then?”

“He is.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“He’s moved into his mother’s place in Brockton, Massachusetts,” Gloria put in. “Do you think she’s in any danger?”

“My guess is no, but I can’t say for sure.”

“What do you think he’ll do?” Mason asked.

“Stalk women and stab them to death.”

“How much time do you think we have?” Mulligan said.

“Hard to say.”

“What’s your best guess?”

The retired agent sighed heavily into the receiver.

“When Diggs went to prison he was just a kid-an inexperienced, disorganized killer. His crimes had been reckless and poorly planned, leaving evidence all over the place. For the last eighteen years, he’s been reliving the murders over and over in his mind, thinking about all the mistakes he made. He’ll tell himself to be careful now-watchful and methodical. He’ll try to take his time selecting his next victim. He’ll try to plan his crimes carefully. That could slow him down.”

“But it might not?” Mulligan asked.

“That’s right,” Schutter said. “Diggs is obsessed with killing women. It’s what he lives for. Assuming you’re right about the Foley homicide, he had a one-year cooling-off period between his murders. He’s been waiting for eighteen years now. The desire and frustration bottled up inside of him must be overwhelming. No matter how much his mind tells him to be careful, he could simply explode at the first victim of opportunity. Best-case scenario? I’d say you’ve got a month, maybe two. But don’t be surprised if he kills tonight.”

“Any way to know how he’ll select his victims?” Gloria asked.

“They’ll be blond and vulnerable, of course. Other than that…” Schutter paused in thought for a moment. “Is there any particular blonde he could be obsessing about? A woman he remembers from his past, perhaps?”

“Mary Jennings,” Mulligan said.

“Who’s that?” Schutter asked.

“Connie Stuart’s twin sister.”

“He would have seen her at his trial?”

“Yeah.”

“She’d be about fifty now,” Schutter said. “Diggs always liked them young, so she’s no longer his type.” He paused again, then said, “But in his warped mind, he might still picture her as a young woman. You should warn her to take precautions.”

“What about Susan Ashcroft?” Gloria asked.

“Another older woman,” Schutter said. “But she’s the one who got away, so he probably still fantasizes about her. Anybody else?”

“Diggs’s lawyer is a pretty thirty-year-old blonde,” Mason said. The dread was like a stone in his chest. He’d had vivid, horrifying dreams about Kwame’s hands on her. “She visited him at least a dozen times in the last few months. Sometimes we went together, and I didn’t like the way he looked at her.”

“Tell me about that,” Schutter said.

“He looked her up and down. Commented on her hair and makeup. A couple of times, when I visited him by myself, he said she liked me and asked if I was, as he put it, ‘getting any.’ He pressed for details. Kept saying, ‘Come on, you can tell me.’”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Schutter said.

Mason didn’t either. He wondered if he should have challenged Kwame, warned him to stay away from Felicia. Instantly, he realized why he hadn’t. Because Kwame had threatened him, too.

“Freyer was there when Diggs got out,” Gloria said. “He told her she looked hot and said something about seeing her around sometime.”

“I really don’t like the sound of that,” Schutter said.

And I didn’t say anything, Mason thought. Out loud he said, “Jesus!”

“Let’s not overreact,” Mulligan said. “Diggs was fifteen when he went to prison. He’s never driven a car. How would he even get back to Rhode Island?”

“He could hitch a ride or take public transportation,” Schutter said, “but he probably won’t. He’s a marked man in Rhode Island. Besides, he’s got plenty of blondes to choose from in Brockton.”