Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

“Who is here?”

And Meg whispered, “I don't know. Whoever's worse than Eddie Como.”

“WE GOT A PROBLEM.”

Now at the state police headquarters in North Scituate, Griffin finally paused in the middle of five piles of paper. It was a little after six-thirty, and he was trying to get the command post up and running in the vast gray-carpeted Detective Bureau meeting room. It never failed to amaze him how much paperwork could be generated by a single crime. Contact reports, witness statements, detective activity reports (DARs), financial workups and preliminary evidence reports. He was already knee-deep in paperwork and even as he pored over documents, uniformed officers, financial crimes detectives and CIU detectives were breezing through the conference center to drop even more reports on the table. Occasionally, the lieutenant or major or colonel also stopped by, wanting to know if he'd magically solved the case yet. Oh yeah, and the phone rang a lot. Reporters wanting quotes. Local businessmen wanting justice. The AG wanting to emphasize once again that he didn't like shootings in his backyard and that the mayor felt major explosions were bad for tourism.

Now he had Fitz on the phone. “Are you watching this?” Fitz was saying. “Can you fuckin' believe this?”

“I'm not watching anything.”

“Then turn on the TV!”

Griffin raised a brow, sifted through the precariously stacked mounds of paper for the remote, then turned on the TV. He was instantly rewarded by a live news feed being shown on Channel 10.

“Ah, so that's where all the reporters went. I kind of wondered when they magically disappeared from the parking lot.”

“This is not good,” Fitz moaned. “So really not good.”

Eddie Como's public defense lawyer, an earnest fellow by the name of Frank Sierra, was now explaining to the equally earnest press corps that a true tragedy had happened this morning on the steps of justice. Why, just last night, he'd gotten a fresh lead that proved once and for all his client's innocence. He'd been planning on introducing the new evidence first thing this morning to clear Eddie Como's name. Another fifteen, twenty minutes, that was all he would've needed, and Mr. Como would have been as free as a bird.

“That doesn't sound promising,” Griffin informed Fitz by phone.

“I fucking hate lawyers,” Fitz growled.

“Don't worry, I'm sure they hate you, too.”

Griffin paused long enough to listen to Sierra's next statement. In the conference room, Waters and a bunch of other Major Crimes detectives had also halted to watch the show. Better than Barnum amp; Bailey, most of these press conferences.

“Late last night,” public defender Frank Sierra was saying, “I made contact with a witness who can place Mr. Como halfway across town on the night and time of the second attack, offering corroboration of my client's activities on the evening in question. Ladies and gentlemen, may I please introduce Lucas Murphy.”

Eddie Como's lawyer stepped aside, and a gangly kid who couldn't have been more than eighteen took his place. The kid, all arms, legs and zits, stared at the flashing cameras like a deer in headlights. For a moment, Griffin thought the kid might bolt, and Sierra must've thought so, too, because he grabbed the teenager's arm. Then he remembered his audience, and smiled brightly for all the pretty people.

“A witness,” Fitz muttered on the phone. “What the hell kind of evidence is that? For fifty bucks or less even I could conjure up a witness.”

Sierra announced, “Mr. Murphy works at Blockbuster Video over in Warwick.”

Griffin said, “Uh oh.”

“Mr. Murphy, on the night of May tenth, could you please tell these fine people where you were?”

“Oh my God!” Fitz went apoplectic. “He's treating him like a witness. Right here on the evening news, he's launching into his defense. I cannot fucking believe this!”

“I was… uh… well… working,” the kid squeaked. “You know, um, at Blockbuster.”

Sierra was getting into things now. “And did you happen to see Mr. Como that evening, the evening of May tenth, in your video store on Route Two in Warwick?”

“Um… yes.”

The reporters obligingly gasped. Fitz swore again. Griffin simply rolled his eyes.

On TV, Eddie Como's lawyer practically rubbed his hands together with glee. “Mr. Murphy, are you certain you saw Eddie Como on the night of May tenth?”

“Um, yes.”

“But, Mr. Murphy, because I know the fine members of the press will ask this next, how can you be so certain it was Mr. Como who came into your store that night?”

“Well… I saw his name. You know, on his membership card.”

The press gasped again. Fitz mumbled something along the lines of “Oh my God, someone shut that kid up. Quick, get me a gun.”

Griffin told him kindly, “Oh yeah, now you're in trouble.”

On TV, Sierra paused, beamed for the cameras again, and prepared to move in for the kill. “Mr. Murphy, isn't it true that whenever someone rents a video at Blockbuster, there is a record of the transaction?”

“Well, yeah… you know. People hand over their card. We scan that in. Then, you know, we scan in the video. So the computer has um, the video, and um, who rented it, and oh yeah, at what day and at what time. You know, so we know who has what video and if it's late when they return it, in case, you know, they owe any late fees, that sort of thing. You gotta know that stuff if you're a video store.” The kid nodded earnestly. “Also, we got this program now, where if you return a new release right away, like, um, in twenty-four hours, you get a dollar credit on your Blockbuster account. So people come inside for the returns to show their card. I mean, a buck's a buck.”

Eddie Como's lawyer practically creamed his pants on live TV. “So,” he boomed. “Not only did you personally see Eddie Como returning a video to your store on the night of May tenth, at ten twenty-five P.M., just five minutes before the alleged attack on Mrs. Rosen, over on the East Side, which Eddie couldn't possibly have driven to in just five minutes, you have a record of that transaction. A computer-generated record !”

“Fucking computers!” Fitz roared.

While on TV, Lucas Murphy, Blockbuster's new employee of the month, said, “Mmmm, yes.”

The reporters started to buzz. In the conference room, Waters shook his head and sighed. Over the phone, Fitz sounded like he was moaning, then came the distinct crunch of antacid tablets.

“Come on,” Griffin murmured, staring intently at the TV. “Ask him the next question. Ask him the logical next question…”

But Eddie Como's defense lawyer was smarter than he looked. Frank Sierra thanked the press, he thanked the Lord for giving them the truth, even if it was tragically too late, and then he yanked his young, big-eyed witness out of the line of cameras while he was still ahead. The news briefing broke up. Channel 10 cut to a shot of good old Maureen, her blue eyes brighter than ever, saying breathlessly, “Well, it has certainly been a big day in the College Hill Rapist case. New information casts doubt that Eddie Como, shot dead just this morning, was indeed the College Hill Rapist. Ladies, does that mean the real rapist could still be out there-”

Griffin shut off the TV. Waters was looking at him, while on the other end of the phone, Fitz continued chomping away on Tums.

“Sierra ambushed us,” Fitz growled between mouthfuls of antacid. “Didn't give us any warning. Not even a peep about his new evidence, new witness, nada. One minute I'm down at the morgue watching the ME search for viable skin on a deep-fried John Doe, the next I got a call from my lieutenant telling me I'd better turn on the news. What the fuck is up with that? Sierra could've at least given us the courtesy of a phone call.”