Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

“Jesus,” Griffin muttered, coughing twice, then wishing he hadn't because it sucked more of the smoke into his lungs. Plus, this close, he caught another, richer smell underlying the odor of gasoline.

Griffin turned toward the courthouse on his right and found more chaos. Reporters, hastily contained on the grassy lawn of the memorial park, strained against blue police barricades and shouted questions in the ears of the poor Providence cops assigned to stand guard. Across from them, an ambulance was perched on the courthouse curb, along with the ME's van and more police cars than Griffin could count. Providence, state, marked, unmarked, even one belonging to Brown University 's campus police. Apparently if you wore a badge, you were now part of this party.

Griffin shook his head. He pushed his way through the swelling crowd of city gawkers as a young officer in a Providence uniform and slicked-back black hair spotted him from across the street and jogged over to meet him.

“Sergeant!”

“Hey, Bentley. Imagine meeting you here.” Bentley played softball with Griffin 's younger brother, Jon. For the record, the state's team had creamed their corn three years in a row.

Bentley pulled up in front of Griffin, looking a little jazzed. Griffin didn't blame him. In all his years, he hadn't seen anything like this. He kept thinking he'd stepped out of his car into LA. All they needed now was a movie producer hawking film rights on the nearest street corner.

“I'm first responder,” Bentley said in a rush. “I was across the river on patrol. Heard the rifle crack myself and stepped on the gas. My God, you shoulda seen the press. I thought they were gonna scale the courtyard fence to get more photos. We spent the first five minutes just getting them under control, never mind looking for the shooter.”

“No kidding?” First responder. Griffin was suitably impressed. “You'll be the stuff of legends,” he assured the young Providence cop as he headed across the street with Bentley in tow. “So what do we got?”

“One down, Eddie Como, DOA at the scene. Shot was fired shortly after eight-thirty A.M. as he was unloaded from the ACI van. According to initial reports, it was a rifle shot from the roof. Five, ten minutes later, an explosion came from the RISD parking lot.”

“Car bomb?”

“Fire marshal isn't saying anything yet, but between you and me, five cars are wrecked, so I'm guessing that's a safe bet.”

“Fatalities?”

“Don't know. Scene's too hot. I saw what looked like an arm, though, so there's at least one victim. Plus there's the, well…”

“Smell,” Griffin filled in for him.

“Yeah.” Bentley swallowed heavily.

“Uniforms searching the area?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stopping anyone with an overcoat?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any luck?”

“No, sir.”

Griffin nodded. “Yeah, your arm probably belongs to a guy who used to be good with a rifle. Didn't anyone ever tell him there's no honor among thieves?”

“Sounds like the Mafia,” Bentley volunteered.

Griffin shrugged. “What does the Mafia care about the College Hill Rapist? Dunno. One thing at a time. I gotta go here. Keep us posted on the search, okay?”

Griffin had arrived at the yellow crime-scene tape. Across the street, several of the reporters spotted him and a fresh shout went up.

“Sergeant, Sergeant-”

“Hey, Griffin!”

Griffin ignored them, focusing instead on the state uniform posted outside the yellow tape. Griffin didn't recognize the female officer, who was now asking his name, rank and badge number for the crime-scene logbook. Of course, in eighteen months, some things were bound to change. He told himself that was all right, though the thought left him feeling uncomfortable. Work was work. Just like riding a bike. He ducked beneath the tape.

Inside the enclosed courtyard, he saw several things at once. The blue ACI van pulled over to the left, doors still open and the interior emptied out. Three gray-clad state marshals standing to the right, talking to another Major Crimes detective. A strung-out row of blue- and khaki-suited prisoners still shackled together and now seated on the ground. In the middle was a really big pool of blood, topped by what was left of Eddie Como's body. The guy shackled to the left of Como 's body was covered in blood and brains and sat in stunned silence. The guy to the right was also covered in blood and brains, but he wouldn't shut up.

“No way. No fuckin' way. Not happening. Really, really not happening. Why are we still tied up, man? I mean, like we're really going to run off right now. Because of course this isn't happening. Really not happening. Get these fucking things off me! ”

The state marshals ignored him. So did Jack-n-Jack, the crime techs from CIU. Both were already moving around the flagstone courtyard with a digital camera, capturing the scene. Deeper in, the two death investigators from the ME's office were also diligently recording their findings. At the moment, they were standing over what might have been a man's jaw.

“Hey, Griffin,” Jack Cappelli said, finally looking up.

“Look at you,” Jack Needham said, also looking up. “Ooooh, that's gotta be Italian.”

Griffin obligingly ran a hand down the silk-wool blend of his blue-gray sports coat. Cindy had picked it out for him. It had been one of her favorites. “Of course. Nothing but the best for this job. Now tell me the truth. Did you miss me?”

“Absolutely,” they said in unison.

“Jack killed your plant, Griffin,” the first Jack piped up.

“Can't prove it,” the second Jack said.

“Bet I can. I shot a round of black-and-whites documenting the scene.”

“In other words,” Griffin deduced, “it's been a little slow lately.”

They both nodded glumly. Then the first Jack perked up again. “But not anymore. Hey, do us a favor. Kill those choppers, Griff.”

“Yeah, they're messing with our scene, Griff.”

Griffin obligingly looked up at the swarm of media helicopters buzzing the sky, then grimaced. Media choppers were such a pain in the ass. If it wasn't bad enough to have to worry about an overly aggressive photographer capturing some sensational image of the victim, the wash from the rotor blades ruined half the evidence. He picked up his radio to contact the State Aeronautics Department just as the guy shackled to the left of Como 's body raised his hand to his blood-spattered face.

“Stop!” Jack-n-Jack ordered as a single unit. “No touching! Remember, you are part of the crime scene. We need your face to analyze spray.”

“Ahhhhhhh,” the guy said.

Jack-n-Jack looked at him and snapped a fresh photo.

Griffin suppressed a grin. Yeah, just like old times. You know, other than the fact that they'd never had an assassination at the state courthouse before. He finished securing the airspace above the judicial complex, then returned his attention to Jack-n-Jack.

“What do we got?”

“Single head shot. Entrance wound top of the skull. Exit wound beneath the chin. No sign of powder burns. We're guessing a rifle with a soft-point slug, which would provide enough force to penetrate the skull and enough spread to do… well, to do that. ”

Jack-n-Jack pointed to the body. It was a good thing Griffin had seen Eddie Como's face on TV, because he definitely couldn't see it now. Soft-point bullets expanded on impact, creating a wonderful mushrooming effect.

“So a steeply vertical rifle shot.” Griffin looked up. A rooftop sniper would be consistent with initial reports. Unfortunately, from this angle inside the courtyard, he couldn't see anything tucked back from the roofline six stories up. That didn't bode well for witnesses. On the other hand, that's why they paid him the big bucks. He pulled out his Norelco mini-recorder and focused on the five shackled prisoners.