Strangled - Brian McGrory [125]
I said, “I’d love to, but believe it or not, this day’s not over.”
She replied, “You’re about to kick the shit out of us on this story, aren’t you?”
She was designated as a Phantom victim. And she’s worried about getting beat in the next day’s paper. No wonder why I feel the way I do about her.
“I hope so,” I said.
With that, I kissed her on the cheek. I told Hank his new assignment was to make sure she stayed alive. Then I gave Mac Foley a long look before I walked out the hotel door.
On the street, I opened up Hank’s back door and beckoned the black Labrador to come with me. I hailed a cab, and the two of us settled into the backseat, sitting side by side.
That little tic was turning into a hard rap, and I was beginning to get a better handle on why.
34
The aging desk sergeant at Boston Police headquarters at Schroeder Plaza barely looked up when he asked, “What do you need?”
What did I need? Where to begin. How about starting with a fresh lead on the Phantom Fiend, a way to tie the murders to the person I believed was in all probability committing them: Paul Vasco.
Then how about giving my dear colleague Edgar Sullivan the final years he deserved in peace?
How about giving me the real Peter Martin back, the one who would never tolerate the publisher checking in with city officials before deciding what to print — or, more relevant in this case, what not to print? How about letting me be just an everyday excellent reporter, and not some mouthpiece for a crazed serial murderer who seems to have emerged some forty years later?
I didn’t think this particular officer of the law was of the mind or place to give me any of this, so instead what I requested was directions to the visiting room in the station lockup. This prompted him to look up at me for the first time in our brief exchange, a weary look on his face. He said in a tone that dripped contempt, “Who wants to know?”
“My name is Jack Flynn. I’m a reporter for the Boston Record.”
He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes wandering across my face. His expression changed as he pulled his glasses off his face and rubbed his eyes. He said to me in a voice that reached toward politeness, “Take that elevator over there down one floor. I’ll call ahead and have an officer on duty meet you there and take you to where you’re supposed to be.”
It was three o’clock now, and as I walked across the hard floor of the wide expanse of the lobby, the sergeant called out to me, “Good luck, kid. You’re doing important work.”
I wish I could have captured that on tape, because trust me when I say that cops don’t ordinarily talk to ink-stained scribes like that.
Downstairs, a similarly aging — and respectful — sergeant met me at the elevator bank and escorted me into a windowless room furnished with only a pair of wooden benches and a row of four plastic chairs bolted to the tile floor. At the far end of the room was a pair of thick Plexiglas windows with a wall phone next to each one, just like you see on TV. I couldn’t believe that in a moment I’d be sitting there talking to Vinny Mongillo through a bulletproof partition.
Fortunately, I never did. Just as I sat down on one of the benches, without so much as a dated People magazine to pass the time, a heavy steel door opened in the far corner, and in walked Vinny Mongillo, shaking a fistful of peanut M&M’s out of the familiar bright yellow bag. He turned around and said to the uniformed cop walking behind him, “Thanks a million, Ralphie. And make sure you tell Jane I said she’s all wet on the mother-in-law issue.”
Ralphie said to both of us, “I’ll leave you boys to yourselves. Knock on the window when you’re done.” He laughed and added, “Nothing conjugal.” My skin crawled, but that’s okay. It was good to see Vinny, even behind bars.
Vinny raised his eyebrows at me, then sat down on a facing