Strangled - Brian McGrory [150]
I clenched my fist, raised it in the air, and said, “Where is he? Where’s Vasco?”
The guy blinked long and hard in anticipated pain and said, “He took the train. I don’t know where he went.”
“How do you know he was on the train?”
“I was with him when he left.”
The guy was still on the ground, his head raised a few inches off the filthy floor. I was kneeling above him. Mongillo stood behind me.
Mongillo barked, “When?”
“This morning. We went to the train station this morning. We were supposed to be going to work together for the first day, and he said he had somewhere else he needed to go.”
“Which train station?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
I clenched my fist harder, causing him to flinch. They probably don’t teach this interview technique at Columbia University’s ever-famous journalism graduate school, but nor do they probably teach young reporters-to-be what they’re supposed to do when everyone around them keeps dying. Or maybe they do; I don’t really know. I barely got a bachelor’s degree.
I asked, “How the fuck do you not know?”
“I don’t know this city, man. I don’t. I’m from Detroit. I really don’t know.”
Mongillo and I remained silent for a moment, both our minds rushing to devise our next step. In the quiet, I glanced over at the wall that held the photographs of Jill Dawson, Lauren Hutchens, and Kimberly May, and saw with a start that their pictures were no longer there. I scanned the floor quickly, and they weren’t there either. I don’t know why this was important to me, the fact these pictures were missing, but it was.
“You’re coming with us,” I said, grabbing him by the front of his dirty white T-shirt and lifting him up.
“I can’t, dude. I can’t.”
I hate the word dude, though that’s not entirely why I clenched my fist once again, gritted my teeth, and whispered to him, “If you don’t, I’m going to kill you.”
“I need a fix.”
Mongillo, intuitively and literally understanding where we were going with this, said, “We’ll get you one — right after.”
I asked, “What’s your name?”
“Marcus.”
“Marcus, we’re going to go for a little ride, and as soon as we’re done, we’ll set you up with whatever you need.”
He nodded, hopeful for the first time in this encounter. The three of us walked out of the room, down the dark, dingy hall, down the stairs, and out into the street. He wasn’t wearing a jacket; I didn’t particularly care.
The goal was to retrace their route. I’m not completely certain why this was so important to me, but it falls in the same category as conducting an interview in person rather than by phone. You always get more from facial expressions, from body language, from being in the same room. You always get more from just showing up.
In the car, Vinny got in the driver’s seat and I sat in the back beside Marcus, with my man Huck squishing over against the door. Before we pulled out, we discerned that Marcus and Vasco had walked to a subway stop. The subway stop was next to where the Celtics played, which meant North Station. They did not switch subway lines. They did not take the subway directly to the train station. They got off the subway and came aboveground at a busy intersection with a large park, then walked to the train station behind a tall glass skyscraper.
I said to Vinny, “Sounds like they took the Green Line to Arlington Street, and walked to Back Bay Station. But why the hell didn’t they just take the Orange Line from North Station right into Back Bay Station?”
Mongillo said, “Maybe Vasco doesn’t know the subway lines well.”
“He’s a genius.” I paused and said, “Drive over to Arlington Street.”
We did. Marcus said it looked familiar. I started feeling like I should work for Scotland Yard. He pointed in the direction they walked, which was toward