Strangled - Brian McGrory [86]
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a rumpled sheet of paper, and unfolded it.
“Paul Vasco,” he said, his voice now taking on an official tone. “Age: sixty-two. Occupation: former handyman. More recently, convict. Most recently, ex-convict. Residence: 652 Bulham Avenue, also known as the Bunker Hill prerelease facility. Criminal record includes convictions on rape and first-degree murder. Notable characteristics: known to have an IQ that exceeds the level of genius.”
I said, “Well, the two of us will have something in common.”
“You’re a handyman, too?”
As he said this, Vinny shoved the paper back into his coat pocket. He added, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, he may be killing all over again. It’s on Jack and Vinny, Vinny and Jack, to stop him.”
Obviously, some of this stuff I had heard already. The handyman part I hadn’t. So he’s adept with his hands as well as his mind. I asked, “Our strategy?”
“First we have to get to him. My sources at the Department of Correction tell me it’s pretty easy access — hit or miss whether there’ll be an unarmed security guard around the house. They suggested that he was assigned to a room on the second floor, facing the rear, number twenty-seven, but couldn’t guarantee me that he hadn’t switched with someone, which they say is reasonably common.”
“Carlton Fisk,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Twenty-seven. That was Carlton Fisk’s number. He hit the most famous home run in Red Sox history” — to win the sixth game of the 1975 World Series against the Cincinnati Reds — “which maybe is a sign that we’re about to hit a home run.”
It should have been obvious to him. You’re in Boston, these numbers mean everything — 33 is Larry Bird, 86 is the year the Red Sox lost the World Series to the New York Mets, 4 is Bobby Orr, 9 is Ted Williams, 12 Tom Brady, 16 the number of Boston Celtic championships — a figure, by the way, that seems to be stuck in time. I could go on, but I won’t.
Vinny looked at me funny. “Right,” he said. Then, “He has supposedly been assigned to a job with the state highway department, picking up trash on median strips and the like, but it doesn’t start until tomorrow. He’s wearing an electronic bracelet that requires him to be home when he’s not either at work or commuting to and from work. My guy over at DoC said he was home this morning.”
I can’t say it enough, you’ve got to love Vinny Mongillo. If I ever become a good reporter, I want to be just like him.
I said, “Well, let’s go see if we can make hay of a diabolical murderer.”
“It’s about time.”
Interested parties, by the way, might notice that we had no interview strategy, Vinny and I — or maybe that’s Vinny and me. There was no discussion of the good cop and the bad cop. We didn’t review possible questions and the most probing follow-ups. We didn’t set a sequence. We didn’t plot out our tone. No, Vinny and I are from what would best be described as the wing-it school of American journalism, raised with the belief that reporters have to adapt to the situation, and not try to dictate it in any sort of preordained or formulaic way. Nothing drives me crazier than watching a blow-dried television interviewer sit and read a bunch of questions off a pad of paper that one of his or her producers had already sketched out. No conversation, no flow, just one preordained question following the next.
The aforementioned front door was unlocked, which was our first bit of good fortune on this mission, though maybe it wouldn’t prove to be so fortunate. It opened into a dark, bland hallway characterized by a threadbare carpet and peeling floral wallpaper illuminated by a single bare low-wattage lightbulb. The Department of Correction might seriously think about hiring a new interior designer for their interim housing. I’m a criminal spending more than an hour in a shithole like this and I’m doing everything in my power to get myself back into prison, including committing new crimes. At least the jailhouse color scheme — gray — is pretty uniform.
We were both silent and tiptoeing, though I’m not entirely sure why, and