Strangled - Brian McGrory [88]
I strained to see him, and what I saw through the gloom was this: a wiry man, about five feet ten inches tall, one of those guys who you suspect is probably about ten times stronger than he first appears. His head was shaved, and his eyes were so dark that I think they might be black. He had about a week’s worth of salt-and-pepper growth on his face. He wore a pair of tattered old jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves haphazardly scissored off, exposing arms that seemed disproportionately large for his frame. He had beads of sweat on his forehead — odd, because it was by no means hot. He looked nowhere near his age, which made me wonder about how much we’re spending on prison health care.
“You may tell me who the fuck you are.” He said this in a tone that was in no small way mocking.
I replied, “I’m Jack Flynn, a reporter with the Boston Record.” As I said this, I stared into his eyes, probing for any sort of flash of recognition. I didn’t see any. “And this is my colleague, Vinny Mongillo. We were hoping to get a little bit of help from you if you had a few minutes.”
He smiled at this, a diabolical little smile, exposing graying, yellowish, misshapen teeth. Perhaps we were saving money on dental care.
“You want to talk about dead women, don’t you,” he said, his tone one of sudden amusement.
“We do,” I answered.
He asked, “Then or now?”
Without missing a beat, I replied, “Both.”
“You scum-sucking assholes can never leave it alone, can you? You can never admit you were wrong. Never leave a guy to live in peace.”
That’s just great, by the way, being called a scum-sucking asshole by a convicted rapist and murderer. Funny part is, if he called us this on one of those cable-television shoutfests, say The O’Reilly Factor, the audience would probably cheer, and O’Reilly would tell him he’s spot-on in his fight for freedom and truth against the elite liberal news media.
Since this was real life, not cable, I answered, “Not when we’re trying to get to the bottom of a serial-murder spree and we think that you might have a little information that would help get us there. We just need a few moments, Mr. Vasco, and you’ll never have to deal with us again.”
“I don’t have to deal with you now.”
He was right, actually, but at this point, I already knew he would. Maybe it was the way he held himself as he continued to lean casually in the doorway, his sizable arms folded against his chest. Maybe it was the look on his face, the one that betrayed how much control he felt over the situation, and the smug satisfaction he seemed to get from this impromptu give-and-take. I don’t imagine the discourse in the Cedar Junction state prison rec room was particularly highbrow or challenging.
Vinny must have sensed the exact same thing I did, because he finally opened his mouth and said, “You’re absolutely right, Paul. But what else do you have going at the moment? Why don’t you let a couple of guys troll for a little bit of information, and see if it might be there?”
He looked at Vinny as if he had just noticed him for the first time. He said, “Those murders are ancient history.”
Interesting choice of words. Not “I didn’t kill anyone.” Not “You’re wasting your time, I don’t know anything.” Not “The Boston Strangler is long-ago dead and buried.” But rather, those murders we wanted to ask him if he committed are so old that they’re not worth anyone’s time.
“Not anymore,” I replied. “Not if the killer is at it again, or even if someone’s just trying to copy him.” I paused here, a new thought clanking around in that broad expanse of my head: If this was a copycat, maybe the real Boston Strangler, Paul Vasco, would be irritated enough by it to guide us. So I added, “We need your help.”
With this, we stared back and forth for a long moment, stared until his eyes finally fell to the floor before they rose up to Vinny. He shook his head as if he had been egregiously burdened with some enormous misfortune, and said, “Then come in.”
He turned and walked into the room. Vinny