“One dead?”

“One dead.”

“Cause of the explosion?”

The marshal nodded his head toward the pile of five vehicles. “See how the one to the left is almost entirely burnt out? Upholstery's gone, all six windows are blown? That would be the primary scene of the explosion. The other cars bear peripheral damage.”

“But that car is off to one side.”

“The force of the explosion lifted the vehicle up and carried it through the air. Whoever did this wasn't fooling around.”

“So we're talking a car bomb.”

“The scene is consistent with some sort of incendiary device. More than that, I don't know yet. The thing about an explosion of this size and nature is that it sets off secondary explosions as well. Several gas tanks went, so we have burn patterns consistent with the use of an accelerant. The seat on the driver's side bears shrapnel, which could either be from a packed pipe bomb, or be fragments from the site of the main explosion, gas tanks, etc. Until I have a chance to take it all apart and put it back together, I won't know what's what.”

“I'm going to need to know what kind of bomb,” Griffin said. “Are we talking a sophisticated device, something that uses unusual parts, or is it a homemade concoction even a Boy Scout could whip up out in the garage? Oh, and is there a timer, etc.?”

Grayson gave him a look. “When I'm done, Sergeant, you'll know exactly what kind of wires were used to build this baby and if those wires came from a spool used in wiring any other bombs in the United States. But you're not going to know that until I'm done, and I'm not going to be done with this for at least a week or ten days.”

“I'm told that the AG doesn't like a homicide in his backyard and that the mayor feels explosions are bad for tourism,” Griffin said. “Just so you know.”

The state fire marshal sighed. “I gotta get a new job,” he muttered. “Or a new pacemaker. All right. Give me five days. I'll try to have something for you then.”

Detective Fitzpatrick chose that opportunity to walk over. “Sergeant Griffin?”

“Detective.” Griffin held out his hand. Fitz accepted the handshake, and for the next few seconds they both amused themselves by squeezing too hard. Neither one of them blinked. Having set the tone, they excused themselves from the state fire marshal and walked off to one corner where they could eye each other for weakness in peace.

“Any news on the shooter?” Fitz asked.

“He liked Fig Newtons. Any news on the identity of the owner of the vehicle?”

“It's a rental.”

“Ran the VIN?”

“Looked at the plate. Do you have a description?”

“We have several. Where's the body?”

“At the morgue. You got the weapon?”

“We got a rifle. Can the ME get prints?”

“Ask the ME. Got a name?”

“No. But we're guessing he had a RISD parking permit.”

Fitz grunted. His breathing had accelerated. So had Griffin 's. “These free flows of information are very helpful,” Fitz said. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, then chewed on a toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth.

“That's what I always think.”

“You got a body,” Fitz said after another moment. “I got a body. Now what we both need is a link.”

“That sums it up.”

“You're thinking the women or their families.”

“I would like to talk to the women and their families.”

“I know these women,” Fitz said seriously.

“Okay.”

“I've spent a year interviewing them, reassuring them, preparing them for today. You know what that's like.”

“I still get some Christmas cards.”

“Then you understand why I want to take the lead in questioning them.”

“You can start,” Griffin said, a phrase that didn't fool either of them.

Fitz narrowed his eyes. He opened his mouth, started to say something harsh, then seemed to think better of it. He shut his trap. He regarded Griffin stonily.

Rhode Island law enforcement was a small, incestuous community, much like the rest of the state. Everyone knew everyone, promoted each other's brother, gave other family members a break. Fitz had probably heard about Griffin, the basement, the Big Boom. He was probably now wondering how much of those stories was true. And he was probably wondering, looking at Griffin 's thickly muscled chest and hard-planed face, if pushing Sergeant Psycho was really very safe.

At this stage of the game, Griffin didn't feel a need to comment either way.

Abruptly, Fitz shrugged. “All right. Let's go speak to the women.”

“They're all together?”

“Yep.”

“A Survivors Club meeting?” Griffin guessed.

“So you've heard.”

“I understand they have a penchant for press conferences.”

“They take a hands-on approach,” Fitz said. Far from sounding bitter, however, the older detective merely shrugged. “Last year, they're the ones who identified the key break in the case. In all honesty, without the Survivors Club, I'm not sure we ever would've nailed Eddie Como.”

“JILLIAN HAYES IS THE DE FACTO LEADER OF THE GROUP,” Fitz explained as he drove through the maze of narrow one-way streets that comprised East Side Providence. “Her sister was the third rape victim, a nineteen-year-old sophomore at Brown. She died during the attack of an anaphylactic reaction to latex.”

“I thought the victims were blood donors.”

Fitz slid him a sideways glance, obviously surprised Griffin knew that much. “One link discovered in the course of the investigation was that both the first victim, Meg Pesaturo, and the third victim, Trisha Hayes, had donated at campus blood drives in the weeks prior to the attacks.”

“So Trisha Hayes gave blood, even though she was allergic to latex?”

“Sure. According to Kathy Hammond, the phlebotomist who assisted Miss Hayes, Trisha informed her that she was latex-sensitive and Mrs. Hammond switched to vinyl gloves, following the Rhode Island Blood Center 's policy and procedures. Latex allergies are becoming more common, you know. Most hospitals, blood-donor centers, visiting nurse associations, etc., stock other kinds of gloves as well.”

“Do they note latex-sensitivity on the blood-donor card?”

Fitz understood where Griffin was going with this and regretfully shook his head. “No. Too bad, too. If we could've proven that Como had prior knowledge of Miss Hayes's allergy, we could've gone after him for murder. Instead, we had to settle for manslaughter.”

“Too bad,” Griffin agreed. He glanced idly at the side-view mirror, caught a glimpse of white and narrowed his eyes for closer scrutiny just as Fitz lurched the car forward.

“So,” Fitz was saying. “Jillian Hayes was supposed to meet her younger sister at seven for dinner, but was running late. She showed up around eight, entered the basement apartment and was promptly jumped from behind. Eddie beat the living shit out of her. Choked her with his bare hands. God knows how far he would've gone, except an upstairs neighbor was alerted by the noise and called the police. Eddie took off at the sound of sirens. Jillian dragged herself over to the bed, where she found her sister's body tied up with latex tourniquets.”

“That was his signature?”

“Yep, latex tourniquets, all three victims. He used ten ties, one for a gag, one for a blindfold, then two each for the wrists and ankles, forming a double noose that actually grew tighter when the victim struggled. If they relaxed, on the other hand… Let's just say Eddie had a keen sense of irony.”

“I assume after the neighbor's call, uniforms responded from all over and immediately canvassed the neighborhood. They never stumbled across a guy running from the scene?”

“Nope. But to be fair to the uniforms, we had no description. The only victim who caught a glimpse of the attacker was number two, Carol Rosen, and she says her room was too dark to get a good look. The first girl, Meg Pesaturo, doesn't even remember the attack, so she couldn't help. Trisha Hayes may have seen Eddie, but she never regained consciousness to give a statement. And her sister, Jillian, was attacked in a gloomy basement apartment, so she couldn't provide any details either. In other words, sure, we poured all sorts of manpower into the streets that night, but Eddie either holed up, or played it cool. No one ever stopped him.”