A serial killer, by definition, is someone who commits at least three separate murders, each followed by a cooling-off period. Technically, Diggs didn’t qualify because he was caught after his second attack. But Mulligan knew exactly what he was.
The day Mulligan’s story about Kessler’s pending release hit the paper, somebody opened a “Keep Eric Kessler Locked Up” page on Facebook. Within hours, it had more than six thousand followers. When word of what Mason is up to leaks out, Mulligan thought, the next protest won’t be on a social-networking site.
It will be on the Dispatch’s doorstep.
17
Mason parked his vintage Jag in the lot outside 881 Eddy Street, sat behind the wheel, and mulled over what he’d learned when he Googled Marcus Aurelius Washington: Fifty-one years old. Boston College. New England School of Law. Ten years as a community organizer in the Roxbury section of Boston. Four terms in the Massachusetts legislature. Failed gubernatorial candidate. A half-dozen years as deputy director of the NAACP in Boston before moving fifty miles down I-95 last fall to run the organization’s Providence branch.
This was going to be a waste of time, Mason told himself as he climbed out of the car. Washington probably hadn’t been in Rhode Island long enough to have even heard of Kwame Diggs.
When Washington rose to greet him, Mason’s first thought was that he knew this guy from somewhere. Then he realized it was only because he was a dead ringer for the right-wing clown whose campaign for the Republican presidential nomination had been derailed by a sex scandal. The Godfather’s Pizza guy. What was his name? Oh, yeah. Herman Cain.
Mason settled into a brown leather visitor’s chair across from the desk and took a quick survey of the framed wall photos: Washington posing with John Kerry, Jesse Jackson, Deval Patrick, Edward M. Kennedy, Barbara Jordan, and Eric Holder. He declined the obligatory offer of coffee or bottled water and explained what he had come for.
“I know all about Kwame Diggs,” Washington said, his voice booming as if he were speaking from a pulpit. “His sweet mother was the first person at my door when I settled into this office. She’s been quite persistent.”
“How persistent?”
“She calls me every week.”
“Do you think her son is a murderer?” Mason asked.
“Of course he is.”
“I think so too.”
“So why are you here?”
“Because I believe the state of Rhode Island may be violating his civil rights.”
“Probably so,” Washington said.
“What are you doing about that?”
“Not a thing.”
They stared silently at each other. Mason fidgeted with his pen and notepad. Washington calmly clasped his hands on his desk blotter.
“I’m guessing your next question is, ‘Why not?’” Washington said.
“It is.”
The lawyer took a moment to compose his answer.
“Diggs was a big, scary-looking black kid who butchered five white females,” he finally said. “Do you have any idea how much racial hatred that stirred up back in the nineties?”
“I don’t. I was a kid myself back then.”
“I didn’t know either until I asked around about it.”
“And?”
“And the answer is, ‘Not all that much.’”
“Really?”
“Really. The day after Diggs’s arrest, a local radio talk show host got a couple of on-air calls from morons who wanted to rant about the jigaboos. He cut them right off. It’s a shame, he told his listeners, that the killer turned out to be a black kid, because it brought out the worst in some people. After that, the subject of race never came up. Not publicly, anyway.”
“Wow.”
“Exactly. If this had happened in Boston, all you would have heard was nigger this and nigger that.”
The word, spoken in Washington’s resounding baritone, made Mason cringe.
“What about now?” Mason asked.
“How do you mean?”
“There’s a big difference between the way the Diggs and Kessler cases are being handled. Mrs. Diggs thinks race has something to do with that.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Washington said, “but I don’t really think so.”
“Why not?”
“The two situations are quite different. Kessler committed an abominable act, but given his present age and condition, he’s no longer a threat. He’ll be standing before his Maker soon enough. Diggs is another story. When he turned twenty-one, it was obvious to everyone that he was too dangerous to be set free, no matter what the law said.”
“So the authorities found creative ways to keep him locked up,” Mason said.
“They did.”
“Olivia Monteiro suspects that those creative ways violated the law.”
“I haven’t looked into that in any detail,” Washington said, “but it may well be the case.”
“Have you discussed this with her?”
“I have.”
“And?”
“Officially, the ACLU has other priorities. Unofficially, Olivia is a young woman with two daughters.”
“So nobody is investigating this?”
“Nobody but you, apparently.”
Mason just shook his head.
“Look, Mr. Mason. You need to understand something here. The last thing the NAACP wants is a black serial killer on the loose in Rhode Island.”
Mason got to his feet, shook Washington’s hand, and thanked him for his time. Then he went out the door, strode through the parking lot, and froze. His ride was gone.
Mulligan had warned him more than once not to drive the Jaguar in Providence, the stolen car capital of New England. But the silver-blue coupe was a joy to drive. Mason took it everywhere. He pulled out his cell to report it stolen, but he figured it was already being dismantled in a nearby chop shop.
Mulligan, he thought, will probably get a good laugh out of this.
Four days later, Mason drove his new car south on I-95, turned off at exit 13 in Warwick, and cruised toward a storefront lawyer’s office located in a Post Road strip mall near T. F. Green Airport.
If he’d waited for the insurance money to come in, Mason would have had the cash for another vintage Jag; but given the precarious state of the paper’s finances, it seemed prudent to economize. True, he had shelled out extra for the voice-activated touch-screen navigation system and splurged on a sound system with eight speakers, a four-disc CD changer, and MP3/WMA playback capability.
But this new car was no fun to drive. No fun at all.
Jerome Haggerty’s legal secretary turned out to be a frumpy forty-something with a plunging neckline and long, straight hair that had been chemically tortured to the color and consistency of straw. No fun there, either. Haggerty apparently disagreed.
His first words to Mason: “Did you get a load of those tits?”
They were looking at each other now across Haggerty’s obsessively neat desk, his reading glasses, a stapler, and a couple of ballpoint pens neatly arranged on the blotter and not photo or a scrap of paper in sight.
“As I told you on the telephone,” Haggerty said, “I no longer represent Kwame Diggs.”
“Since when?”
“Last week.”
“Can you tell me why were you dismissed?”
Haggerty shook his head. Flakes of dandruff floated down to settle on his shoulder.
“The client declined to say.”
“I was hoping you still might be willing to answer a few questions about his case.”
“Only if they do not intrude upon lawyer-client privilege.”
“I understand.”
Mason removed the cap from his Montblanc fountain pen and flipped open his notebook.