had a witness then.”
Pastorini nods in agreement, his seriousness returning.
“When did Kristen tell Carrie she had sex with Cogan?” he asks.
“The next day.”
“That’s good. That’ll help. And she’ll talk to the doc for us?”
“She’ll talk.”
“And you spoke to the frat?”
“I was over earlier today. Carrie’s brother is a member.”
At first, the brother was the only one who was talking. But with a little prodding from school officials who promised even harsher penalties if the frat didn’t cooperate, a couple of the guys confirmed what Carrie and the brother had said: the girl, Kristen, got hammered and threw up, then became a problem. The president of the frat told Carrie she had to get her friend out of there, that he “didn’t want any underage chicks dying on him.”
“Nice,” Pastorini says. “The brother was over at the doc’s house, too, right?”
“No, but another girl from the university was. Gwen Dayton. I haven’t contacted her yet. But I will.”
He pulls out a photo from a folder that’s sitting on the table under the yellow legal pad. It’s a blown-up version of the young woman’s driver’s license photo. She’s got long dark hair, a small nose, and cheerleader looks. Her height is listed as five-eleven.
“Giddyup,” Pastorini says expectedly, using his favorite Seinfeld expression. “Don’t let Billings see that. He’ll beg you to tag along.”
“Don’t worry.”
Pastorini takes the photo in one more time, then, getting back to business, says, “You think there’s a chance Cogan’s heard already?”
“Sure, there’s always a chance.”
“Well, I’d say we’ve got one more day before it really breaks. We’re looking at Tuesday morning’s papers. And then probably the evening news.”
“If we’re lucky.”
Pastorini sits down and chews on a couple of Twizzlers while he thinks. Madden can’t watch. There’s something grotesque about the way he chews, with his mouth ajar, and that little smacking sound he makes.
“It’s your call, Hank,” he finally says. “I don’t know. I talked to Gill. We could stick the friend on the phone with him and see what happens.” Gill is short for Gillian—Gillian Hartwick—the commander of their division, a tall, attractive, and well-spoken woman who will field any questions from the media. Respected by officers for her warm, confident demeanor and straightforward management style, she’s been with the force for over twenty years. “You’d have to get an OK from the DA’s office first,” Pastorini goes on. “It’s tricky. It’s always better to have the victim. Like Open Wide.”
Madden feels himself grimace, then stops. He doesn’t like the expression, though he’s grown used to it, or at least thought he had.
“Open Wide” was a case from almost a year ago. It had been well covered by the press, the story of a dentist who’d molested at least one and probably several of his patients while they were under anesthesia. That patient—a thirty-one-year-old woman—had woken up prematurely and caught a glimpse of the guy putting his pecker back in his pants.
The sad thing was that if he’d been smart, he’d still be practicing. But when the woman called to accuse him of raping her, he panicked. Instead of denying the charge—there was, after all, no proof he’d done anything wrong—he begged her to meet with him and “work things out.” A few days later, they got him on tape offering her ten grand, and it was over. He was finished.
Billings had nicknamed the case Open Wide for obvious reasons, and the name had stuck, much to Madden’s displeasure. He hadn’t been sexually assaulted in the same manner, but every time someone made the reference, he couldn’t help but picture the detectives who’d finally caught his doctor sitting around, trying to come up with a nickname for the case and having a good chuckle with each new candidate (“The Big Prick” was the one that kept sticking in his head). If he’d complained, Pastorini might have put a stop to it. But he hadn’t, it wasn’t his practice to let people know they were getting under his skin, and Pastorini had let it go, quietly content to watch his number one detective squirm.
“I don’t think we should put the friend on the phone,” Madden says. “Not right away, anyway.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I’ve got a plan.”
Pastorini chews a little slower.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Let’s hear it.”
18/ VISITORS
April 2, 2007—2:52 p.m.
MONDAY AFTERNOON. A LITTLE BEFORE THREE. COGAN IS SITTING out in the courtyard of the hospital, drinking coffee with Dr. Kim.
“I had my hand on her belly,” he’s saying to Kim. “And her boyfriend is giving me this look like: don’t