Page 38 of The First Gentleman

CHAPTER 34

Rhode Island Maximum Security Prison

A ccording to former Boston PD detective Eddie O’Halloran, an inmate named John DeMarco had confessed to killing Suzanne Bonanno.

Actually, what DeMarco did was brag about the killing to another inmate, so confessed seemed like a strong word.

That inmate owed a favor to Eddie and tipped him off, after which Eddie got Garrett approved for a prison visit.

So Garrett is here. Only one visitor is allowed, but that’s not a problem, since Brea is going back to Seabrook on a mission of her own.

Garrett shows his ID multiple times and goes through two metal detectors, a pat-down, and a wanding.

He leaves his keys, wallet, change, and phone in a locker.

He tries to hold on to his pen, but a corrections officer shakes his head.

“Ever see a guy with a Bic through his brain?”

As he waits, Garrett runs through the facts O’Halloran gave him about the convict he is about to meet.

DeMarco is doing time for aggravated assault, weapons possession, and armed robbery.

And it’s not his first stretch as a guest of the Ocean State.

“Is he connected?” Garrett asked.

“Slightly,” said O’Halloran.

DeMarco was a soldier in what was left of Boston’s Angiulo crime family.

“Not really a family anymore,” O’Halloran said.

“More like a few distant cousins trying to resurrect the good old days. They don’t scam a gift card without a nod from the Providence Mob.”

Garrett moves through security into the visitors’ room, where he’s surrounded by gray concrete walls and guards with guns.

At octagonal orange tables, inmates in khaki pants and smock-like shirts sit across from wives, girlfriends, children, or social workers in street clothes.

A loud buzzer sounds, and a metal door on the far side of the room slides open.

A uniformed corrections officer steps into the room, followed by a thickset inmate with tattooed arms. A second corrections officer points to Garrett.

The inmate locks his eyes on him as he walks over.

Even from a distance, he projects menace.

When he gets to the table, the inmate stands with legs spread.

“You Wilson?”

Garrett nods.

“John DeMarco?”

DeMarco sits down heavily across from Garrett, arms on the table.

One of the corrections officers steps up and goes through the interview protocol until DeMarco waves him away.

The inmate angles his head for a better look at the right side of Garrett’s face.

“The fuck happened to you?”

Garrett reflexively touches his stinging cheekbone.

“Fell in my driveway.”

“Yeah, right,” says DeMarco.

He smirks.

“Thanks for agreeing to talk to me,” says Garrett.

“I’m tired of talking to cops,” says DeMarco.

“Thought this might be more interesting.”

Garrett digs right in.

“Mr. DeMarco, I’m here because you talked to another inmate about murdering a young woman named Suzanne Bonanno seventeen years ago. A cheerleader for the Patriots.”

DeMarco blinks, then smiles.

His teeth are big, blocky, and stained yellow.

“I might have.”

“Might have said it? Or might have done it?”

DeMarco asks, “Ever move into a new neighborhood, Wilson?”

“Yeah, sure. Many times.”

DeMarco waves one inked-up forearm arm around the room.

“Well, this is my new neighborhood. And sometimes in a new neighborhood, you say things to impress your new neighbors.”

Suddenly, this visit is looking like another wild-goose chase.

“So this is all bullshit,” mutters Garrett.

He starts to signal to one of the guards.

“Put your damn hand down,” growls DeMarco.

“Lady who took two to the head last night in Southie was what made me think of it. I hear she used to be a Patriots cheerleader too.” A pause.

“I did see Suzanne Bonanno once.”

Garrett leans across the table.

“Where was that?”

“Gillette Stadium. Pats were playing the Jets. I had good seats. Great view of the cheerleaders. I noticed her. Suzanne. Fantastic body. Hotter than hell. Later, I got her name off a poster.”

“Ever meet her?”

“Meet her? Fat chance. They guard those girls better than they guard us in here. I never got closer than fifty yards from Suzanne Bonanno. Never touched her.” He licks his thin lips.

“Except in my luscious wet dreams.”

That does it.

Garrett’s bruises are beginning to throb.

He shifts in his seat, ready to stand up.

“Right. Okay. Thanks for wasting my time.”

“You know what?” says DeMarco.

“You suck as a journalist.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you don’t seem to be after the truth.”

Garrett is irritated.

His patience is drained.

“Sorry, I’m not following.”

DeMarco lowers his voice and says in a near whisper, “You asked me if I killed Suzanne Bonanno. I said no.” He looks from side to side.

“You never asked me if I know who did.”