Cause to Kill (An Avery Black Mystery—Book 1) (10 page)

Mount Auburn Cemetery was a luxurious property of winding roads,
lakes, and lush forests with gravestones strewn throughout.

A number of Watertown police cruisers, along with unmarked cars,
an ambulance, and a forensics van, made it impossible to drive very far into
Violet Path. Trees obscured most of the overhead sunlight. Multiple groups of
onlookers and bikers craned their necks to see something just outside of
Avery’s view. She parked at the bottom of a grassy knoll, just at the
intersection of Walnut Avenue and Violet.

“Hey you,” a plainclothes cop shouted when she exited her car,
“you can’t park there. Move that car. This is a crime scene.”

Avery flashed her badge.

“Avery Black,” she said, “Homicide. Boston PD.”

“You’re out of your jurisdiction, Boston. We don’t need you here.
Go home.”

Avery smiled: reasonable and pleasant.

“I was told to contact Ray Henley?”

“Lieutenant Henley?” Suspicious, the officer grumbled, “Wait
here.”

“What’s up his ass?” Finley interjected.

He stood right behind Avery, practically against her shoulder.

“Am I being punished?” she asked. “Is that why you’re here?”

“This is my big break, Black. You’re going to help me reach
detective.”

“God have mercy on my soul.”

A lean, attractive man in slacks and a red plaid shirt came over
the hill. He looked more like an outdoorsman than a detective; only the badge
around his neck and the gun on his hip gave it away. He had a sunburned face
and wavy brown hair. An aura of wellness and patience exuded from his being,
and he smiled at Avery as if they knew each other.

“Detective Black.” He waved. “Thanks for coming.”

A strong hand gripped hers, and when he peered into her eyes, a
calm feeling came over Avery, like she could sink into his arms and instantly
be forgiven for all her sins.

An awkward pause followed.

“I’m Ray Henley?” he said.

“Right,” Avery replied, flustered, “sorry. I was told you found
another body, similar to the one we discovered over in Lederman Park?”

Her immediate discussion of the case turned him off slightly, and
he breathed a wistful sigh and rubbed his cheeks.

“Yeah,” he said, “come up and see for yourself.”

He updated her on the way.

“A runner found her this morning around six. For a second, she
thought the girl was some kind of Satan worshiper from the way she was
positioned. We believe her name is Tabitha Mitchell, an MIT junior that never
showed up at her dorm last night. Her roommate called the police around two,
and then again eight. Cambridge police would have normally waited forty-eight
hours to post a picture but since she’s a connected college student, we caught
a break.”

“What’s she doing out here?”

“I thought
you
could help us with that.”

The body was at the top of the knoll. Small gray tombstones marked
the area. She was draped over a larger stone that resembled a chess piece pawn.
He had once again done incredibly lifelike work. She was squatted and hugging
the monument. Her cheek rested on the top. Eyes were open and there was a
lasciviousness about her appearance. Red blush painted her cheeks. Some kind of
glue had been sprayed on her forehead and hair tips to imitate sweat, and her
mouth was puckered in a sense of breathlessness.

“She’s not wearing any undergarments,” Ray said.

Cindy Jenkins wore undergarments: panties and a bra. What does
that mean? Avery wondered. Is the killer becoming bolder? Did she just leave
the house that way?

Tabitha’s eyes were open and focused on something in the distance.

Avery tracked the line of sight to a bunch of white, short
tombstones on an opposite, grassy decline.

“Finley,” she said, and inwardly bristled at his name, “write down
whatever you see on those graves over there. Mark them down so I know which
one’s first, second, third, got it? Then take a walk around the area. Serial
killers usually return to the scene of the crime to get a cheap thrill. Maybe
ours is still here.”

“A serial killer?” He beamed. “Oh wow. You got it, Black,” and he
flashed her a can-do attitude and pointed a finger in her face to express
seriousness.

“Is that your partner?” Ray asked.

“No,” she insisted.

Once again, he tried to start a conversation.

“Saw you in the paper a couple of days ago.” He smiled. “
And
,”
he emphasized, slightly embarrassed, “I saw you in a
lot
of papers a few
years ago.”

His implication wasn’t clear until Avery glanced at him and
realized: He’s flirting.

It was hard for her to do anything in front of a dead body except
analyze what happened and try to piece together the puzzle. She wondered if
that was some kind of mechanical flaw born from her past guilt and torment, but
then she remembered she’d always been that way, even as an attorney: focused,
relentless, and eager to find the connections that would lead to success. Now,
the only difference was that those connections weren’t just ways to get her
clients off—they were ways to stop murderers.

Ray sensed her discomfort and changed the subject.

“You think this is your guy?”

Avery cleared her throat.

“Absolutely,” she said. “This is his work.”

“Well then,” he sighed, “I’ll share whatever we have. We don’t get
many crime scenes like this in Watertown. And, if you like, we can even have
the body sent to your lab and you can take things over from there. You OK with
that?”

“Of course,” she said, genuinely appreciative. “That would be
great.”

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he added with a smile, “I’m not just a
nice guy. Truth be told? I’m a little OCD when it comes to sharing. It makes my
skin crawl trying to imagine two sets of paperwork on something this important,
and timely.”

“Still,” she offered, “thank you.”

He held her look for as long as possible; Avery blushed and turned
away, excited by the attention but eager to get back to work. Thankfully, another
officer flagged him down.

“Lieutenant, we have a situation over here.”

“Be right back,” Ray said.

The cemetery was peaceful, calming, just like the area where Cindy
Jenkins was placed in Lederman Park. Why? Avery wondered. What’s the
significance of parks? Mentally, she checked off avenues to pursue: Was Tabitha
a sorority girl like Cindy? She’s a junior, and half Asian. So the killer can’t
be hunting down seniors, or specifically white girls. Cindy came from an
established family. What about Tabitha? They were both abducted from Cambridge.
Why? Is that where the killer lives? Where was Tabitha last seen? Who saw her
alive? Can we get surveillance? The list seemed endless.

What do we
know
? she pushed.

Nothing, she mentally replied. We know absolutely nothing.

No
, she rallied, we know
something
: the relative size and
shape of the killer, his ethnicity, MO, and the specific drugs he used. Ramirez
was compiling a list of hallucinogenic plant suppliers, as well as car
dealerships and Internet sites that sold Chrysler blue minivans. We can pursue
those leads. We can also share the killer’s sketch with Cambridge police. See
if there’s a match. We can also try to track that minivan from Lederman.

I just need more people, she thought. And
not
Finley.

Police sirens blared.

Cops spun into action.

“
We got a runner! We got a runner!
”

Farther off, on another path visible from her position, a black
car, maybe a Mustang, revved up and burned smoke out of the cemetery. Ray was
below shouting orders. Two police officers and a photographer around the body
perked up and started to head toward the action.

“
No, no
,” Avery called and pointed. “You stay here. Someone
has to guard the body.”

Finley, she thought. Where is Finley?

Her walkie-talkie buzzed to life.

“Hey, Black,” came Finley’s voice, “we got him! I got him!”

“Where are you?” she demanded.

“I’m in a Watertown police cruiser with—hey, what’s your name,” he
said to someone. “Shut up, man!” came a different voice. “I’m trying to drive!”
“I don’t know,” Finley added, “some cop. We’re the first ones out. Following a
black Mustang. Heading northwest out of the cemetery. Hop in that pretty white
pony of yours and back us up. We got him!”

Avery jumped in her car and stuck a siren on the roof. The red light
whirled. Her walkie-talkie, a new model as sleek and small as a cell phone, was
thrown aside. Instead, she turned on the car transreceiver and clicked the
frequency she’d been assigned to Finley.

The car started. A backup curve and she hit the pedal and peeled
forward out onto Walnut Avenue. The paths in the cemetery were a maze-like
jumble. Through distant trees, she caught the tail end of a police cruiser. She
abandoned the road and jumped onto the grass. Shit, she thought, I’m going to
get into trouble for this. Headstones were avoided. The car turned onto another
paved road and she was behind a pack of police vehicles.

Avery followed the chase out of the cemetery and onto Mt. Auburn
Street. She narrowly avoided two cars. A crash resounded behind her. The line
of red and blue police lights shifted onto Belmont Street.

Avery picked up her transreceiver mouthpiece.

“Finley,” she called, “where are you?”

“Oh man,” Finley replied, “you guys are way behind. We’re ahead of
everybody. This is great. We’re going to catch this son of a bitch.”

“
Where are you?
” she demanded.

“On Belmont, just past Oxford. No wait. He’s turning onto Marlboro
Street.”

Avery checked her speedometer. Sixty-five…seventy. Belmont went in
two directions. Her side was a one-lane street with enough room to slip by any
slow cars on the right. Thankfully, all the police cruisers had already
diverted traffic. She caught up to the last car.

“Made a left on Unity Avenue now,” Finley called.

The line of police turned right on Marlboro and then made a quick
left.

“We stopped. We stopped,” Finley cried. “I’m out of the car.
Mustang on the lawn of a small brown house, left side. Heading into the house.”

“
Don’t
go into the house!” Avery shouted. “Do you hear me?
Do
not
go in!”

The line went silent.

“
Shit
,” she said aloud.

All the police cars had converged on a single brown two-story
house with a short lawn and no trees. The Mustang had nearly smashed into the
front staircase. The police cruiser beside it, Avery assumed, had been the one
with Finley inside.

Avery hopped out and pulled the Glock out from her shoulder strap.
Other officers had their weapons drawn. No one seemed to know what was
happening.

“Is this our guy?” Henley called out.

“We don’t know,” another cop answered.

Yelling came inside.

Shots were fired.

“You two!” Henley roared to his men. “Go around back. Make sure no
one leaves. Sullivan, Temple, keep your eyes on me.”

He squat-ran up the stairs and into the house.

Avery made a move to go after him.

“
Hold up. Hold up
,” a cop shouted.

Finley exited the house with his arms wide in pleasant victory,
gun in hand.

“That’s right,” he said. “Game over for the serial killer.”

“Finley, what happened?” Avery shouted.

“I got him,” he declared, no sense of remorse or social etiquette.
“Shot that mother-fucker. He pulled a weapon and I shot him. Saved some cop’s
life
and
shot his white ass. That’s how we do it on the
south side
,”
he declared and threw up a gang symbol Avery immediately recognized as the
South Boston D-Street Boys.

“Slow down,” she said. “How do you know he’s our guy?”

Finley cocked his neck and opened his eyes wide.

“Oh yeah,” he declared, “That’s our guy all right. Caught him in
the basement. Lot of sick shit down there. You gotta see it to believe it.”

Henley came out of the house.

“Sullivan,” he called, “get an ambulance out here, now, and get
down in that basement. Dickers was shot. He needs support. Travers,” he said,
“I want this place sealed off. No one in. No one out. You hear me? We don’t
need anyone else contaminating the scene. Marley! Spade” he yelled to the back.
“Get out here.”

“I need to see what’s in there,” Avery said.

“Go,” Henley waved, “she’s OK, Travers. Both of them,” he
indicated Finley. “No one else.” And to Finley he added: “I’m going to need a
statement from you, young man.”

“No problem,” Finley said. “Heroes tell tales.”

“Tell me everything, slowly,” Avery snapped.

Finley—still on an adrenaline rush—was hyped and bouncy.

“I did what you asked,” he said in his speedy, accented tone,
“wrote down those tombstone names. A bunch of girls, maybe eighteen or twenty
years old. I don’t know. I’m no good at math. Died in WWII. Then I saw this old
guy watching everything from afar. Looked shady, you know? I alerted one of the
other cops, because I’m a team player and all, and we went over to have a
little chat. We get about halfway toward this guy and he bolts: hard run to the
car. Who knew old people could run so fast? Jumps in and peels out. Wait until
you see what we found. Solved the case single-handedly,” he said and slapped
his chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you some props,” he added. “
Who’s lazy
now?!
” he yelled to the sky.

All Avery heard was “tombstones…girls…died in WWII…” and she made
a mental note to find out everything about those markers and the women they
served.

Gun drawn, Avery moved through the front door.

The house had an old, musty scent to it, like someone hadn’t lived
there in a long time. Carpets were dusty white. A staircase led to the second
floor. Through the ceiling, Avery heard footsteps and someone yell, “Clear.”

“Down this way,” Finley said.

He led her around the stairs. A kitchen was on the left. To the
right was a door that led to the basement. The scent was strong around the
door: rotting corpses and scented oils. Oils, Avery thought; maybe this
is
our guy.

Creaky steps led to an expansive, dark basement with a stone
floor. The smell was so strong Avery nearly retched: dead bodies and
decomposition mixed with sweet-smelling fragrances to hide the scent. Air
fresheners hung everywhere between the beams and exposed padding of the
ceiling. Boxes lined nearly every wall, hundreds and hundreds of boxes. The
only empty space held a long table marred with dried blood and cutting
implements

Towards the back was a soiled bed.

A dead body lay on the bed, practically blue and decomposed from
time, legs splayed open and tied to posts, along with the hands. It was a girl,
someone young that Avery guessed had died years earlier.

Strange, sexual devices surrounded the area: bondage chairs; chains
from the ceiling, and a swing. One of the boxes in the back was opened. Avery
peeked inside and caught a glimpse of a woman’s body parts.

She held her nose from the stench.

“Jesus.”

“What did I tell you?” Finley beamed. “Crazy shit, right?”

A man lay dead at the foot of the wooden-post bed, 6’2” or 6’3”.
He was old and lean, with long gray hair. Maybe sixty, Avery thought. A shotgun
was by his hand.

The downed cop sat against a side wall being aided by his friend.
Luckily, he’d worn a vest, but some of the shotgun shells had gone through his
neck and face.

“My wife’s going to fucking kill me,” the cop said.

“Nah,” the other cop replied, “you’re a hero.”

The basement was dirty. Dust balls were everywhere. The tools on
the desk, the desk itself, even the sex equipment had obviously never received
a thorough cleaning. Boxes along the back were soiled and nearly falling over.

“I need to make a sweep,” Avery said. “Finley. Check the garage.
See if you can find our blue minivan, and disguises, plants, needles: anything
related to our case.”

“On it,” he said and bounded up the stairs.

The rest of the house appeared old and unlived in, with no pets
and no plants. It was neat, tidier than the basement, but still caked in dust.
No indication of any other perversions could be found on the higher floors.
Pictures that lined the walls were quaint copies of artists like Bruegel and
Monet. The suspect, it seemed, spent most of his time on the second floor,
where Avery found his personal effects and clothing.

She headed outside.

The neighborhood had come alive. Police lights still turned.
Crowds had gathered around the areas sectioned-off area.

Finley came panting back.

“Just an empty garage with a lot of junk lying around,” he said.

A picture of the killer had already taken shape in Avery’s mind,
based off what she’d seen on the surveillance tapes and what she believed from
previous experience. She imagined a strong, dainty young man—educated and
anti-social, a man that liked art and had a mind for medicinal concoctions. The
way he placed his women were like Parish paintings, or works by Alphonse Mucha.
Similarly, the drugs he administered were artlike in their own way, drawn from
a number of rare, illegal plants and flowers. He was also fastidious about
details, and clean, just like the placed bodies with their washed clothing and
clean skin.

This house?

The man dead in the basement?

George Fine?

They were all pieces of the puzzle, but they felt like different
puzzles, with their own pieces, and all the pieces were strewn together.