Cause to Fear

by Pierce, Blake

  “But there’s no guarantee it was him?” Connelly asked.

  “No. But the coat was an exact match. And if it was an employee or a state guy, he wouldn’t have run.”

  She wasn’t shivering quite as badly. The heater was doing its job but she was looking very forward to stopping by her house, jumping into a hot shower, and getting out of these freezing wet clothes.

  “The look you got at his face…is it enough to recognize it from a lineup?”

  “Maybe,” she said, bringing the mostly concealed face to mind. “It would be a long shot.”

  “That’s better than no shot,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said. She didn’t want to admit how she felt like an absolute klutz from having fallen in the icy water. Her head was clear now and the almost paralyzing chill had left her, but she still felt slightly off. “Look, it might be a waste of resources, but if I send you the coordinates of the areas where he may have headed, maybe it’s worth having a few guys out that way to canvass the area.”

  “Looking for what? A tall guy in a parka?”

  “You’re right,” she said. “It’s just—”

  The phone beeped in her ear, indicating another call coming in. She checked the display and saw that it was Ramirez.

  “Hey, I’ve got Ramirez beeping in,” she told Connelly. “Let me grab this. It might be about a potential lead.”

  “Absolutely,” Connelly said. “Anything to get this nightmare under wraps.”

  She ended the call and switched over to Ramirez. In the wake of what had just happened, it was good to hear his voice. “Please tell me you got something,” she said.

  “I do, actually. Something worth checking out at the very least. So, there’s no actual ice sculpture schools in the state. In fact, from what I see, there’s just three schools in the country that specialize in it. It’s usually a technical college elective sort of thing. But I did find an instructor that taught an intensive course in ice sculpting a few times at a community college in town. I got him on the phone and he’s waiting for us to swing by. So I figured you could pick me up at the precinct and we could ride over there together.”

  “You’re amazing, Ramirez. Give me a while, though. I need to stop by the apartment.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  She sighed and said, “I’ll tell you later.”

  Avery ended the call, feeling wired and tired all at once. She looked to the clock and saw that it wasn’t even 9:30 yet. My God, she thought. This really is going to be a long day.

  ***

  The instructor’s name was Gene Kirkpatrick and he worked out of a worn-down but quaint little studio in South End. After Avery buzzed in at the building’s front door, Kirkpatrick let them in from his office. Avery and Ramirez took an old freight elevator up to his workspace. As it slowly ascended, Ramirez rolled his eyes and made a disgusted sound.

  “Something wrong?” Avery asked.

  “Artsy people,” he said. “It figures that a guy that makes ice swans and angels would work in a studio with an old freight elevator.”

  “Feeling cramped?” she asked, trying to joke and keep things lively. Good God, she was tired. Having Ramirez with her helped a bit but not quite enough.

  The elevator came to a stop and Ramirez slid the old wooden door open. It revealed a spacious studio, littered with old planks of wood, crates, several canvases, and two massive windows that let natural light pour in. Kirkpatrick was standing behind a small wooden desk, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He was wearing ratty jeans and a stained white T-shirt. His head was shaved but he had a thick beard that came down to his chest.

  “Detectives,” he said. “Good morning. I just brewed a fresh pot. Can I offer you some?”

  “Please,” Avery said, barely waiting a full second before giving her reply. She then managed to remain professional as they approached the desk. “Mr. Kirkpatrick, I’m Detective Avery Black and this is my partner, Detective Ramirez. We’re here to ask about the classes you teach at the local community colleges.”

  “Yes, that’s what Detective Ramirez was saying on the phone,” Kirkpatrick said. “I’d be happy to help any way I could.”

  There were no chairs in the workspace, so when Avery accepted her cup of coffee from Kirkpatrick, she simply leaned against the desk and looked around. There were sketches on everything and the place was ripe with the smell of freshly sawed wood and paint. Apparently Kirkpatrick was about much more than just ice sculptures.

  “First of all, I guess I should start out by asking how many classes you teach on an annual basis,” Avery said.

  “It varies,” Kirkpatrick replied. “Most years I’ll do two classes each semester. One of those four classes is always for ice sculpting.”

  “And are you currently teaching a class?” Avery asked.

  “No, but I start another one in two weeks.”

  “How many students would you say you have in each of your classes?”

  “I get a decent number for the woodworking classes. All of these HGTV shows have people thinking they can build damn near anything just like that,” he said, with a snap of his fingers. “Every now and then I’ll have a packed pottery class, too—about thirty students. As for the ice sculpting, those classes are usually pretty small. Eight to ten students.”

  “So would you say it’s easy to remember the ice sculpting students?”

  “Absolutely. Ice sculpting…I don’t know. It takes a sort of elegance but also a brave mentality. Each little chisel mark you make is so important. No erasing, no kneading out your mistakes like with clay.”

  “And in the last few years, are there any students that stick out to you as being sort of erratic? Like a problem student or just someone you didn’t feel comfortable around?”

  Kirkpatrick chuckled and nodded his head. As he let out a sigh, Avery gulped from her coffee. It was quite strong, almost bitter, but it was exactly what she needed.

  “Well, I’ve only been doing it for three years. But in those three years, I’ve only ever had a problem with one student…which is funny because he was only there for one class, technically. This was a guy that came in and was just…I don’t know…mad at everything. Initially, he showed promise—real skill. But then out of nowhere, he went ballistic with the chisel and the hammer. He destroyed his practice sculpture. And when it was gone, he started yelling and attacking the work of others as well. I had to call campus security to have him removed. He came back to the next class but I wouldn’t allow him in. See, the admissions department looked into his records and found that he had a criminal history that included sexual and aggravated assault. So security took him away. He never came back but he did send a nasty letter a few days later. It was in my little mailbox I shared with one of the painting instructors at the school.”

  “Was it a threatening letter?” Avery asked. A letter, she thought. I wonder what sort of handwriting it was in. Would it match the two that have showed up at the precinct?

  “Sort of,” Kirkpatrick said. “Mostly it just called me a talentless hack and that true art was chaos. Some shit like that.”

  Avery and Ramirez shared a look. Art is chaos, Avery thought. A tired, clichéd-sounding statement, but also flatly poetic…just like our killer.

  “Do you happen to remember his name?” Avery asked.

  “I do. And better than that, I can tell you where he works. The little bastard got really good at what he does and has been stealing business from me for a year and a half.”

  “Here in Boston?” Avery asked.

  “Oh yeah. I’d be happy to point you in his direction.”

  Gotcha, Avery thought as Kirkpatrick wrote down the information on a scrap sheet of paper from his desk.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  As it turned out, Kirkpatrick’s information led them just six blocks further down the road. The section of South End really didn’t change all that much. The only difference between Kirkpatrick’s building and the building he
sent them to was that it was sitting in the back of an alley that might have otherwise gone unnoticed.

  Avery read the information on the sheet of paper Kirkpatrick had given them and tried to figure out why the name sounded so familiar. Rustin George, she thought. I know I’ve heard that name before. But if he has a sexual and aggravated assault charge on his record, it would make sense that I’ve either read or heard his name in passing.

  While Ramirez parked at the back of the alley, directly in front of a door with a 233 over the door (per Kirkpatrick’s directions), Avery wondered if it might be worth their time to call A1 and have someone from records pull up Rustin George’s name. But that would only slow things down and for the first time during this case, she actually felt like they were making progress.

  She shoved the idea aside and got out of the car with Ramirez. The back alley was eerily quiet and rather derelict for this part of town. She looked up at the single grimy window that sat several feet over the doorway marked 233 and saw that a light was on. According to Kirkpatrick, this was another studio space, more expensive than his own studio despite the condition of the place.

  As they went to the door, Avery saw that there was no buzzer. She tried opening it and it came open easily. They stepped inside and she was surprised to see that the interior of the building was much nicer than the outside led her to believe. A set of stairs sat in front of them and an elevator was installed in the wall to the right. To the left was a large metal door with a sign reading NO ENTRY bolted into it.

  “Stairs,” Avery said. “I don’t want the hum of the elevator to alert him to company.”

  With a nod from Ramirez, they started up the stairs. At the top, they came to a small landing. The wall in front of them boasted a large set of double doors. Through the glass along the center of the doors, Avery saw a studio on the other side—much larger than Kirkpatrick’s but in a similar state of disarray. Loud music came from inside. Avery felt both nostalgic and, for just a moment, sort of cool when she recognized it as a Massive Attack song.

  A doorbell sat to the right of the doors. Avery pushed it three times and then stepped back. Within a few seconds, the music came to a pause and footsteps started to approach the door. A man appeared from the right. He studied Avery and Ramirez through the glass, giving them a strange and perplexed look. He paused before answering the door. When he opened it, Avery felt a slight draft of cold air come wafting out.

  “Can I help you?” the man asked.

  “Yes, are you Rustin George?” Avery said.

  “I am.”

  “I’m Avery Black with Boston’s A1 Homicide Division. I was hoping you might have a few minutes to answer some questions.”

  “About what, exactly?”

  From time to time, Avery had no qualms about lying to potential suspects. She liked to make them feel at ease, so long as she thought it might lead to answers. This happened to be one of those instances.

  “Well, I don’t know if you’ve seen the news lately, but we’ve recently been discovering bodies in frozen water—rivers, for example.”

  “Yes, I did see that,” George said. There was a confused look on his face as he blocked their entrance into his studio.

  “Well, we asked around about people that were into ice sculpting. Your name came up. You do ice sculptures for weddings and high-functioning parties, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, we are leaning towards the theory that the man behind these murders sees what he does as a form of art. We’d like to speak with you to sort of get a glimpse into the mind of someone that works with ice.”

  “Oh,” George said. His defenses slowly came down but Avery didn’t think this automatically meant that he was innocent. He was eager to show what he knew, interested in helping them. That mentality aligned with the egomaniacal approach of their killer.

  George stepped aside and let them in. Avery felt the cold chill again and this time it remained. She looked to the right and saw a metal door along the far wall just like the one they had seen downstairs. There was a series of tools on a small bench by the door—saws, chisels, and a few other odd-looking things.

  “First of all,” Avery said, “could you tell us where someone that wanted to learn about the art of ice might get started?”

  “Other than online, there are a few classes here and there within community colleges,” George said. “Sometimes you’ll find someone doing a free quote-unquote class at a public library or something, but those don’t count.”

  “And where did you learn what you know?”

  “I took a few classes here in Boston,” he said. “But that didn’t really get me what I needed, you know? So I went to this specialty class in New York for a few months. I learned a ton there. And then I came back here and opened up my business.”

  “And there’s good money in it?” Ramirez asked.

  “Absolutely,” George said. “I mean, I have to do part-time stuff on the side to really make ends meet, but two or three sculptures a month make a big difference.”

  Avery pointed to the right side of the room, to the metal door. “And is that where you store your ice and your work?”

  “It is,” he said. “It’s a modified walk-in freezer.”

  “And how cold does it stay in there?” Avery asked.

  George now started to look suspicious. He walked over to the door the freezer and stood in front of it, just as he had done at the front door several moments ago. “I typically keep it at a flat twenty degrees. Sometimes I can go a little warmer, depending on the project.”

  A walk-in freezer to store bodies in, Avery speculated. Plus a history of abuse and/or assault. Suddenly, Rustin George was looking more and more like a probable suspect.

  Before she could form her next question, George leaned against the door and shook his head as if he were disappointed. “We can cut the shit, okay?”

  “Meaning what, exactly?” Avery asked.

  “Well, there are bodies showing up in ice, yes? And I have a record that paints me as…what? A suspect?”

  “Should we view you as a suspect?” Ramirez asked. He took two steps forward, making sure to place himself between Avery and George.

  “Well, if you’re asking me if I killed those women, the answer is no. But I’m not an idiot. I can see why you’d suspect someone like me.”

  “Can we look in your freezer?” Avery asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” George said. “I have a very fragile piece going right now and I have to let it set for a while. When you get into thin curves and detail, you have to let the cold really set in before you chisel away at the same point.”

  “You understand that your refusing to show us into the cooler is suspicious, right?” Avery asked.

  “Not my problem,” he said. “You lied to me so I’d let you into my office. So why should I cooperate?”

  “Because it’s a lot easier than making us get a search warrant and coming back here and getting what we want anyway,” Avery said

  George shrugged. “Do what you have to do, I guess.”

  “Come on, man,” Ramirez said, stepping forward. “Don’t make it harder than it has to be. You say you didn’t kill those women, and I for one believe you. So help us out. Let’s go ahead and eliminate you from the list of suspects.”

  Avery saw that George was reaching for the tool bench. She also saw all of the sharp tools on it. Before she could tell him to stop, George was speaking. And when he spoke this time, she knew that there was something unhinged about him.

  “Each of these tools,” he said, “is unique in its own way. They each break the ice differently. The guy you’re looking for apparently appreciates ice. Anyone that uses it for art appreciates it. It’s strong and delicate at the same time…”

  His fingers danced over a chisel and then a tool that looked like a miniature scythe.

  “Mr. George,” she said. “Please step away from the workbench.”

  He ignored her completely, his
fingers still sliding over the tools. He now had a faraway look in his eyes and his voice had gone monotone.

  “I knew this day would come,” he said and his voice sounded like he might be on the verge of tears. “When I beat that woman…I didn’t mean to do the other thing…the thing that…God…her little girl…”

  “Mr. George,” Avery said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about but we can figure it out.” Slowly, she reached for her sidearm, the Glock suddenly calling to her.

  “I didn’t mean to,” he said with a gasp.

  In front of her, Ramirez had gone still. His hand was also hovering over his sidearm. Ahead of him, George was still grazing over his tools. He came to an old shop rag that was balled up in the center of the bench and stopped there.

  “Mr. George, consider this your last warning,” Avery said. “Step away from the bench.”

  He turned to look at them. Tears were running down his face. “So cold,” he said. “It was so cold and I didn’t know…I didn’t know what I was doing and I’m sorry…”

  With that, George tossed the dirty shop rag at them. Avery nearly pulled her gun, stopping herself when she realized that it was only a cloth. However, the weird form of attack did allow George enough of a distraction to open the freezer. By the time Ramirez lunged forward for George, the door was slammed shut.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Ramirez asked.

  “Pissing me off, for one thing,” Avery said.

  She walked to the freezer door and tried opening it only to find it locked from the inside. She hammered on it with her fist, feeling anger rising up in her.

  “Mr. George, come out of there right now!”

  When she stopped beating on the door, she could hear very light noises from inside. She also thought she heard something like the creaking of a door; it was very hard to tell due to the thickness of the freezer door.