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

by Blake Pierce

  “That’s not what I hear,” Avery said. “Doctor said you need at least two weeks to heal. He wants you off your feet.”

  “What?” Ramirez complained. “You better not tell the captain about that. Don’t make me go home and sit on my ass. You don’t know what my home life is like.”

  “What’s your home life like?” she wondered.

  Ramirez was an enigma to her: good-looking, in great shape, perfectly dressed, and seemingly bothered by nothing. The attack by George had shown another side: a bit careless, angry, and no real defensive training to have dealt with George’s speed and surprise. At first, he’d reminded Avery of all the men she’d had random one-night stands with a few years back. They, too, had been shiny on the outside, but once she’d peeled back a layer or two, they were a mess. She hoped that wouldn’t be the case with her new partner.

  “Aw, man, you really want me to dispel the mystery?” he said. “OK, why not. I am in a hospital bed. I know I come off like Superman, but honestly? I’m just a normal guy on the inside, Black. I love the job but I don’t like to sweat, so I’m rarely in the gym and I’m definitely not the most deadly man on the force. You see this amazing physique? I was born with it.”

  “Anybody at home?” Avery asked.

  “Used to have a girlfriend. Six years. She left me a while back. Said I had too much trouble committing. Come on, Black! Let’s be honest. Why would a man as fine as myself commit to one woman, when there are millions out there?”

  Lots of reasons, Avery thought.

  She remembered Jack, her ex-husband. Although they hadn’t spoken in a long time, the urge to marry him had been strong when she was younger. He’d offered stability, kindness, love, and support. No matter how intense or aloof Avery had become, he was always there, waiting and eager to give her a hug.

  “I guess people commit because they want to feel safe,” she said.

  “That’s no reason to commit,” he said. “Gotta be for love.”

  Avery had never really understood the concept of love until her daughter Rose was born. As a young college student, she thought she’d loved Jack. The feelings were there and she missed him when he wasn’t around, but if she’d really been in love, she wouldn’t have taken him for granted so much, or left.

  She had Rose when she was barely twenty. Jack had wanted to start a family early, but when Rose was born, Avery had felt trapped—no more time alone with Jack, no more time for herself, no more life, career. It had been a mess. She’d been a mess, and it had showed—the end of her marriage, the end of her being a mother. But even though she and Rose were still estranged, she knew, now, she knew.

  “What do you know about love?” she asked.

  “I know it means I have to make my woman feel good.” He smiled with a sheepish, seductive stare.

  “That’s not love,” Avery said. “Love is when you’re willing to give up something you care about for someone else. It’s when you care more about the other person than your own desires, and you act on it—that’s love. It has nothing to do with sex.”

  Ramirez raised his brows in respect.

  “Whoa,” he said. “That’s deep, Black.”

  The memories were painful for Avery to recall. Instead, she tried to stay focused on the task at hand: a killer on the loose and a suspect in custody.

  “I gotta go,” she said. “Just wanted to make sure you were going to be all right. All I need is another dead partner on my hands.”

  “Go, go,” Ramirez said. “Where’s our Navy Seal?”

  “In custody. And you’re actually not that far off. He’s army reserve. Very good with his hands. I already lambasted the dean for withholding information about a possible lethal weapon. Thompson is over at the dorm now.”

  “You think he’s our killer?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What’s the hesitation?”

  Pieces, she thought. Puzzle pieces that didn’t fit.

  “He could be our guy,” she said. “Let’s see what happens.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  An hour later, Avery stood in a small, dark side chamber with O’Malley and Connelly. Ahead of them, through one-way glass, sat George Fine. His hands were handcuffed to a metal table and he had bandages on his shoulders and legs from the gunshot wounds. He was lucky, Avery realized, that she had just grazed him. Her aim had been true.

  Every so often he muttered something under his breath, or twitched. Blank eyes sought out nothing but seemed deep in thought.

  In her hand, Avery held a picture that displayed six different black-and-white interpretations of a man’s face, based off the surveillance videos of the killer. Each picture showed a Caucasian perpetrator with a narrow chin, high cheekbones, small eyes, and a high forehead. In three of the photos, the wig, glasses, and moustache had been removed, and the artist had given the killer various hairstyles and facial hair. The last three images maintained at least one aspect of the disguise in case it wasn’t a disguise.

  Avery took time to absorb every photo.

  The face she’d seen on the cameras was embedded in her mind, and now, with a bunch of clear sketches, she was able to infer other looks: a wider chin, lower cheekbones, a bald head, larger eyes, glasses, and multiple colors for the eyes.

  Every so often, she looked up Fine. There were similarities: Caucasian, high cheeks… He seemed to have a leaner frame, but they were both light on their feet. The graceful movements Avery had seen on camera were a lot like the ones she’d observed when George overtook Dan. Still, Avery wasn’t sure. There were the plants and animals. Also, the killer on camera had a fiendishness about him, a spritely humor that was lacking in George. Would George Fine have bowed to a camera?

  As if Connelly could mentally hear her doubts, he pointed at the window and said: “This is our guy. I’m sure of it. Look at him. He’s barely said two words since he came here. Can you believe he wants a lawyer? No way. He gets nothing. We need a confession.”

  O’Malley had on a dark suit and red tie. He pulled at his lips and frowned and said: “I might have to agree with Connelly on this one. You said you found pictures of Jenkins in his room. He attacked and nearly killed a cop. He also fits the profile. Those sketches are a near match. What’s the hesitation?”

  “The pieces don’t all add up,” she said. “Where did he take Cindy after the abduction? How did he learn how to embalm? Randy Johnson said those hairs on Jenkins’ dress were from a cat. Fine doesn’t own a cat. What he does have is a lot of Internet searches for porn and relationship advice. Does that sound like a killer?”

  “Listen, Black, this is a courtesy here,” Connelly said with finality. “As far as I’m concerned, this case is over. We got him. He must have a safe house somewhere. That’s where we’ll find the cat and the minivan and the murder weapon. Your job is to find that house. Jeez, why do you always have to act like you’re so much better than everyone else?”

  “I just want to get it right.”

  “Yeah? Well, that wasn’t always the case, was it?”

  A feral energy pulsed from Connelly, cheeks red, eyes bloodshot as if he’d been drinking or had a rough night. He was busting out of his shirt, as usual, and he appeared ready to punch someone in the face.

  She addressed O’Malley.

  “Let me talk to him.”

  “He’s your perp.” O’Malley shrugged. “You can do what you want. But we think this is our guy. We’ve got a lot of people breathing down our necks on this one. Unless you can prove something else, and quick, let’s wrap this up, OK?”

  She gave him the thumb’s-up.

  “You got it, boss.”

  The door to the interrogation room buzzed and Avery pushed through. Everything was gray, including the steel table where the shooter sat, and the mirror and walls.

  George blew out a frustrated breath and lowered his head. He wore the same tank top and sweats.

  “You remember me?” Avery asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, “you’re t
he bitch that pointed a gun in my face.”

  “You tried to kill my partner.”

  “Self-defense.” He shrugged. “You busted into my room. Everybody knows Boston PD have itchy trigger-fingers. I was just trying to protect myself.”

  “You stabbed him.”

  “Talk to my lawyer.”

  Avery took a seat.

  “Let me see if I can get this straight,” she said. “You’re an economics major. Average student. Army reserve. No criminal record, well, at least not before today. By all accounts, a quiet, harmless student. Only a few friends.” She shrugged. “But I guess that’s what you get when you’re not a hard partier in college. Successful parents. One lawyer. One doctor. No siblings, but,” she noted with emphasis, “a history of hard crushes. Yeah,” she almost apologized, “I talked to the dean and learned all about your crush on Tammy Smith, the girl you followed from Scarsdale? Is she the reason you went to Harvard, or was that just coincidence?”

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” he said, and looked her right in the eyes with a determined, unrelenting gaze as if he dared her to say otherwise.

  Nothing about the interview felt right to Avery.

  Instinct told her she’d already made the correct assessment: he was unstable and lonely, a teenager on the verge of a breakdown before the girl of his dreams was suddenly murdered, and then he snapped. But a meticulous murderer that drained bodies and put them in angelic, lifelike positions? She had trouble believing it. There was just no solid proof.

  “Do you like movies?” she asked.

  He frowned, uncertain about her line of questioning.

  “Can you tell me what’s currently playing at the Omni Theatre?” she added. “The cinema across from Lederman Park?”

  A blank expression greeted her.

  “There are three movies playing there,” she answered. “Two of them are 3D summer action flicks. I don’t really care about those,” she said with a flick of her wrist. “The third is called L’Amour Mes Amis, a little French film about three women who fall in love with each other. Have you ever seen that movie?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Do you like foreign films?”

  “Talk to my lawyer.”

  “All right, all right,” she said. “How about this? One more question. You give me an honest answer and I’ll leave here and get you a lawyer. OK?”

  He said nothing.

  “No strings attached,” she added. “I’m serious.”

  Avery took a moment to formulate her thoughts.

  “You could be my killer,” she said. “You really could. We have a lot of avenues to still explore but some of the pieces add up. Why else would you attack a cop? Why is your room so clean? Makes me think you have another place somewhere. Do you?”

  An unreadable stare greeted her.

  “Here’s my problem,” Avery said. “You could also just be a stupid kid that was destroyed over the death of a crush. Maybe you were furious and miserable, and obviously a little unstable because you attacked a cop. But,” she emphasized and pointed to the two-way glass, “my supervising officer and my captain both think you’re guilty of first-degree murder. They want to see you burn. I’m going to give you a choice. Answer one question for me and I’ll rethink my position and give you what you want. OK?”

  She leaned forward and peered deep into his eyes.

  “Why did you attack my partner?”

  A complex set of emotions passed through George Fine. He frowned and mulled over his words, and then he looked away and back at Avery.

  A part of him seemed to be calculating a response, and figuring out what that response would mean in a court of law. Finally, he settled on something. He moved in closer, and although he tried to act tough, his eyes were glassy.

  “You all think you’re so big, so important. Well, I’m important too,” he said. “My feelings matter. You can’t just say we’re friends and then ignore me. That’s confusing. I’m important too. And when you kiss me, that means you’re mine. Do you understand?”

  His face cocked and tears rolled down his cheeks and he screamed:

  “That’s means you’re mine!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  He checked his watch. It was close to six o’clock.

  The sun was still out and people were everywhere on the massive lawn.

  He sat against a tree along Killian Court on the MIT campus. Easily seen among the shade of the high foliage, he wore a cap and glasses.

  His destination had been reached only a few minutes before. Problems at the office had facilitated a last-minute spreadsheet for his boss. Often, he asked the All Spirit why his boss couldn’t be killed, as well as anyone else he deemed a nuisance. Without a word—only through strange sounds and disturbing images—the All Spirit had let him know that his thoughts and feelings were meaningless: all that mattered were the girls.

  Young. Vibrant. Full of life.

  Girls that could release the All Spirit from his prison.

  A temple of girls, college girls ready to take on the world, a spring well of thriving, potential energy easily given over to the All Spirit, enough power to break through his interdimensional realm and reach the Earth as a physical presence. No more need for apostles and minions. Freedom. At last. And all those who helped him? Those who were patient and strong, who had built the temple of these young college morsels out of love and care? What about them? Well, they would be assured a place in Heaven, of course, as gods in their own right.

  It was Tuesday, and on Tuesday night, Tabitha Mitchell always went to the great dome library to study with friends after class.

  At six fifteen, he spotted her. Tabitha was half Chinese and half Caucasian. Pretty and popular, she was laughing with friends. She flipped her dark hair and shook her head at something that was said. The group walked across the lawn.

  There was no need to follow. Her destination was already known—back to the dorms to change, and then out to the Muddy Charles Pub for the Tuesday Special: Ladies Night. All girls drink for free. Tuesday was her favorite night to party.

  He took a sip of a smoothie, closed his eyes, and mentally prepared.

  * * *

  The build-up was his favorite part, the waiting, the yearning, and the near explosion of his desire. Love was an emotion easy to feel with these girls. Every one of them had vivacity of spirit and energy and an incredible purpose they all shared, bigger than anything they could have ever achieved on their own. They were princesses in his mind, queens, worthy of his adoration and perpetual worship.

  The rebirth was hard for him.

  After they’d been changed, they were no longer his own. They had moved on to become sacrifices for the All Spirit, building-blocks in the temple of his eventual return, so all he had to remember them by were pictures, and the memories he had of a budding love cut too short, as always cut too short.

  He stood along the Charles River and stared out at the rolling waves of water. Night had come and he was always the most introspective at night, before the induction. Behind him, across Memorial Drive, Tabitha Mitchell walked with her friends to the Muddy Charles Pub. They would stay there for at least two hours, he knew, before they all split apart and Tabitha headed back to her dorm, alone.

  Stars were barely visible in the dark sky. He spotted one, then two, and he wondered if the All Spirit lived in those stars, or if he was the sky itself, the universe. As if in answer, he saw the image of the All Spirit: a darker shadow among the sky that seemed to encompass the entire sky. There was a patient, expectant look on the All Spirit’s face. No words were spoken. All was understood in that moment.

  At around nine, the killer headed back toward the pub and waited on a narrow passage between the bar, which was in the large, white-columned building of Morss Hall, and the Fairchild Building. The area wasn’t well lit. A number of people ambled about.

  At nine thirty-five, she appeared.

  Tabitha said her good-byes in front of the hall. At the bottom of
the steps, they all went their separate ways. Her two friends turned toward their apartment on Amherst Street, and she turned right. As was her habit, she moved into the passway.

  Regardless of the many people nearby and on the street, the spirit of an actor embodied the killer. He took the persona of a drunkard and ambled over to Tabitha. In the palm of his hand, attached to his fingers by silver rings, he cupped a handmade plunger-needle.

  Quickly passing behind her, he simultaneously stung the back of her neck, gripped her neck so she wouldn’t move, and pulled her in close.

  “Hey, Tabitha!” he said in a very familiar, loud, phony British accent, and then, to lower her guard, he added, “Shelly and Bob told me you’d be here. Let’s make up? OK? I don’t want to fight anymore. We belong together. Let’s sit down and talk.”

  Initially, Tabitha jerked and attempted to dislodge herself from the assailant, but the quick-acting drugs made her throat numb. In the seconds that followed, the names of her friends confused her. Combined with the dwindling speed of her mind and body, she hopefully thought that her sorority sisters were playing some kind of joke.

  He was meticulous about how he held her. One hand wrapped around her back to catch her from a fall. The other hand, which held the anesthetic, placed the needle into his right cargo pants pocket, and then he cupped her cheek. In this way he held her up with his strong arms and continued to talk as if they were truly an arguing couple on the verge of a possible mend.

  “Are you drunk again?” he declared. “Why are you always drinking when I’m gone? Come here. Let’s sit down and talk.”

  At first, many people on the street or walking through the grassy breezeway—directly past the killer and Tabitha—believed something was obviously wrong: her unnatural movements said as much. A few even stopped to watch, but the killer was such an expert in his handling of Tabitha’s body that after the initial injection and her brief struggle, Tabitha appeared like any other intoxicated college student being helped by a best friend or lover. Her feet tried to walk. Her arms grasped at him—not in an aggressive way but as if she were in a dream and needed to shoo clouds.