by Blake Pierce
Gently, lovingly, the killer led her over to a wall, sat down with her, and stroked her hair. Even the most watchful and vigilant passersby soon assumed everything was fine and continued on with their evening.
“We’ll be happy together,” the killer whispered.
He kissed her softly on the cheek. The excitement he felt was even stronger than with Cindy. Strangely aroused, he peered up into the dark sky to see the All Spirit, watching him with a grimaced look of disapproval.
“All right.” The killer blanched.
A deep hug brought Tabitha closer to his body. He smelled her scent, squeezed her arms and legs. Slight moans came from her lips, but he knew they would be fleeting; the drugs would erase her mind in just over twenty minutes.
Two boys played Frisbee Golf right beside them. A group of rowdy college freshmen sang songs. Cars raced by along the Charles River.
Amid the populated area, the killer picked Tabitha up and slung her over his shoulders for a piggy-back ride. Although her feet dangled, he held her hands on his chest and jogged to his car, which was parked on Memorial Drive.
“Come on!” he cried in his accent. “Put your legs around me! You’re making me do all the work. At least help me out a little bit? Please?”
He continued the dialogue by the blue minivan, where he rested her on the car, opened the passenger door, and gently placed her inside.
For a few seconds, he remained squatted by the door, not only to keep up the concerned-boyfriend charade, but to observe her features, to watch her chest rise and fall, and to wonder—as he had so often—what it would be like to kiss her, for real, and to make love. The All Spirit grumbled from his heavenly position, and the killer, with a sigh, closed the passenger side door, took his place by the steering wheel, and drove away.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On Wednesday morning, bright and early, Avery entered the office to check her messages and see if any new leads had come in. The disturbing interview with George had only confirmed one thing: he was crazy. Could he be the killer? Sure, Avery had begun to suspect, but there were still other avenues she needed to pursue.
One last suspect remained: Cindy Jenkins’ boyfriend, Winston Graves. Graves was a Harvard fencing champion from an elite family. His father owned a number of supermarket chains and his mother was a regular on QVC. By all accounts, he was a dedicated student and athlete who would never have to work a day in his life, but he still received top grades and had aspirations of representing his country in the Olympics.
Slim, she thought, but worth checking out.
“Hey, Black,” the captain called, “come on in here.”
Finley Stalls sat before the captain’s desk, like a thief about to be caught red-handed. Despite their brief moment of camaraderie the day before, Avery wanted nothing to do with him. A beat cop usually assigned to whatever homicide squad division was in need, he was, she believed, lazy, mean, untrustworthy, and he had an accent so thick and fast it was nearly impossible to understand what he was saying half the time.
“What’s up, Cap?”
O’Malley wore a navy blue long sleeve shirt and tan slacks. Stubble lined his face and he appeared to have gotten little sleep.
“Looks like Thompson kicked down the right doors,” he said. “We received a call this morning from Shelly Fine, mother of our assumed perp. Looks like she lent him some money to rent out a cabin on Quincy Bay for the entire month. Here’s the address,” he said and handed her a slip of paper. “That might be our spot. Get down there now. If this is it, I’ll meet with the chief this afternoon to schedule the news conference.”
Avery checked the address.
Southwest, she thought, on the water. Far from the abduction site or car routes. Intel from Jones had the killer driving in the opposite direction after the alleyway in Cambridge. And Thompson had the car going north.
“Sure,” she said, “I’ll head there this afternoon.”
“What are you? Drunk?” he snapped back. “I just handed you the potential address of our killer, and you tell me you’ll wait until this afternoon?”
“Thompson and Jones spent most of the day yesterday going over car routes. They had the minivan heading north from the park and west from the alley. Not once did it veer south. I’m not saying Fine isn’t our killer. I just think.”
“Listen, Black. You can think all you want. You want to follow-up on other leads? You go right ahead. After you search this cabin. You hear me? As far as I’m concerned, this case is over. I want it tied up with a pretty ribbon on top. You better make me look good for the chief.”
“Sure,” she said, “no problem.”
“That ‘sure’ sounds a lot like ‘I’ll do what I want,’” O’Malley said. “Look, Avery,” he said and settled down, “I know you’re smart. That’s why you were promoted, yeah? And I know you’ve got great instincts. But what I need now is closure. If I’m wrong? Great. Rub it in my face all you want. But for now? We’ve got the best lead so far and I expect you to follow it.”
“Understood,” she said.
“Good,” he replied, “now take your new partner and get out of here.”
“Finley?”
“Yeah,” he said. “You got a problem with that?”
“Seriously?”
“What?” the captain challenged. “You think I’m giving you a good cop? Your first partner was killed. Your second one is in the hospital. Finley is perfect. Solves all my problems. If he does good? Great. If he gets killed? Not a problem. I can at least tell the chief I finally got rid of some dead weight around here.”
“I’m right here!” Finley yelled.
O’Malley pointed at him.
“Don’t you disappoint me,” he snapped. “I’m tired of it, you hear me, Fin? You prove yourself on this case and maybe I’ll rethink my opinion about your dedication as an officer. For now, you’re just a racist cop that gets moved around from department to department because no one wants to fire you. Is that what you want? You like that title? Good. No more jerking around. You do what she says and clean up your act. Understand?”
* * *
“What crawled up his ass?” Finley snapped when they’d left. The words were spoken extremely fast, and with such a heavy accent that Avery thought it sounded like “Whacawlup-is-ass” and she had to take a minute to figure it out.
She was at least a head taller than Finley and seemed like a supermodel compared to him with his frog-like lips, chubby cheeks, large eyes, and short, stout frame.
Barely a word was spoken until the reached the car.
The white BMW seemed to offend Finley.
“Whoa!” he shouted. “I’m not getting in that thing.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a girly car.”
Avery hopped inside.
“Suit yourself.”
Finley—completely out of his element in his blue patrol uniform standing next to a white convertible BMW—appeared as dejected as a kitten in a rainstorm.
“Hey, Fin,” a distant cop shouted. “Nice ride.”
“Ah, man,” Finley moaned.
“It’s called karma,” Avery said when Finley begrudgingly hopped in and closed the door. “What comes around goes around.”
She headed out of the lot and turned west.
“Hey,” he said, “where you going? Quincy Bay is in the other direction.”
“We’ll get there,” she said.
“Now wait a minute,” Finley complained. “I was in that office too. Cap said we go to Quincy Bay. No exceptions.”
“He also said you need to listen to me.”
“No way. No way,” Finley shouted. “You can’t screw this up for me, Black. Turn the car around. This is my last shot. Captain hates me. We gotta do what he says.”
His dropped consonants and verbal speed made Avery shake.
“Do you ever listen to yourself?” she asked. “I mean, do you ever record yourself and then go back and try to understand what you said?”
“Forget it,” she motioned.
“Black, I’m serious,” he pushed.
“Have you ever encountered a serial killer?” she asked.
“No. Yes. Well, maybe.” Finley thought.
“There’s something about them,” Avery said, “something different from other people. I didn’t know that until I represented one as a lawyer and thought he was innocent. After it turned out that I was wrong, I started to see things differently. His house, what he collected. On the outside, they looked like normal things, but in hindsight, they were clues. A shadow veiled everything,” she remembered, “a shadow that longed to be lifted.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Finley whined.
Avery breathed out a heavy sigh.
“George Fine might be our killer,” she said. “He stalked girls and he attacked a cop. But what I saw around him, it doesn’t add up. Points to something different, like a crazy kid who’s stuck in his own head. There’s no solid proof of anything else, which makes me think the house is a getaway, some place he goes to try and get out of his own head. I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong. We’ll get to the house. I promise. Just give me an hour.”
Finley shook his head.
“Shit, man, I’m fucked.”
“Not yet,” she said. “Just a brief detour to Harvard to interview one final suspect and then it’s on to Quincy Bay.”
Dead silence lasted the rest of the way into Cambridge. At one point, slightly curious about Finley and their difficult past together, Avery cocked a brow and asked a question.
“Why are you always such an asshole?”
“To you?”
“Yeah, to me.”
Finley shrugged as if the answer was obvious.
“You’re a chick,” he said. “Everyone knows chicks don’t make good cops. Heard you were a lesbian too. You like to bang serial killers, right? Crazy shit. You’re a crazy chick, Black. Besides, you always look like you belong somewhere else. So I say to myself: why doesn’t she go work somewhere else if she don’t like it here? That’s all. Busting your balls. Gotta fight back if you want respect,” he said and punched the air. “Pop, pop, pop.”
Avery began to wonder if he was slightly special.
* * *
“Can I help you with something?”
Winston Graves looked just like he’d been portrayed by the sorority girls: cocky, aloof, tall, dark, and athletic. He had dreamy green eyes and a toned, tan body. Although not a perfect match to the man Avery had seen in the surveillance videos, she tried to imagine him in disguise and slumped over to make him seem shorter.
On the porch of his first-floor apartment house, he wore white and red basketball shorts, flip-flops, and a tank-top. Books were in his hand. He glanced over at Finley, who stood further away on the sidewalk and glared at Winston like a pit bull ready to strike.
‘My name is Avery Black,” she said and flashed her badge. “I’m with Homicide. I’d just like to ask you a few questions about Cindy Jenkins.”
“It’s about time,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I called the cops on Sunday. This is the first time anyone thought it might be important enough to talk to me? Huh,” he fake laughed, “I’m touched.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Avery said. “Did you have anything to add to the case? Is that why you wanted the police to call you back?”
“No,” he said, “I’m just forever amazed at the stupidity of our public servants.”
Avery winced.
“Ouch,” Finley said. “You better mind your smart-ass tongue, Harvard boy, or I’ll bring in your clean ass for Obstruction.”
Winston looked over at Finley, haughty at first; but then when he caught a good look at his raging eyes, he seemed to show the slightest bit of self-doubt and humility.
“What do you want?” Winston demanded.
“You can start by telling me where you were Saturday night,” Avery said.
Winston laughed.
“Are you serious?” he said. “I’m a suspect now? This just gets better and better.”
A powerful, protected air surrounded Winston, like he was untouchable, above them all, and blessed by money and birthright. He reminded Avery of all the multimillionaires she’d worked with as an attorney. During that time in her life, she probably acted just like him.
“Just going through the motions,” she said.
“I was playing poker with my friends. Everyone was at my house until about midnight. You want to check? Go right ahead. Here are some names,” and rattled off a few of his Harvard classmates.
Avery took notes.
“Thanks for that,” she said. “And, how are you?”
He frowned.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know, just trying to be empathetic. How are you feeling? I assume this must have been very difficult for you. The way I understand it, you and Cindy were in a long-term relationship. Two years, isn’t that right?”
“Great detective work,” he said sarcastically. “Cindy and I were over. Not officially, but in the past few months, it became painfully obvious that we were not meant to be together. We were moving in different directions. I was going to break up with her. So no, I wasn’t that broken up. It’s a terrible tragedy. I was upset when I heard what happened, but if you’re looking for tears, you came to the wrong place.”
“Wow,” Avery said. “It’s only been three days.”
“I’m sorry,” Winston snapped, “is there something I’m missing here? You come to my house, make me feel like I’m a suspect, question my relationship, and then try to make me feel guilty about my emotions? You might want to be careful with your words, Detective, or I’ll call my lawyer and make sure you’re put on a tighter leash.”
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth!” Finley yelled with a pointed finger.
Avery flashed him a look that said “you are not helping.”
Her phone rang.
“Black,” she said.
O’Malley was on the line.
“Stop whatever you’re doing,” he said in an urgent, soft-spoken tone. “Turn the car around and head over to Violet Path in the Mount Auburn Cemetery over in Watertown. Plug it into your phone and get there now. Ask for a detective named Ray Henley. He’s in charge. The cabin can wait.”
“What is it?” she asked.
There came a three-second pause.
“They just found another body.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
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.