by Blake Pierce
She had to look away. She had a strong stomach, but this…this was beyond brutality.
“I know,” O’Malley said. “This is barbaric. I’d hate to be the coroner on this one. I don’t even know how you’d run an autopsy.”
The two officers who had come from the hallway tried avoiding the beaten mess at all costs. “Nothing worth note back there,” one of them said. “Everything occurred out here. The back door was forced open, indicating a break-in.”
Avery walked around the living room and did her own investigation. She saw the forced entry by way of the back door in the kitchen, just like the other officer had said. The frame was splintered and cracked. She could also see a large dent on the outside of the door, presumably struck by the sledgehammer.
Back in the living room, she tried her best to figure out the chain of events. If the television was on, chances were good that Mitch Brennan had been watching it when Biel broke in. Maybe he’d made a dash for the front door. Maybe he tried to make it to a gun that was hidden somewhere in the house. Avery couldn’t tell. There was just too much blood to be certain of anything.
As she looked around for answers, the sound of the front door opening distracted her. Mayor Greenwald, no doubt, she thought. This could get interesting…
But it was not Greenwald. Instead, Connelly stepped into the living room. The look of horror on his face was unmistakable and he did little to hide it. He let out an audible gasp as he turned away from it.
“Sir,” O’Malley said. “Did you get my message?”
“About this being Ronald Biel’s parole officer? Yeah.” He then looked to Avery. “I still say that first one was Howard Randall. A young college girl. That was his thing. But this…yeah, even Randall doesn’t have this in him. And the connection can’t be ignored.”
“There’s also the note on the dummy and the one that came with the dead cat,” she said. “The first one talked about being free. Now that we know that Biel was recently released, that could have easily been him taunting me.”
“Because you stuck his ass in prison?” Connelly asked.
“Presumably.” She still couldn’t find it in her to admit to throwing his case. It had been hard enough to tell Jane Seymour. It was harder still to tell these two men—men that she worked with closely, men that she knew would protect her while in the field.
“Or maybe it’s both of them,” Connelly said. “Maybe we have two psychos running around the city.”
“What else do you have?” O’Malley asked her. “I know there’s no way you’ve just been sitting.”
“I know that Howard Randall was not a fan of physical touch. And Biel seems to revel in goriness. I’ve also reached out to my former law firm. They’re looking for any documents that might have Biel’s handwriting. If it’s the same as the handwriting on the letter and the sign on the dummy, I think there’s no question: it’s all Biel.”
“Given that and then the fact that we could have two murderers on your bad side, how long would you need to wrap this up?” Connelly asked.
“Sir…” O’Malley said. “The mayor—”
“To hell with Greenwald for now. I’d like to see him come look at this mess,” he said, nodding toward the bloodied shape that had once been Mitch Brennan.
“I don’t know, sir,” she said.
“You’re on the case,” he said. “Make it quick and work like a phantom. Don’t make any scenes. I’ll keep Greenwald off of you for as long as I can. And if you can wrap it up before he finds out you’re active on it, all the better.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Also…I’m not going to stick a partner with you. But I am going to inform Sawyer and Dennison to loosen the reins a bit. Anything big comes up, I want to know about it before you act.”
“Understood.”
“And Avery? I’m glad to hear Ramirez is doing better. When you see him again, give him my best.”
Avery took her leave, quickly heading back to her car. With permission to actively work the case, a whole new world of possibilities opened up to her.
The only question now was where she should start.
Biel’s grinning, leering face popped up in her head. She heard his gleeful whistling like a dusty wind tearing through her mind.
I had totally put Biel out of my mind these last six years. Maybe I should start by talking to those who last spoke with him.
The prison.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It felt odd to be entering South Bay House of Corrections, knowing that she was not entering in order to meet with Howard. It made her feel like she was visiting as some weird stalker who could not get over her lure of the place. But once she was inside, the feeling was replaced by an urgent sense of duty—the need to get in and out as quickly as possible.
Because of the short notice she had given, Avery was not able to see anyone right away. She knew there were protocols to be followed and forms to be filled out. She understood the need for these regulations, but as she waited in a small holding area, it was frustrating. While she waited, she leafed through a case file of Biel’s history that a helpful woman from records had provide her with.
It was uncanny how quickly that time in her life seemed to unfold in her mind’s eye as she read through the files and studied the images. Visiting with Jane had also stirred up memories from that time in her life, but the file in front of her was like a jarring slap to the face. She read over Biel’s bio as a photograph of his hardened and emotionless face stared out at her.
Ronald Biel had a record that started at the age of sixteen, with a grand theft auto charge in New Jersey. By the time he turned twenty, he’d also been charged with two counts of breaking and entering and had been fingered in a manslaughter case but had gotten off. Four years later, his name started coming up in mob-oriented cases, always a name and face that seemed to be hovering around the scene of crimes or reports. Rumors had started to circulate that Biel was indeed part of the mob scene around New Jersey and an extended arm that had reached further south, as far down as Baltimore, Maryland.
He worked as an enforcer, which, depending on which mob circuit you asked, involved roughing people up for information or to coerce them into doing certain things. Before Biel’s already tainted history got even worse, he had copped to busting knee caps, breaking fingers, and plucking out teeth with pliers. But somewhere along the line, something in Biel shifted and he started to get even rougher. Rumors has started swirling around the mob crowd that he was something of a loose cannon, using grotesque methods for his line of work that had some questioning whether or not he might end up drawing unnecessary attention to mob activities. After a few more cases, one of which was rumored to have resulted in the death of the son of a drug lord, the mob disowned him.
However, Biel had made close friends. When he left, they left with him. The mob dropped anonymous tips here and there, hoping to them arrested. This led to a shootout that resulted in the deaths of two FBI agents, one policeman, and three civilians. Biel managed to escape with a few of his associates. They were on the run for three weeks and the active manhunt might have lasted longer had Biel not apparently snapped.
The hunt came to a stall when one of Biel’s runaway associates was found dead on an overpass along the Beltway. His throat had been cut and he had been partially disemboweled. The other man who had run away with him was found with three gunshot wounds in his stomach—while nailed to the side of a barn with railroad spikes in a rural area thirty miles outside of Boston. The man had been barely alive when discovered. He’d had enough breath left in him to tell the FBI that it had been Ronald Biel who had killed him before dying as he was taken down from the side of the shed.
Having killed a former associate and longtime partner in such a gruesome way, it had been assumed by the FBI—and Avery herself when she had been approached about representing the case after Biel had come to be in custody—that he had simply gone psychotic. It certainly seemed to be the case when the nine bodies he le
ft in his wake after disappearing went unsolved but showed clear signs of Biel’s work.
The calling cards of his murders were grotesque. Nails of some form were usually involved. The slitting of throats was also a preferred method. There was always a lot of blood and gore, as if he were purposefully trying to go for the shock factor.
Avery relived each and every one of the cases as she went through the files. The blood, the bodies, the absolute disregard for decency…it made her feel sick.
It made her feel sicker still knowing that he had gotten away from a life sentence due to a technicality. She could have used the technicality to save him from any time in prison but had opted not to. She’d rather live with knowing that she purposefully lost a case than knowing that she had helped a psychotic murderer go free.
The technicality had come in the fact that Biel’s DNA had not been present at any of the scenes and that one of the scenes had been contaminated by the Boston PD. However, the DNA of Albert Leary, a known mob boss and associate of Biel’s, had been found at two of the scenes. Even to this day, Leary had never been discovered. It was a Jimmy Hoffa–type mystery. While on trial, even Ronald Biel had said that if Leary was alive, he’d happily claim the murders. Based on Leary’s history, the jury had brought this hook, line, and sinker. Leary remained missing and Biel got off with a seven-year sentence—which had been shortened to six due to good behavior, as Avery had recently discovered. Things had gotten so bad by midway through the trial that even the mob was doing everything they could to wash their hands of him.
As she read back over all of this, the door to the small holding room opened up. A man she had met a few times before walked in—William Ackerman, the prison warden. He was accompanied by a security guard who looked like he never smiled and was all business all of the time. Ackerman was dressed in a polo and khakis. He was in his late fifties but had the look of a man still exploring his forties; his hair was barely touched by white and his posture spoke of someone who worked out or, at the very least, had some sort of military background.
“Detective Black,” Ackerman said, coming to the table and offering his hand.
Avery stood up, shook the offered hand, and waited to see if the guard would also offer. When it was clear that he would not, Avery gathered up the files.
“Are we all set?” she asked.
“We are. I have spoken to Biel’s cellmate, a man by the name of Antoine Evans. He will be in the cell while you are there and I have given him firm instructions to answer any questions you may have. I tell you this because if he gets lippy or straight up rude, he may get roughed up a bit in front of you. So be forewarned.”
“That’s fine with me,” she said. “Lead the way.”
Avery followed Ackerman and his guard out of the room, down a small administrative corridor, and then through a set of double doors he opened with his security card. Beyond those doors was the east wing of the prison. Entering into the halls of a maximum security prison was nothing new to her. She had, after all, done it several times when she had come to visit with Howard. But with new blood in the air and a new case that had a sense of urgency to it, something about the prison seemed more primal now.
How did the fact that Howard and Biel were in this place at the same time for several year escape my attention? she wondered as she followed Ackerman. Had I really pushed Biel that far out of my mind?
Near the end of the corridor, Ackerman came to a stop. The guard thumped the cell bars with his nightstick. A shape behind the bars moved slowly backward. As Avery stepped forward, she saw a tall, thin black man in the cell. When the guard took out his keys, he looked in to the prisoner and said, “On the bunk, now.”
The man did as he was asked, taking a seat on the bunk that was pushed against the left side of the wall. The guard opened the door and stepped inside, followed by Ackerman. Avery went in behind the two men, her eyes instantly going to the other bunk, pushed against the other side of the cell.
“This was Ronald Biel’s?” she asked.
“It was,” Ackerman said. “And this,” he said, nodding to the tall black man, “is Antoine Evans. He was Biel’s cellmate for a little over two years.”
Wasting no time, Avery focused her attention on Evans. “Biel was released on good behavior,” she said, not really caring if Warden Ackerman resented the remark dropped so casually. “Did you ever see any of this so-called good behavior?”
“Yeah,” Evans said. “I mean, he was a stand-up dude.” He grinned at her in a way that was not quite inappropriate, but made her skin crawl nonetheless.
“Something funny?” she asked.
“Sort of. I’ve seen you before. I just realized it.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Avery said. “But you and I have never met.”
“Nah, not like that. Biel…he…” He stopped here and chuckled. “Warden, if you take the cover off of Biel’s bunk, you’ll find a tear in the bottom right corner.”
Ackerman gave Evans a look of distrust before nudging the guard. The guard went to the vacant bunk, tore the cover and fitted sheet off of it, and examined the bottom right corner.
“He’s right,” the guard said, fingering the tear in the mattress. “And there’s something inside.”
Ackerman gave a nod of approval and the guard hesitantly dug deeper into the slit in the mattress. It only took a few seconds. When he pulled his hand back out, there was a large Ziplock bag in his hand. It contained what looked like an assortment of paper. The guard handed the clear baggie to Ackerman. He looked inside for a just a moment, shook his head, and uttered a curse.
“Figures,” he said, handing the bag to Avery.
She took it, not quite sure what to expect. She took out one of the pieces of paper and discovered that it was an old newspaper article. It was from three years ago, detailing a drug bust that she had been a part of. Near the top, just under the article title, was a small picture. It showed her, taken from the right side, as she was speaking into a cell phone.
The next piece of paper was from a magazine. It was half of a page, detailing Ronald Biel’s case in court. She remembered the article quite clearly as she read it over and looked at the picture; it had been the talk of the town for about a week in the local rags. The picture showed her standing at the bench in the courtroom, giving what the picture showed to be an impassioned plea.
“What the hell is this?” she asked as she kept flipping through the pages and fragments within the bag.
“Man, Ron was obsessed with you,” Evans said. “He always said you were a lawyer or something, though. Talked about you all the time. Like he knew you.”
“What kind of stuff did he say?”
“That you were smart and beautiful. But he got weird sometimes, too. He’d talk to me about what he thought you might taste like. And not just down there,” he said, nodding toward her waist. “But like, the nape of your neck and your fingers. I’d tell him to shut up about it, but he’d go on and on.”
“When did he do this?” Ackerman asked.
“I don’t know. I mean, pretty recently. Right before he was released, he kept saying he couldn’t wait to see you.”
“Anything about sexual assault or rape?” Ackerman asked.
Avery shot him an annoyed look. Of course a man would instantly take it there, she thought. But she also understood it; the man worked with violent men and psychopaths day in and day out.
“No,” Evans said. “In fact, one time when I joked about him jerking it to those pictures at night, he got mad. Like, I thought he was going to throw a punch. He didn’t talk to me for like a week.”
“Did he tell you how he knew me?” Avery asked.
“Just said you were some lawyer lady he had crossed paths with.”
“And the entire time you were here, as his cellmate, you never saw a mean streak in him?”
Evans laughed a bit at this and then shrugged. “Look. I know what he was accused of. And really, he’s a weird dude—talking about what yo
ur fingers taste like and the shape of your pillow when you sleep. So I could always see that part of him. Everyone in here has a mean streak, you know? But with the exception of that one time he got pissed at me for making that joke about your pictures, he was nothing but nice. Real civil to me.”
“I hate to say it,” Ackerman said. “But you’re going to hear more of the same from the guards and the staff. We never had a single issue with him.”
As Avery continued to look through the baggie of pictures, she wasn’t able to find any comfort in that. Near the back of the collection, she saw that he had even somehow managed to go online and find the picture of her that had once graced the ABOUT US page on the Seymour and Fitch website.
A wave of nausea suddenly passed through her. “In all of his talking, did Biel ever mention where he might be headed when he was released?”
“Not that I remember,” Evans said. “All he said for sure that he was going to be sticking around here—that he didn’t see the point in moving far. Said a man can’t ever outrun his demons, so why tire yourself trying. Or some weird shit like that.”
“Thanks,” Avery said, suddenly needing to get the hell out of the cell.
She went out with Ackerman right behind her. He could tell that she was shaken up but it was obvious that he wasn’t sure how to sympathize.
“You get what you need?” he asked.
It was a tricky question. On the one hand, she had nothing—no idea where Biel was headed or where he might currently be hiding out. Yet on the other hand, she now knew that he had apparently been harboring a long-standing obsession with her.
And it was he who threw the cat, she thought. He knows where I live.
A shudder passed through her. Now that she knew with absolute certainty that Biel had her on his mind, she felt almost like she was being hunted.
