by Blake Pierce
Avery flashed her best smile and shook hands.
“Thanks for seeing us,” she said. “We’d like to access the camera right above your loading dock. We don’t have a warrant,” she frowned, “but what we do have is a dead girl that was abducted on Saturday night, most likely right outside your back door. Unless something comes up, we should be in and out in twenty minutes.”
“And if something comes up?” the president asked.
“Then you made the right choice to assist the police in an extremely timely and delicate matter. A warrant could take an entire day. The body of that girl has already been dead for two days. She can’t talk anymore. She can’t help us. But you can. Please help. Every second we waste, the trail gets cold.”
The president nodded to himself and turned to his guard.
“Davis,” he said, “show them up. Give them whatever they need. If there are any problems,” he said to Avery, “please come and find me.”
When they were on their way, Ramirez whistled to himself.
“What a charmer,” he said.
“Whatever it takes,” Avery whispered.
The security office at Top Real Estate was a buzzing room filled with over twenty television screens. The guard sat down at the black table and keyboard.
“OK,” he said. “Time and place?”
“Loading dock. About two fifty-two and then let’s move forward.”
Ramirez shook his head.
“We’re not going to find nothing.”
The real estate cameras were of a much higher quality than the smoke shop, and in color. Most of the viewing screens were of a similar size, but one in particular was large. The guard put the loading-dock camera on the larger screen and then spun the image backwards.
“There,” Avery called. “Stop.”
The image halted at two-fifty. The camera showed a panoramic view of the parking lot directly across from the loading dock, as well as left, toward the dead-end sign and the street beyond. There was only a partial view of the alley that led toward Brattle. A single car was parked in the lot: a minivan that appeared to be dark blue.
“That car’s not supposed to be there,” the guard pointed.
“Can you make out the license?” Avery wondered.
“Yeah, I got it,” Ramirez said.
All three of them waited. For a while, the only motion came from cars on the perpendicular street, and the motion from trees.
At two-fifty-three, two people came into view.
They might have been lovers.
One was a smaller man, wiry and short, with thick, bushy hair, a moustache, and glasses. The other was a girl, taller with long hair. She wore a light summer dress and sandals. They appeared to be dancing. He held one of her hands and spun her around from the waist.
“Holy shit,” Ramirez said, “that’s Jenkins.”
“Same dress,” Avery said, “shoes, hair.”
“She’s drugged,” he said. “Look at her. Feet are dragging.”
They watched the killer open the passenger door and place her inside. Then, as he turned and walked around to the driver’s side, he looked directly into the loading-dock camera, bowed in a theatrical way, and twirled to the driver’s side door.
“Holy shit!” Ramirez howled. “Motherfucker is playing with us.”
“I want everyone on this,” Avery said. “Thompson and Jones are full-time surveillance from now on. Thompson can stay at the park. Tell him about the minivan. That will narrow down his search. We need to know what direction that car was heading. Jones has a harder job. He needs to get over here now and follow that van. I don’t care how he does it. Tell him to track down any cameras that can help him along the way.”
She turned to Ramirez, who stared back, shocked and impressed.
“We’ve got our killer.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Exhaustion finally hit Avery at close to six forty-five in the evening, on the elevator ride up to the second floor of the police station. All the energy and impetus she’d received from the morning revelations had culminated in a day well spent, but a night with countless unanswered questions. Her light skin was partially burned from the sun, her hair a mess, the jacket she’d worn earlier strung over her arm. Her shirt: dirty and untucked. Ramirez, on the other hand, appeared even more refreshed than he had in the morning: hair slicked back, suit almost perfectly pressed, eyes sharp and only a dab of sweat on his forehead.
“How can you possibly look so good?” she asked.
“It’s my Spanish-Mexican bloodline,” he proudly explained. “I can go twenty-four, forty-eight hours and still keep this shine.”
A quick, squeamish glance at Avery and he moaned: “Yeah. You look like shit.”
Respect filled his eyes.
“But you did it.”
The second floor was only half full at night, with most of the officers either at home or working the streets. The conference room lights were on. Dylan Connelly paced around inside, obviously upset. At the sight of them, he threw open the door.
“Where the hell have you been?!” he snapped. “I wanted a report on my desk at five o’clock. It’s almost seven. You turned off your walkie-talkies. Both of you,” he pointed out. “I might expect that from you, Black, but not you, Ramirez. No one called me. No one answered their phones. The captain is pissed too, so don’t go crying to him. Do you have any idea what’s been happening around here? What the hell were you thinking?”
Ramirez raised his palms.
“We called,” he said, “I left you a message.”
“You called twenty minutes ago,” Dylan snapped. “I’ve been calling every half hour since four thirty. Did someone die? Were you chasing down the killer? Did God Almighty come down from Heaven to help you out on this case? Because those are the only acceptable answers for your blatant insubordination. I should take both of you off this case right now.”
He pointed to the conference room.
“Get in there.”
Angry threats were lost on Avery. Dylan’s fury was background noise that she could easily filter out. She’d learned the skill long ago, back in Ohio, when she had to listen to her father scream and yell at her mother almost nightly. Back then, she’d held her ears tight and sang songs and dreamed about the day she would finally be free. Now, there were more important matters to hold her attention.
The afternoon paper lay on the table.
A picture of Avery Black was on the cover, looking startled that someone had just shoved a camera in her face. The headline read “Murder in Lederman Park: Serial Killer’s Defense Attorney on the Case!” Beside the full-page image was a smaller picture of Howard Randall, the old and withered serial killer from Avery’s nightmares with Coke-bottle glasses and a smiling face. The heading over his photo said: “Trust No One: Attorney Or Police.”
“Have you seen this?” Connelly growled.
He picked up the paper and slapped it back down.
“You’re on the front page! First day on Homicide and you’re front page news—again. Do you realize how unprofessional this is? No, no,” he said at Ramirez’s expression, “don’t even try to speak right now. You both screwed up. I don’t know who you talked to this morning, but you stirred up a shitstorm. How did Harvard get wind of Cindy Jenkins’ death? There’s a memorial for her on Kappa Kappa Gamma’s website.”
“Lucky guess?” Avery said.
“Fuck you, Black! You’re off the case. You hear me!?”
Captain O’Malley eased into the room.
“Wait,” Ramirez complained. “You can’t do that. You don’t know what we’ve got.”
“I don’t care what you’ve got,” Dylan roared. “I’m not finished yet. It just gets better and better. The Mayor called an hour ago. Apparently, he used to play golf with Jenkins’ father, and he wanted to know why a has-been defense attorney—who got a serial killer released from prison—is dealing with the murder of a close friend’s daughter.”
“Calm down,” O�
�Malley said.
Dylan spun around, red-faced and mouth open. At the sight of his captain—who was smaller and quiet but seemed coiled and ready to explode—he eased back.
“For whatever reason,” O’Malley said in an even voice, “this case just blew up. Therefore, I’d like to know what you’ve been doing all day, if that’s OK with you, Dylan?”
Connelly muttered something under his breath and turned away.
The captain nodded to Avery.
“Explain yourself.”
“I never told anyone the victim’s name,” Avery said, “but, I did interview a girl from Kappa Kappa, Cindy Jenkins’ best friend, Rachel Strauss. She must have put two and two together. I’m sorry about that,” she said with a genuinely apologetic look to Dylan. “Small talk isn’t my strong suit. I was looking for answers, and I got them.”
“Tell them,” Ramirez urged.
Avery moved around the conference table.
“We’ve got a serial killer on our hands.”
“Oh come on!” Dylan lamented. “How can she possibly know that? She’s been on the case for a day. We have one dead girl. There’s no way.”
“Will you shut up?” O’Malley yelled.
Dylan bit down on his lower lip.
“This is no ordinary murder,” Avery said. “You told me as much yourself, Captain, and you must have seen it too,” she said to Dylan. “The victim was made to look alive. Our killer worshipped her. No bruises on her body, no forced entry, so we can rule out gangs or domestic violence. Forensics confirmed that she was drugged with a powerful, probably a natural anesthetic the killer might have created himself, flower extracts that would have instantly paralyzed, and slowly killed. Assuming he keeps these plants underground, he’d needs lights, a water system, and food. I made some calls to find out how these seeds are imported, where they’re sold, and how to get my hands on the equipment. He also wanted the victim alive, at least for a little while. I wasn’t sure why, until we caught him on surveillance.”
“What?” O’Malley whispered.
“We got him,” Ramirez said. “Don’t get too excited. The images are grainy and hard to see, but the entire abduction can be seen from two separate cameras. Jenkins left the party a little after two thirty on Sunday morning to go to her boyfriend’s house. He lives about five blocks from the Kappa Kappa Gamma suite. Avery took the same walk she assumed Jenkins took. She noticed an alley. Who knows what possessed her to do it, but on a hunch, she checked a surveillance camera at a nearby smoke shop.”
“You need a warrant for that,” Dylan cut in.
“Only if someone asks for it,” Avery replied. “And sometimes a friendly smile and engaging conversation go a long way. That shop has been vandalized about ten times in the last year,” she went on. “They recently had an outside camera installed. Now, the store is on the opposite side as the alley, and it’s about half a block down, but you can clearly see a girl—and I believed it was Cindy Jenkins—get accosted under some trees.”
“That’s when she called me,” Ramirez took over. “Now, I thought she was crazy. Seriously. I saw the video and I wouldn’t have blinked twice. Black, on the other hand, had me call forensics and bring in the whole team over this shit. As you can imagine, I was pissed. But,” he said with excited eyes, “she was right. There’s another camera at a loading dock in the back of the alley. We asked the company to let us see what was on it. They agreed and boom,” he said and opened his arms wide. “A man comes out of the alley holding our victim. Same dress. Same shoes. He’s slight of frame, shorter than Cindy, and dancing. He was actually holding her and dancing. She was clearly drugged. Feet dangling and everything. At one point, he even looks in the camera. That sick fuck was taunting us. He puts her in the front seat of a minivan and just drove away like it was nothing. The car is a Chrysler, dark blue.”
“License plate?” Dylan asked.
“It’s a fake. I already ran it. Must have had a dummy plate on. I’m compiling a list of all the Chrysler minivans in that color sold in the last five years within a five-county radius. It will take a while, but maybe we can narrow down the list with more information. Also, he had to be wearing a disguise. You could barely see his face. Wore a moustache, possible wig, glasses. All we can gauge is the height—around five-five or five-six—and maybe skin color: white.”
“Where are the tapes?” O’Malley asked.
“Downstairs with Sarah,” Avery responded. “She said it might take a while but she’ll try to get sketch of the killer based on what she sees by tomorrow. Once we have facial recognition, we can compare it to our suspects and put it through the database to see what comes up.”
“Where are Jones and Thompson?” Dylan asked.
“Hopefully, still working,” Avery said. “Thompson is in charge of surveillance at the park. Jones is trying to track that car from the alley.”
“By the time we left,” Ramirez added, “Jones had found at least six different cameras within a ten-block radius from the alley that might be able to help.”
“Even if lose the car,” Avery said, “we can at least narrow down the direction. We know he turned north out of the alley. That, matched with whatever Thompson finds at the park, and we can triangulate an area and go house by house if we have to.”
“What about forensics?” O’Malley asked.
“Nothing in the alley,” Avery said.
“Is that it?”
“We’ve got some suspects, too. Cindy was at a party on the night of her abduction. A guy named George Fine was there. He’s apparently been following Cindy around for years: takes classes she takes, seems to randomly bump into her at events. Kissed Cindy for the first time, danced with her all night.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Not yet,” she said and looked right at Dylan. “I wanted your approval before a potential shakedown at Harvard University.”
“It’s a good thing you have some sense of protocol,” Dylan grumbled.
“There’s also the boyfriend,” she added to O’Malley. “Winston Graves. Cindy was supposed to go to his house that night. Never showed up.”
“So we’ve got two potential suspects, footage of the event, and a car to track down. I’m impressed. What about motive? Have you given that any thought?”
Avery looked away.
The footage she’d seen, as well as the victim’s placement and handling, all pointed to a man that loved his work. He’d done it before, and he’d do it again. Some kind of power trip must have motivated him, because he had little care for the police. The alleyway bow to the camera told her as much. That took courage, or stupidity, and nothing about the body dump or the abduction pointed to a lack in judgment.
“He’s toying with us,” she said. “He likes what he does, and he wants to do it again. I’d say he’s got some kind of plan. This isn’t over yet.”
Dylan snorted and shook his head.
“Ridiculous,” he hissed.
“All right,” O’Malley said. “Avery, you’re clear to talk to your suspects tomorrow. Dylan, contact Harvard and give them the head’s-up. I’ll call the chief tonight and let him know what we’ve got. I can also see about getting you some blanket warrants for cameras. Let’s keep Thompson and Jones on their toes. Dan, I know you’ve been working all day. One more gig and you can call it a night. Get the addresses of those two Harvard boys if you don’t have them already. Roll by on your way home. Make sure they’re tucked in tight. I don’t want anyone bolting.”
“I can do that,” Ramirez said.
“OK.” O’Malley clapped. “Get going. Great job to both of you. You should be proud of yourselves. Avery and Dylan, hang out for a minute.”
Ramirez pointed at Avery.
“Want me to pick you up in the morning? Eight? We’ll head over together?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll keep on Sarah about that sketch. Maybe she’ll have something.”
The sudden eagerness of a partner to help—on h
is own and without prodding—was new for Avery. Everyone else she’d been paired up with since the moment she’d joined the force had wanted to leave her dead in a ditch somewhere.
“Sounds good,” she said.
Once Ramirez had gone, O’Malley made Dylan sit on one side of the conference table and he had Avery sit on the other.
“Listen up you two,” he said in a quiet yet firm voice. “The chief called me today and said he wanted to know what I was thinking, handing this case over to a well-known and disgraced former criminal defense attorney. Avery, I told him you were the right cop for the job and I stand by my decision. Your work today proves I was right. However, it’s almost seven thirty and I’m still here. I’ve got a wife and three kids waiting for me at home and I desperately want to go and see them and forget about this miserable place for a while. Obviously, neither one of you shares my concerns, so maybe you don’t understand what I’m saying.”
She stared back at him, wondering.
“Get along and stop bothering me with your bullshit!” he snapped.
A tense silence blanketed the room.
“Dylan, start acting like a supervisor! Don’t call me with every whiny detail. Learn how to handle your people on your own. And you,” he said to Avery, “you better cut out the wacky humor act and the I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude and start acting like you care for once, because I know you do.” He stared at her for a long time. “Dylan and I have been waiting on you for hours. You want to turn off your radio? Not answer phones? Maybe it helps you think? Good for you. You go right ahead. But when a superior calls, you call them back. The next time this happens, you’re off the case. Understood?”
Avery nodded, feeling humbled.
“Understood,” she said.
“Got it.” Dylan nodded.
“Good,” O’Malley said.
He stood taller and smiled.
“Now, I should have done this sooner but there’s no better time than the present. Avery Black, I’d like you to meet Dylan Connelly, divorced father of two. Wife left him two years ago because he never came home and he drank too much. Now they live in Maine and he never gets to see his kids, so he’s pissed off all the time.”
