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

by Blake Pierce

  “She’s not wearing any undergarments,” Ray said.

  Cindy Jenkins wore undergarments: panties and a bra. What does that mean? Avery wondered. Is the killer becoming bolder? Did she just leave the house that way?

  Tabitha’s eyes were open and focused on something in the distance.

  Avery tracked the line of sight to a bunch of white, short tombstones on an opposite, grassy decline.

  “Finley,” she said, and inwardly bristled at his name, “write down whatever you see on those graves over there. Mark them down so I know which one’s first, second, third, got it? Then take a walk around the area. Serial killers usually return to the scene of the crime to get a cheap thrill. Maybe ours is still here.”

  “A serial killer?” He beamed. “Oh wow. You got it, Black,” and he flashed her a can-do attitude and pointed a finger in her face to express seriousness.

  “Is that your partner?” Ray asked.

  “No,” she insisted.

  Once again, he tried to start a conversation.

  “Saw you in the paper a couple of days ago.” He smiled. “And,” he emphasized, slightly embarrassed, “I saw you in a lot of papers a few years ago.”

  His implication wasn’t clear until Avery glanced at him and realized: He’s flirting.

  It was hard for her to do anything in front of a dead body except analyze what happened and try to piece together the puzzle. She wondered if that was some kind of mechanical flaw born from her past guilt and torment, but then she remembered she’d always been that way, even as an attorney: focused, relentless, and eager to find the connections that would lead to success. Now, the only difference was that those connections weren’t just ways to get her clients off—they were ways to stop murderers.

  Ray sensed her discomfort and changed the subject.

  “You think this is your guy?”

  Avery cleared her throat.

  “Absolutely,” she said. “This is his work.”

  “Well then,” he sighed, “I’ll share whatever we have. We don’t get many crime scenes like this in Watertown. And, if you like, we can even have the body sent to your lab and you can take things over from there. You OK with that?”

  “Of course,” she said, genuinely appreciative. “That would be great.”

  “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he added with a smile, “I’m not just a nice guy. Truth be told? I’m a little OCD when it comes to sharing. It makes my skin crawl trying to imagine two sets of paperwork on something this important, and timely.”

  “Still,” she offered, “thank you.”

  He held her look for as long as possible; Avery blushed and turned away, excited by the attention but eager to get back to work. Thankfully, another officer flagged him down.

  “Lieutenant, we have a situation over here.”

  “Be right back,” Ray said.

  The cemetery was peaceful, calming, just like the area where Cindy Jenkins was placed in Lederman Park. Why? Avery wondered. What’s the significance of parks? Mentally, she checked off avenues to pursue: Was Tabitha a sorority girl like Cindy? She’s a junior, and half Asian. So the killer can’t be hunting down seniors, or specifically white girls. Cindy came from an established family. What about Tabitha? They were both abducted from Cambridge. Why? Is that where the killer lives? Where was Tabitha last seen? Who saw her alive? Can we get surveillance? The list seemed endless.

  What do we know? she pushed.

  Nothing, she mentally replied. We know absolutely nothing.

  No, she rallied, we know something: the relative size and shape of the killer, his ethnicity, MO, and the specific drugs he used. Ramirez was compiling a list of hallucinogenic plant suppliers, as well as car dealerships and Internet sites that sold Chrysler blue minivans. We can pursue those leads. We can also share the killer’s sketch with Cambridge police. See if there’s a match. We can also try to track that minivan from Lederman.

  I just need more people, she thought. And not Finley.

  Police sirens blared.

  Cops spun into action.

  “We got a runner! We got a runner!”

  Farther off, on another path visible from her position, a black car, maybe a Mustang, revved up and burned smoke out of the cemetery. Ray was below shouting orders. Two police officers and a photographer around the body perked up and started to head toward the action.

  “No, no,” Avery called and pointed. “You stay here. Someone has to guard the body.”

  Finley, she thought. Where is Finley?

  Her walkie-talkie buzzed to life.

  “Hey, Black,” came Finley’s voice, “we got him! I got him!”

  “Where are you?” she demanded.

  “I’m in a Watertown police cruiser with—hey, what’s your name,” he said to someone. “Shut up, man!” came a different voice. “I’m trying to drive!” “I don’t know,” Finley added, “some cop. We’re the first ones out. Following a black Mustang. Heading northwest out of the cemetery. Hop in that pretty white pony of yours and back us up. We got him!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Avery jumped in her car and stuck a siren on the roof. The red light whirled. Her walkie-talkie, a new model as sleek and small as a cell phone, was thrown aside. Instead, she turned on the car transreceiver and clicked the frequency she’d been assigned to Finley.

  The car started. A backup curve and she hit the pedal and peeled forward out onto Walnut Avenue. The paths in the cemetery were a maze-like jumble. Through distant trees, she caught the tail end of a police cruiser. She abandoned the road and jumped onto the grass. Shit, she thought, I’m going to get into trouble for this. Headstones were avoided. The car turned onto another paved road and she was behind a pack of police vehicles.

  Avery followed the chase out of the cemetery and onto Mt. Auburn Street. She narrowly avoided two cars. A crash resounded behind her. The line of red and blue police lights shifted onto Belmont Street.

  Avery picked up her transreceiver mouthpiece.

  “Finley,” she called, “where are you?”

  “Oh man,” Finley replied, “you guys are way behind. We’re ahead of everybody. This is great. We’re going to catch this son of a bitch.”

  “Where are you?” she demanded.

  “On Belmont, just past Oxford. No wait. He’s turning onto Marlboro Street.”

  Avery checked her speedometer. Sixty-five…seventy. Belmont went in two directions. Her side was a one-lane street with enough room to slip by any slow cars on the right. Thankfully, all the police cruisers had already diverted traffic. She caught up to the last car.

  “Made a left on Unity Avenue now,” Finley called.

  The line of police turned right on Marlboro and then made a quick left.

  “We stopped. We stopped,” Finley cried. “I’m out of the car. Mustang on the lawn of a small brown house, left side. Heading into the house.”

  “Don’t go into the house!” Avery shouted. “Do you hear me? Do not go in!”

  The line went silent.

  “Shit,” she said aloud.

  All the police cars had converged on a single brown two-story house with a short lawn and no trees. The Mustang had nearly smashed into the front staircase. The police cruiser beside it, Avery assumed, had been the one with Finley inside.

  Avery hopped out and pulled the Glock out from her shoulder strap. Other officers had their weapons drawn. No one seemed to know what was happening.

  “Is this our guy?” Henley called out.

  “We don’t know,” another cop answered.

  Yelling came inside.

  Shots were fired.

  “You two!” Henley roared to his men. “Go around back. Make sure no one leaves. Sullivan, Temple, keep your eyes on me.”

  He squat-ran up the stairs and into the house.

  Avery made a move to go after him.

  “Hold up. Hold up,” a cop shouted.

  Finley exited the house with his arms wide in pleasant victory, gun in hand.

>   “That’s right,” he said. “Game over for the serial killer.”

  “Finley, what happened?” Avery shouted.

  “I got him,” he declared, no sense of remorse or social etiquette. “Shot that mother-fucker. He pulled a weapon and I shot him. Saved some cop’s life and shot his white ass. That’s how we do it on the south side,” he declared and threw up a gang symbol Avery immediately recognized as the South Boston D-Street Boys.

  “Slow down,” she said. “How do you know he’s our guy?”

  Finley cocked his neck and opened his eyes wide.

  “Oh yeah,” he declared, “That’s our guy all right. Caught him in the basement. Lot of sick shit down there. You gotta see it to believe it.”

  Henley came out of the house.

  “Sullivan,” he called, “get an ambulance out here, now, and get down in that basement. Dickers was shot. He needs support. Travers,” he said, “I want this place sealed off. No one in. No one out. You hear me? We don’t need anyone else contaminating the scene. Marley! Spade” he yelled to the back. “Get out here.”

  “I need to see what’s in there,” Avery said.

  “Go,” Henley waved, “she’s OK, Travers. Both of them,” he indicated Finley. “No one else.” And to Finley he added: “I’m going to need a statement from you, young man.”

  “No problem,” Finley said. “Heroes tell tales.”

  “Tell me everything, slowly,” Avery snapped.

  Finley—still on an adrenaline rush—was hyped and bouncy.

  “I did what you asked,” he said in his speedy, accented tone, “wrote down those tombstone names. A bunch of girls, maybe eighteen or twenty years old. I don’t know. I’m no good at math. Died in WWII. Then I saw this old guy watching everything from afar. Looked shady, you know? I alerted one of the other cops, because I’m a team player and all, and we went over to have a little chat. We get about halfway toward this guy and he bolts: hard run to the car. Who knew old people could run so fast? Jumps in and peels out. Wait until you see what we found. Solved the case single-handedly,” he said and slapped his chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you some props,” he added. “Who’s lazy now?!” he yelled to the sky.

  All Avery heard was “tombstones…girls…died in WWII…” and she made a mental note to find out everything about those markers and the women they served.

  Gun drawn, Avery moved through the front door.

  The house had an old, musty scent to it, like someone hadn’t lived there in a long time. Carpets were dusty white. A staircase led to the second floor. Through the ceiling, Avery heard footsteps and someone yell, “Clear.”

  “Down this way,” Finley said.

  He led her around the stairs. A kitchen was on the left. To the right was a door that led to the basement. The scent was strong around the door: rotting corpses and scented oils. Oils, Avery thought; maybe this is our guy.

  Creaky steps led to an expansive, dark basement with a stone floor. The smell was so strong Avery nearly retched: dead bodies and decomposition mixed with sweet-smelling fragrances to hide the scent. Air fresheners hung everywhere between the beams and exposed padding of the ceiling. Boxes lined nearly every wall, hundreds and hundreds of boxes. The only empty space held a long table marred with dried blood and cutting implements

  Towards the back was a soiled bed.

  A dead body lay on the bed, practically blue and decomposed from time, legs splayed open and tied to posts, along with the hands. It was a girl, someone young that Avery guessed had died years earlier.

  Strange, sexual devices surrounded the area: bondage chairs; chains from the ceiling, and a swing. One of the boxes in the back was opened. Avery peeked inside and caught a glimpse of a woman’s body parts.

  She held her nose from the stench.

  “Jesus.”

  “What did I tell you?” Finley beamed. “Crazy shit, right?”

  A man lay dead at the foot of the wooden-post bed, 6’2” or 6’3”. He was old and lean, with long gray hair. Maybe sixty, Avery thought. A shotgun was by his hand.

  The downed cop sat against a side wall being aided by his friend. Luckily, he’d worn a vest, but some of the shotgun shells had gone through his neck and face.

  “My wife’s going to fucking kill me,” the cop said.

  “Nah,” the other cop replied, “you’re a hero.”

  The basement was dirty. Dust balls were everywhere. The tools on the desk, the desk itself, even the sex equipment had obviously never received a thorough cleaning. Boxes along the back were soiled and nearly falling over.

  “I need to make a sweep,” Avery said. “Finley. Check the garage. See if you can find our blue minivan, and disguises, plants, needles: anything related to our case.”

  “On it,” he said and bounded up the stairs.

  The rest of the house appeared old and unlived in, with no pets and no plants. It was neat, tidier than the basement, but still caked in dust. No indication of any other perversions could be found on the higher floors. Pictures that lined the walls were quaint copies of artists like Bruegel and Monet. The suspect, it seemed, spent most of his time on the second floor, where Avery found his personal effects and clothing.

  She headed outside.

  The neighborhood had come alive. Police lights still turned. Crowds had gathered around the areas sectioned-off area.

  Finley came panting back.

  “Just an empty garage with a lot of junk lying around,” he said.

  A picture of the killer had already taken shape in Avery’s mind, based off what she’d seen on the surveillance tapes and what she believed from previous experience. She imagined a strong, dainty young man—educated and anti-social, a man that liked art and had a mind for medicinal concoctions. The way he placed his women were like Parish paintings, or works by Alphonse Mucha. Similarly, the drugs he administered were artlike in their own way, drawn from a number of rare, illegal plants and flowers. He was also fastidious about details, and clean, just like the placed bodies with their washed clothing and clean skin.

  This house?

  The man dead in the basement?

  George Fine?

  They were all pieces of the puzzle, but they felt like different puzzles, with their own pieces, and all the pieces were strewn together.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The police department stood on their feet when Avery and Finley appeared from the elevator banks. Finley basked in the attention. He bowed, hooted at his friends, and repeatedly yelled: “I’m the man, right? You see how we do it on the South Side?”

  “Great job.” People clapped.

  “You got him!”

  In a dark place, Avery heard none of it. The office was a shell with no one inside, the sounds: white noise. Images swirled in her mind: George Fine, Winston Graves, and the old dead man in his sick, twisted basement of horrors.

  O’Malley came out of his office to personally shake Avery’s hand.

  “Talk to me,” he said. “How did it go?”

  “Guy’s name is Larry Kapalnapick. Works at Home Depot as a loader,” Avery said. “From the looks of it, all the bodies in the basement were already dead.”

  “Fuckin’ grave digger!” Finley chimed in.

  “He must have been doing it for years,” Avery said. “Watertown police estimated there were body parts from at least twenty different people down there. Best guess is, he digs up a body, plays around for a while, and then cuts it up and stores it in the basement. Henley’s department is having everything shipped to the lab just to make sure.”

  “Son of a bitch,” O’Malley whispered.

  Finley laughed.

  “Motherfucker had Pine Scents hanging all over the basement ceiling.”

  “What about our victim?”

  “We went back to the scene after the chase. Coroner was there and forensics. Randy says it was the same perpetrator as Cindy Jenkins, same MO, and from the smell of it, probably the same anesthetic. She’ll check into that here.”
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  “So, Fine isn’t our guy.”

  “Can’t be,” she said. “He was locked up tight the night before. He’s guilty of something. But not this. As a precaution, I asked Thompson and Jones to check out the cabin in Quincy Bay. Then Jones will continue street surveillance for the minivan, and Thompson has been assigned to dig up everything he can on Winston Graves.”

  “Graves? Jenkins’ boyfriend.”

  “It’s a long shot,” Avery admitted. “In the meantime, Finley takes over on the Tabitha Mitchell case. He can start now with friends and family.”

  “Finley?”

  “He worked his ass off today.”

  To Finley she added: “Remember to think beyond Tabitha Mitchell. We need any connections between her and Cindy Jenkins. Childhood history. College majors. Favorite foods. After-school activities. Friends and family. Anything.”

  With a fire in his eyes, Finley banged on his heart.

  “I’m your pit bull,” he said.

  The captain nodded at her.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Avery imagined the blue minivan heading west from Boston. She believed the killer had to reside in one of the counties that followed: Cambridge, Watertown, or Belmont. The combined populations of those counties totaled almost two hundred thousand. An endless sea of faces.

  “I need to think,” she said.

  * * *

  Avery sited her Glock 27 at a distant target. Orange goggles covered her eyes. Plugs had been stuffed into her ears. She imagined the face of Howard Randall as a placeholder for the new, faceless killer. She fired.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Three shots hit the target almost dead center.

  Thinking had always been her strong suit: time away from a case when she could decompress and process what she knew.

  A blank wall greeted her this time.

  No leads. No connections. Just a wall that kept her away from the truth. Avery had never believed walls. Walls were for other people, other attorneys, other cops that simply didn’t know how to break through those walls and see what others couldn’t.

  What am I missing?

  Pop! Pop! Pop!