Cause to Kill (An Avery Black Mystery—Book 1) (3 page)

The park had already been closed off to the public.

Two plainclothes officers flagged down Ramirez’s car and quickly
waved them away from the main parking lot and over to the left. Among the
officers that were obviously from her department, Avery spotted a number of
state police.

“Why are the troopers here?” she asked.

“Their home base is right up the street.”

Ramirez pulled over and parked next to a line of police cruisers.
Yellow tape had sectioned off a large area of the lot. News vans, reporters,
cameras, and a bunch of other runners and park regulars stood by the tape to
try to see what was happening.

“Nobody beyond this point,” an officer said.

Avery flashed a badge.

“Homicide,” she said. It was the first time she’d actually
acknowledged her new position, and it filled her with pride.

“Where’s Connelly?” Ramirez asked.

An officer pointed toward the trees.

They made their way across the grass, a baseball diamond on their
left. More yellow tape met them before a line of trees. Under thick foliage was
a walking path that wound its way along the Charles River. A single officer,
along with a forensics specialist and a photographer, stood before a bench.

Avery avoided initial contact with those already on the scene.
Over the years, she’d come to find that social interactions strained her focus,
and too many questions and formalities with others sullied her point of view.
Sadly, it was yet another characteristic of hers that had incurred the scorn of
her entire department.

The victim was a young girl placed askew on the bench. She was
obviously dead, but with the exception of her bluish skin tone, her position
and facial expression might have made the average passerby think twice before
they wondered if something was wrong.

Like a lover waiting for her paramour, the girl’s hands were
placed on the bench-back. Her chin rested on her hands. A mischievous smile
curled on her lips. Her body was turned, as if she’d been in a sitting position
and had moved to look for someone or breathe out a heavy sigh. She was clothed
in a yellow summer dress and white flip-flops, lovely auburn hair flowing over
her left shoulder. Her legs were crossed and her toes rested gently on the
path.

Only the victim’s eyes gave away her torment. They emanated the
pain and disbelief.

Avery heard a voice in her mind, the voice of the old man that
haunted her nights and daydreams. In regards to his own victims, he had once
asked her:
What are they? Only vessels, nameless, faceless vessels—so few
among billions—waiting to find their purpose.

Anger rose up in her, anger born at being exposed and humiliated
and most of all, from having her entire life shattered.

She moved closer to the body.

As an attorney, she’d been forced to examine endless forensics
reports and coroner’s photos and anything else related to her case. Her
education had vastly improved as a cop, when she routinely analyzed murder
victims in person, and could make more honest assessments.

The dress, she noticed, had been washed, and the victim’s hair
cleaned. The nails and toenails were freshly polished, and when she took a deep
whiff of skin, she smelled coconut and honey and only the faint hint of
formaldehyde.

“You gonna kiss it or what?” someone said.

Avery was bent over the victim’s body, hands behind her back. On
the bench was a yellow placard labeled “4.” Beside it, on the girl’s lower
waist, was a stiff orange hair, barely perceptible among the yellow of her
dress.

Homicide Supervisor Dylan Connelly stood akimbo and waited for an
answer. He was tough and rugged, with wavy blond hair and penetrating blue
eyes. His chest and arms nearly tore out of his blue shirt. His pants were
brown linen, and thick black boots adorned his feet. Avery had noticed him
often in the office; he wasn’t exactly her type, but he had an animal ferocity
about him that she admired.

“This is a crime scene, Black. Next time, watch where you’re
walking. You’re lucky we already dusted for prints and shoes.”

She looked down, baffled; she had been careful where she had
walked. She looked up at Connelly’s steely eyes and realized he was just
looking for a reason to ride her.

“I didn’t know it was a crime scene,” she said. “Thanks for
filling me in.”

Ramirez snickered.

Connelly bit down and stepped forward.

“You know why people can’t stand you, Black? It’s not just that
you’re an outsider, it’s that
when
you were on the outside, you had no
real respect for cops, and now that you’re on the inside, you have even less
respect. Let me be perfectly clear: I don’t like you, I don’t trust you, and I
sure as hell didn’t want you on my team.”

He turned to Ramirez.

“Fill her in on what we know. I’m going home to take a shower. I
feel sick,” he said. Gloves were removed and thrown to the ground. To Avery, he
added: “I expect a full report by the end of the day. Five o’clock sharp.
Conference room. You hear me? Don’t be late. And make sure you clean this mess
up, too, before you leave. State troopers were kind enough to step aside and
let us work.
You
be kind enough and show them some courtesy.”

Connelly walked away in a huff.

“You have a real way with people,” Ramirez admired.

Avery shrugged.

The forensics specialist on the scene was a shapely young African
American named Randy Johnson. She had large eyes and an easy way about herself.
Short, dreadlocked hair was only partially hidden behind a white cap.

Avery had worked with her before. They’d formed a fast bond during
a domestic violence case. The last time they’d seen each other was over drinks.

Excited to be on another case with Avery, Randy held out a hand,
noticed her own glove, blushed, guffawed, and said, “Oops,” followed by a
wacky,
eek!
expression and the proclamation: “I might be
contaminated
.”

“Good to see you too, Randy.”

“Congrats on Homicide.” Randy bowed. “Moving up in the world.”

“One wacko at a time. What have we got?”

“I’d say someone was in love,” Randy replied. “Cleaned her up
pretty good. Opened her up from the back. Drained her body, filled her up so
she wouldn’t rot, and stitched her up again. Fresh clothes. Manicure. Careful
too. No prints yet. Not much to go on until I get to the lab. Only two wounds I
can find. See the mouth? You can either pin this from the inside, or use gel to
get a corpse to smile like that. From the puncture wound here,” she pointed at
the corner of a lip, “I’d guess injection. There’s another one here,” she noted
on the neck. “By the coloring, this came earlier, maybe at the time of
abduction. Body has been dead for about forty-eight hours. Found a couple of
interesting hairs.”

“How long has she been here?”

“Bikers found her at six,” Ramirez said. “The park is patrolled
every night around midnight and three a.m. They didn’t see anything.”

Avery couldn’t stop staring at the dead girl’s eyes. They seemed
to be looking at something in the distance, yet close to the shoreline, on
their side of the river. She carefully maneuvered to the back of the bench and
tried to follow the line of sight. Downriver, there were a bunch of low brick
buildings; one of them was short; a white dome rested on its on top.

“What building is that?” she asked. “The large one with the dome?”

Ramirez squinted.

“Maybe the Omni Theatre?”

“Can we find out what’s playing?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, just a hunch.”

Avery stood up.

“Do we know who she is?”

“Yeah,” Ramirez replied and checked his notes. “We think her name
is Cindy Jenkins. Harvard senior. Sorority sister. Kappa Kappa Gamma. Went
missing two nights ago. Campus police and Cambridge cops put her picture up
last night. Connelly had his people check through photos. Hers was a match. We
still need confirmation. I’ll call the family.”

“How are we on surveillance?”

“Jones and Thompson are on that now. You know them, right? Great
detectives. They’re assigned to us for the day. After that, we’re on our own
unless we can prove we need the extra resources. No entrance cameras to the
park, but there are some up the highway and across the street. We should know
something this afternoon.”

“Any witnesses?”

“None so far. The bikers are clean. I can troll around.”

Avery surveyed the surrounding area. Yellow tape encompassed a
large swath of the park. Nothing out of the ordinary could be found near the
river or on the bike path or grass. She tried to form a mental picture of
events. He would have driven in through the main road, parked his car close to
the water for easy access to the bench. How did he get the body to the bench
without causing suspicion?

She wondered. People might have been watching. He had to prepare
for that. Maybe he made it look like she was alive? Avery turned back to the
body. It was a definite possibility. The girl was beautiful, even in death,
ethereal almost. He had obviously spent a lot of time and planning to ensure
she looked perfect. Not a gang kill, she realized. Not a scorned lover. This
was different. Avery had seen it before.

Suddenly, she wondered if O’Malley was right. Maybe she
wasn’t
ready.

“Can I borrow your car?” she asked.

Ramirez cocked a brow.

“What about the crime scene?”

She offered a confident shrug.

“You’re a big boy. Figure it out.”

“Where are
you
going?”

“Harvard.”

He sat in an office cubicle—superior, victorious, more powerful
than anyone on the planet. A computer screen was open before him. With a deep
breath, he closed his eyes, and remembered.

He recalled the cavernous basement of his home, more like a garden
nursery. Multiple varieties of poppy flowers lined the main room: red, yellow,
and white. Many other psychedelic plants—each one accrued over countless
years—had been placed in long troughs; some were alien-like weeds or intriguing
flowers; many had a more common appearance that would have been overlooked in
any wildlife setting, despite their potent abilities. A timed watering system,
temperature gauge, and LED lights kept them thriving.

A long hallway made of wooden beams led to other rooms. On the
walls were pictures. Most of the pictures were of animals in various stages of
death, and then “rebirth” as they were stuffed and positioned: a tabby cat on
its hind legs playing with yarn; a white and black spotted dog, rolled over and
waiting for a tummy rub.

Doors came next. He imagined the door on the left opened. There,
he saw her again, her naked body laid out on a silver table. Strong fluorescent
lighting lit the space. In a glass case were many colorful liquids in clear
jars.

He’d felt her skin when he’d rubbed his fingers along the outside
of her thigh. Mentally, he reenacted each delicate procedure: her body drained,
preserved, cleaned, and stuffed. Throughout the rebirth, he took photos that
would later cover more walls saved for his human trophies. Some of the photos
had already been placed.

Tremendous, surreal energy flowed through him.

For years, he had avoided humans. They were scary, more violent
and uncontrollable than animals. He loved animals. Humans, however, he
discovered to be more potent sacrifices for the All Spirit. After the girl’s
death, he’d seen the sky open, and the shadowy image of the Great Creator had
looked at him and said:
More
.

His reverie was broken by a snapping voice.

“You daydreaming again?”

A grumbling worker stood overhead with a scowl on his face. He had
the face and body of a former football player. A sharp blue suit did little to
diminish his ferocity.

Meekly, he lowered his head. His shoulders slightly hunched, and
he transformed into a forgettable, diminutive worker.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Peet.”

“I’m tired of the apologies. Get me those figures.”

Inwardly, the killer smiled like a laughing giant. At work, the
game was almost as exciting as his private life. No one knew how
special
he was, how dedicated and
essential
to the delicate balance of the
universe. None of them would receive an honored place in the realm of the
Overworld. Their everyday, mundane, earthly tasks: dressing up, having
meetings, pushing money around from place to place—were meaningless; it was
only meaningful to him because it connected him to the outside world and
allowed him to do the Lord’s work.

His boss grumbled and walked away.

Eyes still closed, the killer imagined his Overlord: the shadowy,
dark figure that whispered in his dreams and directed his thoughts.

A song of homage formed on his lips, and he sang in a whisper: “Oh
Lord, oh Lord, our work is pure. Ask and I give you: More.”

More
.