Cause to Kill

“Really? Could have fooled me.”

“You’re a disgusting human being, you know that, Finley?”

“Nah, nah,” he said, “I’m a good guy. Just my upbringing. It was all messed up. I’ll do better next time. I promise. You’re cool, even if you’re a lesbian. Seriously. I got your back. See you in the morning. I gotta go get fucked up.”

Too hyped up on adrenaline to relax or sleep, Avery headed home to investigate Art for Life in the comfort of her living room. On the way, she ordered takeout Chinese.

The apartment was kept dim. A single lamp was turned on by the couch. She sat at the table in the living room and chowed down on food while she worked.

Art for Life had been in business for over five years. The owner was a man named Wilson Kyle, a former artist and businessman who also owned a restaurant near the studio and two buildings near the area. A quick search on her police database turned up nothing on Kyle.

Two people were employed at his studio: a full-time salesman named John Lang and a part-time female employee who came in on the weekends. Kyle himself taught the art classes on Wednesday and Thursday nights, but Lang taught two classes on alternate Saturdays.

Lang had a record.

A registered sex offender, with two incidents filed from seven years ago. One was from a boy he apparently babysat, and the other was from a girl who had lived on his block. Both sets of parents said their children had been molested. Lang pleaded not guilty but then flipped his plea to avoid a trial and possible jail time. He was given five years probation, mandatory counseling for a year, and a stigma that would remain with him for life.

According to the police files, his height and weight matched the estimates for the killer.

Avery sat back.

It was close to midnight. She was wide awake and ready to bang down the door of John Lang. This could be the guy, she thought.

High from the possibility of catching the killer, Avery wanted to share the good news with someone. Strangely, Ray Henley came to mind, but the thought of an awkward, late-night call with someone she’d only recently met was too daunting to face. Finley was out of the question, and the captain had given specific orders about disturbing him at home.

She thought about calling her daughter.

The last time they’d spoken was months earlier, and it had not gone well.

Avery sent her an email instead. “Hey,” she wrote, “been thinking about you a lot lately. Would love to talk in person. How about lunch this weekend. Maybe Saturday? Our usual place? Noon? Let me know. I love you. Mom.”

Still eager to talk to someone, she dialed the hospital.

The phone rang numerous times before a sleepy voice picked up.

“Hello?”

“Ramirez,” she said, “how you doing?”

“Damn, Black. What time is it?”

“Almost one.”

“This better be good,” he mumbled, “I was in the middle of a great dream. I was in a boat on a clear blue ocean, and this mermaid comes up to me and we start making out.”

“Wow,” she said, but she wasn’t in the mood to listen to him describe his sex dreams.

“I’ve got a good lead,” she went on, “Art for Life. Guy that works there is named John Lang. Has a sheet. Both girls took classes there. Could be our guy.”

“I thought Finley had already solved your case,” Ramirez joked. “He said he took down a genuine serial killer yesterday.”

“Finley wouldn’t know a serial killer from a box of cereal.”

Ramirez laughed.

“He’s crazy, right? Heard about the old man with the dead bodies in his basement. Wild shit. I guess some people. You just never know.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Better, better. I really just want to get the hell out of here and back to work.”

“I know, but you need to rest.”

“Yeah, yeah, and it’s not that bad really,” he said. “I got a private room, nice bed, paid leave, decent food. You’re the one I’m worried about. I mean, Finley? Cap must be out for you.”

“I don’t know, I’m coming around. Take away the bigotry and racism and that foul mouth of his, and he’s actually not that bad. I just wish I could understand him.”

A laugh was instantly cut short.

“Ah man, that hurt,” Ramirez groaned. “Gotta be careful. Stitches are killing me. Yeah, he’s hardcore,” he said. “Irish from the south side. He used to be a D-Boy. Did you know that? They nearly killed him when he switched sides. You see all his tats? He’s got a full body.”

“No. I haven’t seen his full-body tats yet.”

Ramirez snorted.

“Well, look, Avery, thanks for the call. I feel a little tired so I’m going to go. Good luck with this new lead. I’ll be praying for you.”

Avery grabbed a beer and moved out onto the balcony. Fast-moving clouds were scattered across a moonlit sky.

She took a long swig.

I got you, she thought.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Avery took two pills to sleep that night and set the alarm for seven; Art for Life didn’t open until nine, but she wanted to be ready.

At six forty-five she awoke on her own, groggy and eager to start the day. She dressed in her usual attire and just swapped out the colors: brown slacks and a blue button-down shirt. Blue is calming, she thought. I want everyone to be calm today. The walkie-talkie was hitched to the back of her belt. Gun was locked in its holster. Badge was visible near her buckle.

She glanced in the mirror.

According to most people, she still looked like a knockout. However, flaws were all Avery could see: lines that hadn’t been there a few years ago, the weighed worry in her eyes, hair made unhealthy by so many bleachings.

With a pouty face, a dancing twirl, and a pucker of her lips, Avery smiled.

That’s the girl I know, she thought.

Cambridge Street only had light traffic that early in the morning. Avery stopped for coffee and a bagel, and then parked her car on the opposite side of the street from the studio, about two doors down. The wait was the most annoying part of the job, and Avery settled in for the long stretch.

Surprisingly, John Lang appeared in Avery’s rearview mirror at close to eight thirty.

He was lean and tall, not exactly a perfect body match to the killer, but it was her only lead, and there was a connection, and the way he walked reminded her of the killer: with a flair in his steps, all hips and hard feet.

When he reached the office, Lang unlocked the door.

Avery exited her car.

“Excuse me,” she called from across the street. “Can I have a word?”

Lang had an unpleasant face, thinning blond hair, and glasses. A frown wrinkled his brow as he watched Avery for a moment and then headed inside.

“Hey!” Avery yelled. “Police.”

She flashed her badge.

Surprise and worry overcame John Lang. He tentatively peeked out the windows. Across the street, two people with coffee watched Avery jog to the studio. Resigned, Lang took on an imperious air and opened the door.

“The shop is currently closed,” he said.

“I’m not here about art.”

“What can I help you with, Officer?”

“I’d like to talk about Cindy Jenkins and Tabitha Mitchell.”

A befuddled look crossed his face.

“Those names mean nothing to me.”

“Are you sure? Because both of those girls took art classes at this studio, and now they’re both dead. Maybe you’d like to revise that statement? Can I come inside?”

During a long pause, Lang peered into the studio, at his computer, and then again out toward the street.

“Yes,” he said, “but only for a minute. I’m very busy.”

The studio was cool as if an air conditioner had been timed to turn on early. Lang dropped a bag on his desk, sat in a large black swivel chair, and turned to Avery. No seat was offered for her. A couple of cushioned stools were scattered around the space. Avery stood.

“Cindy Jenkins and Tabitha Mitchell,” she said.

“I told you, I don’t know them.”

“They took classes here.”

“A lot of people take classes here. Can I get a time period?”

“Why don’t you look them up on your computer?”

He flushed red.

“Those files are routinely purged,” he said.

“Really? You don’t keep client names and addresses so you can send fliers and emails? I find that hard to believe.”

“We keep the names and addresses,” he said. “But the documents that we use when they first arrive for classes are destroyed, so I wouldn’t be able to give you a time period.”

“You’re lying,” she said.

“Am I being charged with something?” he demanded.

“Have you committed a crime?”

“Absolutely not!”

Avery wasn’t convinced. There was something about the way he said the words, and the drift of his gaze, and the computer he refused to turn on.

“How long have you worked here?” she asked.

“Five years.”

“Who hired you?”

“Wilson Kyle.”

“Does Wilson Kyle know you’re a registered sex offender?”

Shame blushed on Lang’s cheeks, and the beginning of tears. He sat taller in his chair and glared at her with malice.

“Yes,” he said, “he does.”

“Where were you on Saturday night? And on Wednesday night?”

“Home. I watch movies.”

“Can anyone vouch for that?”

On the verge of a breakdown, Lang practically shook from anger.

“How dare you,” he hissed. “What are you trying to do? I’ve made amends for my past. I went to jail and had to seek out professional help and perform community service and have a red flag waved around for the rest of my life: ‘Sex Offender.’ I’m better now,” he swore as his body relaxed and the tears began to fall. “I’m different. All I ask is that you people just leave me alone.”

He was hiding something. Avery could feel it.

“Did you kill Cindy Jenkins and Tabitha Mitchell?”

“No!”

“Show me that computer.”

A scrunched face and a shake of his head told Avery all she needed to know.

“If you won’t log on and let me look at your search history right now, I’ll be back this afternoon with a warrant for your arrest.”

“What’s going on here?” someone roared.

A large, extravagant man stood in the doorway. He had perfectly cut, flowing white hair combed back from his face and a trimmed white goatee. Small, chunky black glasses framed angry green eyes. A crimson summer sweater was twirled over a white T-shirt. He wore jeans and black Crocs.

Lang covered his face and instantly fell apart.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.”

Avery flashed her badge.

“And you would be?”

“Wilson Kyle. I own this establishment.”

“My name is Avery Black. Homicide. Boston PD. I have reason to believe Mr. Lang here might be implicated in two possible homicides.”

He raised his brows in disbelief.

“John Lang?” he said. “You mean him? The man cowering before you? You think he could be responsible for murder?”

“Two girls from two different colleges,” she said and scrutinized every movement of John Lang, “positioned: one in the park and one in a cemetery.”

“I’ve read about this case,” Kyle confirmed.

A large palm went on John’s shoulder.

“John?” he asked with a sensitive tone. “Do you know anything about this?”

“I don’t know anything!” John cried. “Haven’t I been through enough?”

“How exactly have you implicated him in these crimes?”

“Those two girls both came here. He has a record. He has no alibi for the nights of the abductions and he won’t let me see what’s on that computer,” she said.

“Do you have a warrant?”

“No, but I can get one.”

Wilson Kyle lowered down with his immense presence and, with incredible patience and empathy, he tried to get John to hold his gaze.

“John,” he said, “it’s all right. The police are trying to solve a crime. What’s on the computer that you don’t want her to see? You can be honest with me.”

“I had to look!” he sobbed.

“It’s all right, John,” he said and leaned forward to whisper, “I won’t judge you.”

He rubbed John’s back, helped him up, and logged onto the computer.

“Password?” he asked.

John sniffled and rubbed his nose. A shake of his head and a soft, barely perceptible reply was whispered.

Wilson Kyle typed in his password.

“There you are, Officer Black,” he said. “Look and see. Come, John,” he added. “Let’s wait over here. It’s going to be all right. I promise. The officer just wants to confirm you’re not involved in a mass murder. You’re no murderer, are you, my boy? No, of course not, John. Of course not.”

Avery sat at the desk.

A quick search of the history revealed nothing. Art sites. Scrabble Word help and multiple artists and their works. She went through each day. On Tuesday, early in the morning, she saw a slew of pornography sites.

She looked up.

John was seated in a chair, his head down, hands in his face. Wilson Kyle stood behind him and glared at Avery like a great lord being forced to watch something unthinkable, and that fact made him angrier and angrier.

Back to the computer, Avery clicked on a few of the links. Young children appeared, naked or half naked. Ages ranged from six to twelve. Utterly disgusted by what she saw, Avery clicked on other sites to try to make some rational argument as to why she should ignore what she found. Based on his proclivity for little children, it was hard for her to imagine him as the killer.

“Do you know where he was on Saturday night?” she asked.

“I do,” Wilson said. “John was home watching a movie called Night of the Hunter. I know this because I recommended the movie, and he called me afterwards, I believe around ten o’clock, to express his feelings. I was unavailable, but I’m sure you can find that call if you check his phone records.”

“Can you account for your actions this past week?” she asked Wilson.

Wilson laughed.

“Do you know who I am, Officer Black? No, of course not. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not famous in any way, or especially well connected, but I have a deep interest in my community, and if I’m not out with friends, I’m usually feeding the homeless or at a charity auction somewhere in town. So, to answer your question: Yes. I can account for my actions all month, but I’m afraid I’ll require a warrant before this can go any further.”

You were wrong, Avery thought. This isn’t your guy. She could see right through these people. John was sick, and Wilson was a pompous, self-righteous prick. But they weren’t serial killers. They were too weak, both of them.

She sighed. She was wasting her time here.

She’d been in this place before – alone, no leads, out on a limb and bending the rules of her profession – but this time it felt personal. This time, it was about a serial killer. The last time Avery had dealt with a serial killer, she freed him and he killed again. Now it was as if that old case had been reborn again with this new killer, and if she could stop him somehow, she could free herself.

“I’ll be in touch,” Avery said and made her way out.

“Ms. Black,” Wilson called.

“Yes?”

“I’ll deal with the pornography you just found, have no doubt. I’m curious, though. Do you know why John might have searched for those images? And do you know why he molested those children so long ago? Let me tell you so that you can get some perspective, and maybe you won’t walk into another house or office space later on, half-cocked and full of prejudice and insinuation. You see, John here was raped repeatedly by his father and his mother as a child.”

John sobbed softly in his hands.

Wilson held onto John’s shoulders like a protective angel.

“I’m assuming you don’t know what happens to children that are molested, Ms. Black. They learn that such behavior is normal, and expected. And as they get older, they become aroused by small children because that’s what they were trained to do – become aroused. It’s a sick, frightening cycle that is almost impossible to break, but John here has been trying very hard. Very hard indeed. This simple lapse,” he said and pointed to the computer, “shouldn’t erase how hard he’s worked to reconstruct his past. If you knew anything at all about human nature, you might understand that.”

“Thanks for the lesson,” Avery said.

“And one more thing,” Wilson added and walked toward her with his face red from withheld anger. “You had no right to come into this studio and interrogate anyone without proper authorization. The second you leave here, I’ll be on the phone with your commanding officer, and anyone else I have to contact, and I’m going to recommend you be fired, or at the very least, suspended for your blatant disregard of the laws and some common human decency.”

* * *

Avery was in a haze when she walked out of the studio.

Positive she’d found her killer only a few hours before, now she was almost certain John Lang was a dead end, and that she would face a lot of fury should Wilson Kyle call the office.

Embarrassed at her actions, she hopped into her car and drove.

The words of Howard Randall echoed in her mind: Your killer is an artist…not someone that would pick girls randomly off the street…

I followed your lead, she argued. I found a connection.

Randall’s last words turned into a whisper.

He has to find them from somewhere…

Where? she fought. Where does he find them? There has to be another connection, something I missed.

There has to be something else, something I’m missing, another link.

The office was her de facto destination, but something kept telling her that any answers wouldn’t come from the office. They would come from leads. She decided to assist Jones on the surveillance routes out of Cambridge. Thompson had already followed up on Graves. The cocky senior’s alibi was solid: three friends confirmed his location on Saturday night.

She stopped off for another cup of coffee and some breakfast.

Her phone rang.

“Black,” she said.

The voice on the other line sounded grim and unsatisfied.

“It’s Connelly.”

A shutter of worry passed through Avery. Did Wilson Kyle already call? Did we finally get a break on the case?

“What’s up?” she said.

“You’ve having a real party out there, aren’t you?” Connelly whispered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“This is getting out of control, Black. We look like a bunch of fucking idiots. The cap is pissed. And so am I, I knew you were all wrong for the job.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked. “Did you just call to harass me?”

“You don’t know?” he asked.

After a moment of silence, Connelly spoke again.

“Just got word from Belmont Police. They found a body over at the Children’s Playground in Stony Brook Park. Sounds like our guy.”

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Avery parked her car on the eastern edge of Stony Brook Park and walked down Mill Street to the entrance.

The Stony Brook Children’s Playground was an expansive water park for children, combined with three separate playgrounds and a huge wooden fort, all nestled within a circle of trees and behind a fence near a gated community.

A number of Belmont police cruisers, along with news vans and reporters and crowds, surrounded the area by the gate.

“There she is!” someone shouted.

Before Avery could even think, a number of reporters made their way toward her. In her previous life, when she’d been fired from her law firm, Avery had assumed the cameras and lights and microphones would eventually fade away. Unfortunately, that had never been the case. She could always find herself as the butt of jokes in one paper or another on slow news days.

A small reporter with bobbed black hair shoved a mic in her face.

“Ms. Black,” she said, “are you in a relationship with Howard Randall?”

“What?” Avery demanded.

Someone else extended a mic.

“You went to visit him yesterday. What did you two talk about?”

“Where are you getting this information?” Avery asked.

A paper was held out in front of her, and as Avery scanned the front page and turned to the news article inside, cameras were rolling, and everyone waited for a response.

The headline read “Two girls dead and no leads.” The picture was from the cemetery. A sub-headline on the bottom said: “A Cop and A Killer: Romance Blooms.” Avery saw herself sobbing inside her car, right beyond the prison walls.

The guards, she realized. They took pictures.

The actual news article was on the third page: “Who Runs The Boston PD?” Words like “incompetent,” “mishandling,” and “negligence” practically jumped off the page. One line: “Why would Boston PD allow a former attorney with questionable ethics to handle another possible serial killer case?”

Sick to her stomach, Avery handed the paper back.

“Can you give us a comment?” someone asked.

Avery pushed ahead in silence.

“Officer Black!? Officer Black!?”

A woman that couldn’t have been more than ninety pounds found her way to Avery and punched her in the chest.

“You fucking piece of shit!” she cried. “My tax money pays for you? No way! I’m going to have you fired – you murdering son of a bitch.”

The crowd moved in.

“Why are you on this case?” someone else shouted.

“Don’t let her near kids!”

At the gate, Avery flashed her badge and an officer pushed her through.

“Who’s in charge here?” she said.

“Right over there,” the cop pointed. “Talbot Diggins. Lieutenant Diggins.”

Normally, the abuse was easy for Avery to ignore, but today, after her dismal interrogation of John Lang and another dead body, and no leads, and the paper, and everything else, it took all of her energy just to stand tall and walk forward.

Even separated from the mob beyond the gate, she could hear people voicing their outrage as reporters pushed cameras through the bars.

Cops around the area turned and watched Avery pass. Some muttered under their breath. Others just looked at her with scorn.

When will it end? she wondered.

Talbot Diggins was an extremely large black man with a shaved head. He wore sunglasses and was sweating hard in the early morning heat. He was dressed in a slick gray suit and a T-shirt underneath, and the only items that gave him away as a cop were the badge around his neck and gun peeking out from the back of his jacket.

He noticed her and pointed.

“You Black?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Follow me.”

The actual park was ignored. Behind the wide pool that normally sprayed water in countless directions, they passed a playground for toddlers and headed directly toward a wooden castle, complete with bridges, a moat, and a wooden city.

Lights from a police photographer flashed inside the wooden structure.

“Kid found her this morning,” Talbot said. “Ten-year-old girl. Said she was trying to play with her but the body wouldn’t move. So she touched her. Cold as ice.”

The wooden structure had an opening at its front that served as a castle entrance.

A dead girl sat in the entrance, positioned as if she’d simply taken a break from play. She was eighteen or nineteen, Avery guessed. Blond hair. Dressed in a tight-fitting shirt and skirt. A whimsical, humorous expression lined her face. Hands were up and had been bound to a bar over her head with very fine fiber, like fishing line. The eyes themselves, like the others Avery had seen, appeared drugged and tortured.

“Do you know who she is?” Avery asked.

“Not yet.”

A quick look and Avery could tell the victim wore all her undergarments. Maybe that last girl was a fluke? she wondered

Like the other girls, this one appeared to be looking at something. Avery tracked the line of sight to the toddler playground. Immediately, she knew what the victim had been meant to see: a painted mural of children that lined one of the plastic borders. The children were boys and girls, multicultured, and there were a lot of them, all holding hands.

Talbot eyed her suspiciously.

“Is it true?” he asked.

“Is what true?”

“You and Randall. Papers say you two are an item. Is it true?”

“That’s disgusting,” she said.

“Maybe,” he offered. “But is it true?”

“None of your business,” she said.

“Man, you really screwing up my day, you know that? First, I have to deal with some serial killer fallout because you can’t do your job, and now you won’t even answer a simple question. Come on, we’ve got a big office pool riding on this.”