Cause to Kill

* * *

In the darkness of the police station, well past midnight, Avery sat hunched over her desk. Pictures lay spread out before her: Cindy Jenkins, Tabitha Mitchell, Lederman Park, the cemetery, and the alleyway and screenshots of the minivan and the killer.

What am I missing?

Photos were meticulously analyzed.

Finley had already taken a few sworn statements. From the early looks of it, Tabitha had been abducted right out in the open, just like Cindy, probably only steps away from the bar she visited every Tuesday night. Only, there was no boyfriend or frequent stalker to question. According to those interviewed, Tabitha had been single for a while. Tabitha was in a sorority – Sigma Kappa – but the connections to Cindy Jenkins ended there. Tabitha was a junior economics major. Cindy was a senior in accounting.

Sororities.

Is that the link?

She made a mental note to check nationwide sorority gatherings.

The movie playing at the Omni was about three women. The gravestone pointed to three women. Does that mean he kills in threes? The movie and the WWII tombstone girls were compared and contrasted for any leads.

She surveyed multiple car routes around Cambridge and Watertown and imagined where the killer might live, and why he might have chosen those routes. The list of dark blue Chryslers was now being supervised by Finley. They already had two thousand listed with owners for cars made and sold in the past five years. What if he bought it six years ago? she thought. Or seven?

Howard Randall continued to invade her thoughts. She even imagined she heard his voice: “You can come to me, Avery. I won’t bite. Ask me your questions. Let me help you. I’ve always wanted to help.”

She banged on her head.

“Go away!”

Still, the image came, and laughed.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

At seven-thirty the next morning, Avery sat in her car a half block down from the home of Constance and Donald Prince.

They lived in Somerville, just northeast of Cambridge, in a small yellow house with white trim on a quiet suburban street. A white picket fence surrounded the property. There were two porches: one on the first floor up, and another on the second level, where chairs and a table had been set for sunlit morning breakfasts.

The scene appeared to be the perfect setting: trees lined the sidewalks, the sun was coming up, and birds chirped in the sky.

Screams were all Avery could remember, the endless screams from the one and only time she had visited the Princes, and tears and plates being thrown against the wall as both of them had desperately tried to drive her away.

Constance and Donald Prince were the parents of Jenna Prince, the last Harvard student killed by Professor Howard Randall, nearly four years ago. The murder had come only weeks after superstar defense attorney Avery Black had done the impossible and gotten Professor Randall off for the murder of two other Harvard students, despite the overwhelming circumstantial evidence stacked against him.

Those brief few days between Avery’s jury win and the killing of Jenna Prince resounded in Avery’s mind. At the jury verdict, the celebration had begun. Nights were spent downing expensive bottles of wine and sharing her bed with numerous, nameless faces. One night in particular, she’d even called her ex to ask if he wanted to get back together again. She never even waited for a response. Avery had just laughed after her question and swore she’d never be with a loser like him again. The shame she felt over that moment continued to burn on her cheeks even now, years later.

Her victory had been short-lived.

She learned the truth from the papers a few days later: “Freed Harvard Killer Strikes Again.” Like his previous victims, the many body parts of Jenna Prince had been carefully reconfigured near Harvard landmarks. But unlike the other murders, this time, Howard Randall had immediately stepped forward. He appeared in Harvard Yard almost as soon as the body was discovered, hands up in surrender and covered in blood. “This is for you, Avery Black,” he had told reporters. “This is for your freedom.”

And her belief that she was a decent, honorable person? That she’d finally done good and freed an innocent man?

Gone.

Everything she believed in was destroyed. Her husband had always known the truth about her faulty overconfidence and ego, but her daughter? It was a shocking revelation. “Was it all about the money?” Rose had wondered. “You set a serial killer free. How many other murderers have you let off so you could wear those shoes?”

Avery glanced at the tan interior of her BMW.

The leather was faded and old. The black dashboard had been removed and updated with her transreceiver, police scanner, and a computer for when she was on stakeouts. The car, bought at the height of her arrogance and fame, now served as a memory of her indulgent past, and a testament to her future.

“You won’t die in vain,” she swore to the memory of Jenna Prince. “I promise.”

The walk to the house felt like forever. The sound of her shoes on the cement, birds, distant cars, and noises all made her more aware of herself, and what she intended to do. “I hate you,” Constance had spit all those years ago. “You’re the devil. You’re worse than the devil.” “Get out of our house!” Donald had cried. “You already killed our daughter. What more do you want? Forgiveness? Who can ever forgive someone as sick and depraved as you?”

Avery walked up the steps.

A phone call would have been inappropriate, even more so than an impromptu visit. They needed to see her face, her desperation. And she needed them.

She rang the doorbell.

A middle-aged female voice cried out: “Who is it?”

Footsteps moved closer.

The door opened.

Constance Prince was white, with an unnatural tan and cropped, bleached-blond hair. Although she rarely left the house except for chores or Mahjong with friends, she had on a mask of heavy make-up: blush, eyeliner, and red lipstick. Wrinkles lined her mouth and eyes. She wore a light sweater and red slacks. Golden bracelets clinked on her wrists. Jewels hung from golden threads on both ears.

A few blinks and she seemed to focus in on Avery. The welcoming air of her posture and appearance quickly faded. A breath was sucked in and she stepped back as if in shock.

Another voice called out.

“Who is it, honey?”

Without a word, Constance tried to shut the door.

“Please,” Avery said. “I just need to ask a favor. I’ll be gone before you know it.”

A sliver of Constance’s face could be seen between the door and frame. Head low, she stood unmoving for a moment.

“Please,” Avery begged. “I need something, but I can’t do it without your approval.”

“What do you want?” Constance whispered.

Avery searched the porch and street before she turned back to the door.

“Have you read the papers?”

“Yes.”

“There’s another killer on the loose. He’s a lot like, the last one,” Avery said without mentioning Howard Randall, “smart and hard to track. Another body was found, today. That makes two so far, but he might work in threes, which means another body isn’t far off. I’m a cop now,” she added. “That life, who I was back then, that’s not who I am now. I’m trying to make amends. I’m trying to be different.”

The door opened.