Cause to Kill

“How did you know?”

Thompson handed down another taxidermy statue. It was a smaller, orange-colored cat with black lines and dark eyes. She handed it back.

“Bag some of those hairs,” she said.

“Just this one?”

“Yeah. Forensics found tabby hairs on the first two bodies.”

Police sirens could be heard in the distance. As they moved closer, Avery headed downstairs and walked out the front door.

She should have been ecstatic, or relieved.

Instead, Avery felt empty, unsettled. Puzzle pieces swirled in her mind, unconnected: the killer’s car routes had all headed north and west outside of Boston. He lives northwest of Boston, she thought. It’s a match. That didn’t explain the blue minivan heading even further west outside of Cambridge. A second house, she thought. He must have a second house. That’s where he keeps the minivan. Everything else fit. He grew flowers. Cats lived in the house.

If the tabby cat hairs matched what Randy had found on the bodies, and if some of those plants were psychedelic, Avery knew the case would be closed.

Thompson appeared behind her.

She glanced over her shoulder.

“See what you can find in the office,” she said. “Try not to disturb the body. We need a second house. And we need to find that dark blue minivan. You’re looking for rent bills, a mortgage address, auto insurance forms, anything like that.”

“On it.”

The last words of Villasco were seared into her mind.

I did it for family.

Who are we to judge?

Everyone deserves to exist.

* * *

Avery watched as Somerville and Boston PD cruisers raced down the street with sirens blaring, parked wherever they wanted, and exited their vehicles with guns drawn.

Connelly was among them.

None of the anger he routinely harbored against Avery was visible in his gaze, none of the uncertainty or distrust. Wonder appeared on his face, a sense of disbelief that what he witnessed could possibly be true: that a woman – a disgraced public figure turned cop – had done it again, solved another case and made the rest of the force look like slugs.

“What have we got?” he said.

Somerville police began to surround the house and enter.

The entire scene unfolded like a dream. Avery could barely see Connelly or the others. She was miles away in her own mind. The puzzle wasn’t complete, and yet she had no real facts to base it on except for instinct and Gentry Villasco’s last words. I did it for family. Who are we to judge? Everyone deserves to exist.

Could Gentry have abducted all those women? Avery wondered. He seemed sweet, almost hapless, like he was roped into something he couldn’t control.

“Avery. Are you all right? Talk to me,” Connelly insisted.

“He’s inside,” she said, “Gentry Villasco. Dead. Shot himself. Said something about doing it for family. Thompson is looking for a paper trail that might lead to the minivan or another home.”

“Is this our guy? Avery?”

Everyone deserves to exist.

“I have to make a call,” she said.

Avery walked out into the street and dialed Tim McGonagle. His phone went directly to voicemail. She left a message.

“Mr. McGonagle,” she said, “this is Avery Black. I need to know if Gentry Villasco has any family that might work with you in the office, a cousin or nephew – anyone. This is extremely important. Please call me back as soon as you can.”

The list she’d taken earlier, of all the people that worked under Villasco, was unfolded and scanned. A circle surrounded the name Edwin Pesh.

You can’t just leave a crime scene, she told herself. This is your crime scene. Connelly would never forgive you. O’Malley would never forgive you. You have to follow through. Take statements, complete a more thorough search of the house.

Patience had never been one of Avery’s strong suits. Although her outwardly calm and sarcastic demeanor had – over the years – lulled a lot of people into a false sense of security, inside she was really a machine that refused to stop.

If Villasco is your killer, he’s dead now, she reasoned. There’s nothing more you can do. The house is being watched and searched.

You can’t leave, she mentally cried.

Avery turned back to the house. There was no sign of Thompson or Connelly. A few of the Somerville police talked amongst themselves. Children had begun to creep up to the scene from further down the street, as well as parents in nearby homes.

Go, she thought and made a beeline to her car.

No one stopped her.

The Watertown address of Edwin Pesh was thirty minutes away from the Somerville house of Villasco. Just a short trip, she told herself. If you don’t see anything unusual, you turn around and come back. Say you went for a coffee run, or you were sick.

Avery took her time. She slowed down at stop signs and kept her speed under the limit. There’s no need to rush, she thought.

About halfway into her ride, she imagined Rose, distressed from their lunch and in a miserable mood all weekend long.

You have to make things right with her, she mulled. No matter what happens here she’s your daughter, and not that crying, pooping, and peeing lump anymore. She’s a woman now, a real person, and she needs a mother.

She dialed her number.

Voicemail picked up.

“OK, I’m an idiot,” Avery said. “Rose, this is your mom. God, I don’t even deserve to call myself that, do I? I know I haven’t been there for you. I’ve probably never been there for you the way you needed. I was a terrible mother. That’s true, I know it. But I was young, and stupid, and having a child is hard. That’s not an excuse,” she immediately corrected. “This is all on me. Jack was great, he really was great, especially with you. Give me another chance, Rose. I hate what’s happened to us. Please. One more chance. I promise to make amends for the past. You might not accept me as a mother anymore, but I’d like to at least try to be.”

Voicemail cut her off.

“Shit,” Avery whispered.

She was about to call back when she entered Watertown. The area wasn’t as familiar to her as Cambridge or Boston. At a stoplight, she plugged in the address for Edwin Pesh and watched the red dot blip on her screen.