Cause to Kill. Blake Pierce

and kind, he’d been charged with murder. Avery’s salvation was supposed to come through his defense. For once, she was supposed to do what she had dreamed about since childhood: defend the innocent and ensure justice prevailed.

      But nothing like that happened.

      CHAPTER THREE

      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