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Cause to Kill
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Avery sat hunched over the wheel of her car, still in the prison parking lot, destroyed, a mess, a husk, tears streaming down her face. Horrible sobs broke free from her throat. At one point, she jerked up and screamed and slammed the wheel.
Words.
Every time she heard one of his words, she cried harder.
Molester. Alcoholic. Murderer.
“No, no, no.”
She banged her head to get the images out: her father in the woods, gun in hand. The body behind him. Varicose veins. Gray hair. That green dress.
“Get out, get, out, get out,” Avery begged.
She’d almost forgotten until then. So many years had been spent trying to forget the past, to get out of Ohio and wipe away her terrible history. In only a few words, Howard Randall had brought it all back.
You’re just like them, she cried in misery.
Murderer.
Alcoholic.
Just like them…just like them.
No! She mentally rallied. You’re nothing like them! You’re no murderer or drug addict. You’re not sick in the head. You do your best every day. Mistakes? Sure, but you try your hardest, all the time.
Get him out of my head.
Get him out of my head.
Fists rubbed away her tears.
Sobs were stifled.
Pull yourself together, she commanded.
Tears came again, only this time, they were softer, gentler – not about her old, painful past, but her new life, her lonely, tormented existence.
She hit the wheel.
“Pull it together!”
A detailed clarity came to her in that moment. Everything felt sharp and focused: the border of the windshield, her arm, the cars parked around her, the sky. Not exactly herself but fully in control, Avery picked up her phone to call Finley.
“Yo, yo,” he answered.
“Finley,” she said, “where are you?”
“I’m in the office working my ass off. Where the hell are you? I should get a raise for this, you know? Aren’t I supposed to get the day off for finding a psycho? I just had one of the greatest chases of my life and now I’m stuck in an office. I should be out there having a beer.”
His entire monologue had come out like a single word.
Avery rubbed her eyes.
“Finley, slow down. What have you found so far?”
“Why are people always telling me to slow down?” he complained as if he were truly upset. “I talk just fine. Everyone in my crew understands me perfectly. Maybe other people are the problem, ever think about that? My mother used to say.”
“Finley! The update.”
“The body is with the coroner,” he said, calmer and slower. “Crime scene wrapped up. They found some fibers but it looks like they’re the same ones from Jenkins: cat hair, a few dabs of plant extract on her clothes. Last few hours I’ve been looking for connections, like you asked. Different majors: economics and accounting. One a junior, one a senior. Different sororities, no family connections at all. Blah, blah, blah. Talked to Ramirez. He said Cindy’s parents mentioned an art class she took in Cambridge last semester. Place called Art for Life. Located on Cambridge Street and Seventh. Called Tabitha’s friends for a connection. Waiting to hear back.”
Artist, Avery thought. He said our killer is an artist.
“Who teaches there?” she asked. “Who owns the studio?”
“How the fuck should I know?” Do I have a thousand hands, now?” he barked. “You gave me like, a hundred jobs. I have no idea who teaches that fuckin’ class. I told you, I’m waiting to hear back.”
She closed her eyes.
“OK,” she said. “Thanks.”
“You coming back to help me out or what?” Finley complained.
“I need to tie up some loose ends,” she said. “You have Cindy’s address? And Tabitha’s? I want to swing by their dorms and see what I can find.”
“I was already at Tabitha’s dorm. Just some chick room. Fancy clothing and stupid posters. Nothing there.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
* * *
Cindy had lived in a house not far from the Kappa Kappa Gamma suite, or from her boyfriend. The two-story white Tudor with blue trim housed two people. Cindy rented out the first floor; the second floor was inhabited by another Harvard senior.
Avery called ahead to ensure Harvard officials would let her inside.
A spare set of keys was under a rock by the front porch.
Cindy’s apartment smelled like stale air. There were four main rooms: living room, bedroom, a spare room she’d converted into an office, and the kitchen. A few pieces of modern art adorned the walls.
The office was filled with a slew of library-issued texts, along with a number of paperback romances. Papers were stacked on the desk.
Avery checked through the files. Medical bills, class folders, job interview letters, resumes. Everything was neat and orderly. Avery took notes on her phone: Cindy’s medical provider, every teacher she’d had, the places she’d interviewed, and her current employer: Devante Accounting Firm. The letter of her acceptance as a junior accountant in their firm was proudly displayed on the desk.
No mention of the art class could be found, but there was a framed, hand-painted picture on the wall that had Cindy’s signature at the bottom. The image was a bowl of fruit. Avery turned the picture over. On the back was a stamp: Art for Life, their address, and the logo of a hand depicted as a paint palette. Avery put everything back the way she found it, headed outside, and hopped in her car.
MIT was called ahead to ensure they would allow her into Tabitha’s room. The dean’s assistant said he would take care of everything.
As soon as she hung up, Avery’s phone rang.
“It’s Jones,” came a Jamaican voice.
“Tell me something,” Avery said.
“Nothing out here, man. The cabin is empty.”
“What the hell have you been doing all day?”
“Research, man,” Jones complained, “investigating. Took a while to get up here. Had to get the keys, right? Then Thompson wanted to drive and he has absolutely no sense of direction. GPS got us all screwy. But,” he admitted with another swig of his beer, “we got here and turned the place over. Nothing. You sure the kid stayed here?”
“You wasted a whole day,” Avery said.
“You’re not listening, Black! We been working hard.”
“Two girls are dead,” Avery said. “Or maybe you forgot that? We’ve got a serial killer on the loose and you’re jerking around in a lakeside cabin. Get back on Cambridge surveillance. And this time,” she snapped, “I want a detailed report on my desk by tomorrow afternoon. I want to know exactly how you spent every hour. You hear me?”
“Aw, come on! Black. I’m begging you,” Jones cried. “That job is crazy. Ain’t no way to track a car for miles and miles like that. It’s impossible. I need like, ten other people.”
“Take Thompson.”
“Thompson?” Jones laughed. “He’s worse than Finley.”
“Remember,” Avery emphasized. “A detailed report on my desk tomorrow afternoon. Make sure Thompson understands. Screw this up and I call Connelly.”
She hung up.
How am I supposed to do anything in Homicide if half my team won’t even respect my authority? she fumed.
By the time she reached her next destination, the sky was dark.
Tabitha had lived in the heart of the MIT, just off Vassar Street. Her roommate answered the door; she was a small, mousy girl with long black hair, glasses, and a face covered in pimples. The room was large: a main living area, open kitchen, and two bedrooms.
“Hi,” the girl said, “you must be Avery.”
“Yeah, thanks for letting me in.”
“That’s her room, there,” she pointed.
The girl appeared dour and miserable.
“Were you two friends?” Avery wondered.
“Not really,” she said and walked away. “Tabitha was popular.”
Tabitha’s room was extremely cluttered.
The filing cabinet was more of a place to cram loose papers. A quick search uncovered everything from receipts to a resume and a smelly sandwich wrapper. The most revealing item was the number of pictures that lined the walls, all seemingly done by Tabitha herself: farm scenes, the MIT skyline, a bowl of fruit.
Avery looked at the back of one of the framed paintings.
A stamp read: Art for Life.
CHAPTER TENTY
Molly Green was having a rough night. She puffed a lock of blond hair out of her face, wiped her brow, and pretended to roll up her sleeves.
“Luke and Gidget!” she cried. “I’ve had just about enough of this!”
The house where she worked as a part-time nanny appeared large and empty. She stood in the oversized living room on the first floor and searched behind couches. Face against the sliding glass doors that led to the back porch, she cupped her eyes from the interior light and thought: They better not be out there.
No one was in the kitchen, closets, or downstairs bathroom.
A small side guest room was equally vacant.
“I’m serious,” she called, “it’s way past your bedtime.”
She stomped up the stairs in high heels, a black leather skirt, and the skimpy tank top she planned to wear to the party later that night.
“You better be in bed!”
Sure enough, both Luke and Gidget were hidden under the covers and giggling like mad because they’d once again outsmarted her.
The kids shared the single room and each had their own bed. A stark contrast could be seen between Gidget’s side of the room and Luke’s. Hers had actually been painted pink; it was neat and orderly, with toys in their proper place and clothes in their drawers. Luke’s side of the room was painted dark blue. All of his toys were on the floor, clothing thrown everywhere, and the walls were smudged with dirt and markers.
“Now I see how it is,” Molly said. “Make me run all over the house and then pretend you were asleep all this time. Nice try.”
The covers were thrown off and both of them vied for her attention.
“Read me a book, Molly.”
“Don’t turn off the hall light,” Luke said.
“Your parents will kill me if they find you up when they get back. You have to go to bed. No more books. I’ll leave the hall light on. You hear me? I find either of you roaming the halls again or trying to scare me downstairs, I become a squealer. And you know what that means.”
“No, no,” Gidget cried.
“Don’t tell Dad,” Luke pleaded.
“All right then. Bedtime. Good night.”
Once again, she shut the door, leaving it open about a quarter of an inch so they could see the hall light.
Back downstairs she thought: Ugh…Kids.
A quick look in the living room mirror confirmed that she still looked amazing– green eye shadow in place, lashes long, lipstick perfect, blue eyes sparkling.
You look hot, she thought with a squeal.
About twenty minutes later, as Molly was watching a taped edition of The John Oliver Show, Mr. and Ms. Hachette silently opened the front door.
Pleasantries were given all around.
Molly updated them on her night. “Dinner was great. Books were read. I gave them both baths. We ran around for a while and they went to bed. Nothing special.”
As always, the Hachettes asked if she wanted to say any longer, eat something, or just crash in the guest room. Molly declined.
All she could think about was the party, a huge Brandeis bash given by one of the biggest fraternities on campus. Three boys that she’d been seeing would all be there, but none of them were actually considered boyfriend material. Tonight, she was hoping to find someone new.
She grabbed her bag and skipped out the door.
Let the games begin, she thought, smiling.
* * *
He had been waiting outside for a while, hidden in the shadows of his minivan interior. For the last hour, he’d been there, watching and preparing for the right moment. He’d silently watched as Molly had searched the house for the kids and found them in bed. He’d seen the Hachettes enter the house.
He was parked on a very quiet street in a tree-lined neighborhood just northeast of Brandeis University, only a few minutes’ drive to the college and about a twenty-minute walk. Molly, he knew, would choose to walk. She would hop down the stairs, make a left onto Cabot Street, and then a right onto Andrea Road. After that, she usually altered her route based on where she needed to be on campus.
As he suspected, Molly skipped down the house steps and turned left.
He silently exited his minivan and moved to the back, where he pretended to be unloading something from the trunk space. He loudly shut the trunk, sighed, and stepped onto the street. Molly was headed directly toward him. He took off his cap and looked up.
Immersed in her own thoughts, Molly nearly bumped right into him. “Oh, sorry,” she mumbled.
“That’s fine,” he replied.
“Hey!” She suddenly brightened. “I know you. How are you?”
“I’m all right.” He smiled. “Having a bit of car trouble here. Wait a minute.” He frowned and rubbed his chin. “I thought you lived somewhere on the Brandeis campus?”
“Yeah, I do,” she acknowledged, “I just work here. See that house,” and she turned to point it out, “I nanny for their kids during the week. But don’t worry, I…”
The moment she swiveled, he quickly punctured her with his needle.
“Hey! Ow! What the…”
Molly began to fall. He slid behind her to catch.
“Are you all right?” He pretended to panic. “Molly?” He tapped her cheeks in mock concern. “Molly, are you OK?” He scanned the area.
The streets were dark and empty.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered, “I’ll take care of you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Large glass windows buttressed both sides of the glass door of Art for Life Studios. Avery could see a narrow, packed gallery space inside with all kinds of modern art: sculptures, paintings, drawings, and retro collages. Further back, the room opened up into a much larger area, with a circle of easels for what she assumed was the art class meeting area.
Her phone rang.
“Black,” she answered.
“Who’s your boy?” Finley said. “I just got a call back from one of Tabitha’s friends. The victim definitely took an art class at that studio.”
“I already figured it out. Didn’t you notice all the art when you were in her dorm?”
“What art?”
“In her room.”
“That wasn’t art.” Finley blanched. “That was garbage. I thought she bought it at a yard sale. Look, Black, don’t bust my balls. I just got you a good lead.”
“I’m here now,” she said. “The studio is closed.”
“I’m at a bar,” he replied. “My shift ended two hours ago. I’d invite you down here, but I don’t think they let lesbians in this place.”
“I’m not a lesbian,” she said.
“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.”
