South Bay House of Corrections was a tremendous brown complex that spanned over six square blocks in the South End of Boston. The fortress was laid out in the shape of a triangle, with few windows and even fewer ways to enter. Multiple smaller buildings, high walls, and endless gates around the property made its entrance an enigma to the average visitor.
Avery had been to South Bay a few times before, both as an attorney and a cop. Even though it was easy for her to navigate Massachusetts Avenue to the number of side streets that needed to be utilized in order to park on Bradson Street and gain access to the main building, it was always a time-consuming and overly complicated process.
Visitors normally had to give written permission to enter at least a day in advance. If no advanced warning was given, they were usually turned away at the door for security reasons, regardless of their name, position, or excuse. The fact that Avery was a cop meant little to the overseers at South Bay. Prisons were like private islands, states unto themselves where employees were only accountable to their warden and the major.
Avery, however, wasn't a typical visitor.
A pseudo-celebrity at South Bay, she was known by nearly everyone on staff. The trial where she had Howard Randall acquitted of murder had been televised. What had also been televised was his bloody surrender only days later. During both ordeals, her face had been plastered everywhere, and until her disappearance and eventual reemergence in the Boston PD, her name had become synonymous with corrupt lawyers and a legal system in need of a massive overhaul.
At the metal detector, a guard shouted.
"Hey, Ms. Black. Check it out, Joey! Look who's here. Avery Black is back."
"What's up, Ms. Black?"
Avery offered a limp wave.
"Hi, guys."
She placed her items on the table and moved through the scanner.
Another guard bowed.
"To what do we owe this honor, Ms. Black?"
"I'm here to see Howard Randall."
"Oh!" a bunch of guards cooed.
"Wish I was a fly on that wall," someone said. "Careful, Black. Randall got moved to B-Block two months ago. He carved up an inmate pretty-bad. That old man can move!"
After the metal detectors, she was frisked and allowed to move into the visitors' room.
"Name?" said a chubby, dour woman inside a gated office.
"Avery Black. Homicide. Boston PD."
"I don't see you on our list, Black. You'll have to come back another time."
A passing guard made a face.
"Nah, nah," he said, "let her through. Do you know who this is? Avery Black. Got that crazy old geezer Randall off for murder. Most riveting case I ever watched."
"You'll take the heat?"
"Yeah, yeah. Give her a pass. I'll get someone down to Randall. See if he's up for a chat. Sorry, Ms. Black, but if Randall don't want to see you, there's nothing we can do."
"Understood," she said.
The caged waiting room was large and painted green. Buzzers continually resounded beyond the gates, along with slamming doors. Multiple tables and chairs were occupied by visitors waiting for their chance to see loved ones. A Mexican couple was fighting while their three children ran around and tried to talk to others.
What am I doing here? Avery wondered.
"Black! It's your lucky day," the guard called. "Randall said he's been expecting you. No public visiting room, though. He's got to stay caged. The moment he opens his mouth, he gets in trouble. I'll walk you downstairs and set you up outside his cell. More privacy for you too, right? And besides, you were his attorney once. Don't you have lawyer-client privileges?"
The walk down to the basement was everything Avery remembered.
Prisoners cried out and clanked on their cells. "Get me out of here! I'm innocent!" Guards screamed. "Shut or it's in the Box!" Whispers reached her, from passing guards to prisoners alike. "Hey, sweet thing. You want a private?"
The basement level was darker than the rest of the prison, with poor lighting and thick black doors against gray-painted concrete. White numbers were painted on each door. B1…B2…B3. The guard passed by every door and opened another gate.
"We put him in the conference room for you," he said. "You should be more comfortable there. When you're done just yell out."
One unmarked black door among many was opened.
Howard Randall sat at one end of a long metal table in an extremely narrow room. He had a large head with minimal, gray shaved hair on the sides. Thick glasses adorned his wrinkled face. Small eyes peered out at Avery with excitement. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit. Withered hands were clasped on the table and kept in place by handcuffs. Similarly, his feet had been cuffed and latched to the table legs to prevent any real movement.
"Here you go, Howard," the guard said. "See what I do for you? They didn't want to let her down. She didn't call first. But I got her in. That's got to be worth something, right?"
Howard gave him a smile and a thankful nod.
"Of course, Officer Roberts," he said in a soft-spoken, confident voice. "Why don't we talk about payment later?"
The beefy, stubble-faced guard smiled back. "Good deal," he said. "Remember," he reminded Avery, "just holler when you're done. I'll be right outside. Don't carve her up now Howard," he laughed.
The door slammed shut.
The last time Avery had seen him was three years earlier, an uneventful trip she hoped would give her some answers. All Howard had done was talk about how thankful she should have been, for all he'd given her.
He appeared meeker than he had during her last visit. Poor food and no exercise, Avery thought. But his eyes…his eyes shone bright like stars.
"How are you, Howard?"
"How are you, Avery?"
"Always the therapist," she said. "What was that all about?" she asked with a look over her shoulder. "What kind of payment does he expect?"
"Officer Roberts likes to be fondled," he said. "He appreciates older men. I excite him. He'll want some private time later."
"I thought you were asexual?"
Howard offered a shrug.
"It gets lonely in here," he explained. "We do what we do to survive, don't we, Avery?"
She stiffened and squinted in defense.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
A lighter, more carefree air came to Howard. He attempted to open his palms and sit back and relax; the chains held him close to the table.
"Come now, Avery," he said, "why so guarded? You came to me. I'm a simple prisoner. How can I possibly hurt you any longer?"
"I heard you sliced up another inmate to get down here."
"That was different." He nodded in understanding. "My actions were completely warranted given the situation. Please, come. Sit down. Visits are so rare these days. Trust me. I won't bite," he said with a coy, sinister smile that exposed small teeth.
The sickness that Avery had felt toward him came back and hit her full force. She had the urge to wretch. He manipulated me, she thought, lied to me, set out to destroy my life. Why did I come here? Why would I trust him? He can't help me.
As he if he could read her mind, he said, "You came about the case, didn't you?"
"What case?"
"In today's paper, they're calling him the Sorority Killer, if I remember correctly. Two victims, both college students, unusually…placed, yes? Like mannequins."
"What do you know about it?"
"Sit, " he said again.
Reluctantly, Avery pulled the seat away from the table and sat down.
"That's better now, isn't it?" he cooed.
"The guard said you were expecting me."
"Yes," he said.
"How did you know I would come?"
"I didn't know, Avery. I'm not a mind-reader. But I do know things," he whispered and leaned forward. "I know you've recently been promoted to detective, homicide division, and that you're in charge of this case, yes? The papers say as much. And I know you have one great skill, Avery, and that is your tenacity of will. You'll stop at nothing to win. But you're a little out of your league on this one, aren't you? Defending the common man is one thing. Hunting down gang members is another; those people have basic needs and desires, and easy motives to understand. But people like me?" He let the words hang in the air. "We're a very different breed. Our motives, our purpose is often harder to perceive by…lesser mortals."
"Are you calling me a lesser mortal?"
He tipped his head as if to say "yes" without acknowledging the fact.
"I know you're here," he said, "which means you must need something. I'm guessing you want me to help you solve this case. A bold move, Ms. Black. I thought you despised me, and yet here you are, coming to me for aid. We're partners, again."
"We were never been partners."
"We've always been partners," he instantly corrected. "I came to this place for you, Avery, to show you the light, to change you-not your clothes but who you are on the inside. One person, one life, can change the world, and you are proof-my greatest gift to humanity. You're different now. I can see it. The cocky swagger is gone. The pretentious air has been vanquished. You sit before me a humble servant of justice, not wealth or power or greed. I like this new you, Avery. I wholeheartedly approve."
The person he was talking about, the person he seemingly loved, was a shell of the woman Avery felt she'd been, a damaged, struggling shell that had fallen so far she almost never combed her hair or thought about what she might wear from day to day. She was a ghost, a ghost that drove around in her old car and dressed in clothes from her old life but was completely dead except for her strength of will, a will that forced her to seek out justice wherever she could so that one day, she might right the wrongs of her past and be set free.
"I hate who I've become," she said.
"And if you could go back," he wondered, "would you?"
No, Avery thought. She would never go back. That life was over. But this new life…it wasn't yet complete. She was still disgraced, still fighting from the shadows. Memories of her dark, empty apartment returned, of her life without friends or family-a daughter that wanted nothing to do with her. Suddenly, Avery felt herself slipping off a mental ledge, to a place she'd been only once before, a dark place.
"I can never go back," she said.
"So," Howard realized, "the past is gone, but the future is not yet bright. I can help you Avery. I want to help you."
Avery looked up, back in the room again, sitting before Howard Randall and immersed in a case that already seemed cold.
"I need your help," she admitted.
"And I need something from you, Avery."
His small brown eyes opened wide with passionate intensity, and he leaned forward as far as he could go and repeated: "I need something from you."
"What do you need?" she asked.
Randall's entire persona changed. Hands slapped on the table and he leaned forward and practically yelled in her face with intense, rapid-fire words.
"Father," he said, "Grover Black. Alcoholic. Rapist. Beater. Molester. Murderer."
The words, like shots to her heart, launched Avery back to the past and she was there again, with her father and mother in that house in Ohio.
"No," she declared.
"Mother. Layla Black. Alcoholic. Drug addict. Insane!"
Avery had been to therapists, lots of therapists, after the incident with Randall, but it was nothing like this. She'd been guarded then, in control the whole time. Now, Randall had reduced her to a six-year-old child with only a few words and incredible passion.
Tears came, the instinctual tears of a young girl that wanted to save her mother from a gun-toting father that knew no bounds.
"Father! Alcoholic. Shamer. Murderer!"
Desperate, out of her head, Avery stood up and banged on the door.
"Let me out," she called.
Randall closed his mouth. He leaned back and raised a brow.
"Your killer is an artist, yes?" he said. "The bodies are positioned like lovers? He's an introvert, a dreamer. Not someone that would pick girls randomly off the street. He has to find them, watch them, know them from somewhere. Think, Avery. Think…"
The guard opened the door.
Avery rushed out.