"The killer is male, and strong," Avery went on. "He obviously overwhelmed the victim and had to carry her to the dock. Seems like a personal vendetta."
"How do you know that?" Holt asked.
"Why go through so much trouble with a random victim? Nothing appears to be stolen so it's not a robbery. He was precise about everything except that rug. If you spend so much time planning a murder, undressing the victim and putting her clothes in a hamper, why take any of her items? Seems like a planned gesture. He wanted to take something. Maybe to show he was powerful? That he could? I don't know. And leaving her on a boat? Naked and in full view of the harbor? This guy wants to be seen. He wants everyone to know he made this kill. You might have another serial killer on your hands. Whatever decision you're going to make about who handles this case," and she glanced at O'Malley, "you might want to make it quick."
O'Malley turned to Holt.
"Will?"
"You know how I feel about this," Holt sneered.
"But you'll go with the call?"
"It's a mistake."
"But?"
"Whatever the mayor wants."
O'Malley turned to Avery.
"Are you up for this?" he asked. "Be honest with me. You just came off a very high-profile serial murder. The press crucified you every step of the way. Once again, all eyes will be on you, but this time, the mayor is paying special attention. He asked for you specifically."
Avery's heart beat faster. Making a difference as a police officer was what she truly loved about her job, but catching serial killers and avenging the dead was what she craved.
"We have a lot of other open cases," she said. "And a trial."
"I can give everything to Thompson and Jones. You can oversee their work. If you take this on, this is priority number one."
Avery turned to Ramirez.
"You in?"
"I'm in." He nodded in earnest.
"We'll do it," she said.
"Good." O'Malley sighed. "You're on the case. Captain Holt and his men will deal with the body and the apartment. You'll have full access to the files and their full cooperation throughout this investigation. Will, who should they go to if they need information?"
"Detective Simms," he said.
"Simms is the lead detective you saw this morning," O'Malley relayed, "blond hair, dark eyes, tough all over. The boat and apartment are all being handled by the A7. Simms will contact you directly with any leads on this end. Maybe you should talk with the family for now. See what you can uncover. If you're right, and this is personal, they may be involved or have some information that can help."
"We're on it," Avery said.
*
A quick call to Detective Simms and Avery learned that the victim's parents lived just a bit further north, outside of Boston in the town of Chelsea.
Breaking the news to families was Avery's second-most loathed part of the job. Although she had a way with people, there was a moment, right after they learned about a death of a loved one, that complex emotions took hold. Psychiatrists called it the five stages of grieving, but Avery thought of it as slow torture. First, there was denial. Friends and relatives wanted to know everything about the body-information that would only make them grieve more, and no matter how much Avery offered, it was always impossible for the loved ones to imagine. Second came anger: at the police, at the world, at everyone. Bargaining came next. "Are you sure they're dead? Maybe they're still alive." These stages could happen all at once, or they could take years, or both. The last two stages usually happened when Avery was somewhere else: depression and acceptance.
"I have to say," Ramirez mused, "I don't like finding dead bodies, but this does free us up to work on this case. No more trial and no more paperwork. Feels good, right? We get to do what we want to do and not have to be bogged down in red tape."
He leaned over to kiss her cheek.
Avery pulled away.
"Not now," she said.
"No problem," he replied with his hands up. "I just thought, you know…that we were a thing now."
"Look," she said and had to really think about her next words. "I like you. I really do, but this is all happening too fast."
"Too fast?" he complained. "We've only kissed once in two months!"
"That's not what I mean," she said. "Sorry. What I'm trying to say is, I don't know if I'm ready for a full-blown relationship. We're partners. We see each other every week. I love all the flirtation and seeing you in the morning. I just don't know if I'm ready to move further."
"Whoa," he said.
"Dan-"
"No, no." He raised a hand. "It's OK. Really. I think I expected that."
"I'm not saying I want this to end," Avery reassured him.
"What is this?" he asked. "I mean, I don't even know! When we're working, you're all business, and when I try to see you after work, it's almost impossible. You were more loving towards me when you were in the hospital than in real life."
"That's not true," she said, but a part of her realized he was right.
"I like you, Avery," he said. "I like you a lot. If you need time, I'm OK with that. I just want to make sure you actually have some feelings for me. Because if you don't, I don't want to waste your time, or mine."
"I do," she said and glanced at him for a quick second. "Really."
"OK," he said. "Cool."
Avery kept driving, focusing on the road and on the changing neighborhood, forcing herself to snap back into work mode.
Henrietta Venemeer's parents lived in an apartment complex just past the cemetery on Central Avenue. From Detective Simms, Avery had learned they were both retired and would most likely be found at home. She hadn't called in advance. A hard lesson she'd learned early on was that a warning call could alert a possible killer.
At the building, Avery parked and they both walked up to the front door.
Ramirez rang the buzzer.
A long pause ensued before an elderly female answered.
"Yes? Who is it?"
"Mrs. Venemeer, this is Detective Ramirez with the A1 police division. I'm here with my partner, Detective Black. Can we please come up and speak with you?"
"Who?"
Avery leaned forward.
"Police," she snapped. "Please unlock the front door."
The door buzzed open.
Avery smiled at Ramirez.
"That's how you do it," she said.
"You never cease to amaze me, Detective Black."
The Venemeers lived on the fifth floor. By the time Avery and Ramirez exited the elevator, they could see an elderly woman peeking out from behind a locked door.
Avery took lead.
"Hi, Mrs. Venemeer," she said in her softest and clearest voice. "I'm Detective Black and this is my partner, Detective Ramirez." They both flashed their badges. "Can we come in?"
Mrs. Venemeer had a tangle of wiry hair just like her daughter, only hers was white. She wore thick black glasses and had on a white nightgown.
"What's this all about?" she worried.
"I think this would be easier if we could talk inside," Avery said.
"All right," she mumbled and let them in.
The entire apartment smelled like mothballs and old age. Ramirez made a face and jokingly waved at his nose the moment they entered. Avery hit him in the arm.
A television blared from the living room. On the couch was a large man that Avery assumed was Mr. Venemeer. He was dressed only in red boxers and a T-shirt that he probably wore to bed, and he seemed to have no awareness of them at all.
Oddly, Mrs. Venemeer sat down on the couch beside her husband, without any indication of where Avery or Ramirez might sit.
"What can I do for you?" she asked.
A game show played on the TV. The sound was loud. Every so often, the husband cheered from his seat, settled down, and mumbled to himself.
"Can you turn down the TV?" Ramirez asked.
"Oh no," she said. "John has to watch his Wheel of Fortune."
"This is about your daughter," Avery added. "We really need to talk to you, and we'd like your full attention."
"Honey," she said and touched her husband's arm. "These two officers want to talk about Henrietta."
He shrugged and growled.
Ramirez turned the television off.
"Hey!" John yelled. "What are you doing!? Turn that back on!"
He sounded drunk.
A bottle of half-filled bourbon was beside him.
Avery stood next to Ramirez and introduced them again.
"Hi," she said, "my name is Detective Black and this is my partner, Detective Ramirez. We have some very difficult news to share."
"I'll tell you what's difficult!" John snapped. "It's difficult dealing with a bunch of cops when I'm in the middle of my television program. Turn on that goddamn TV!" he snapped and tried to get out of his seat, but he couldn't seem to stand.
"Your daughter is dead," Ramirez said, and he squatted down to look him right in the eyes. "Do you understand? Your daughter is dead."
"What?" Mrs. Venemeer whispered.
"Henrietta?" John mumbled and sat back.
"I'm so sorry about this," Avery said.
"How?" the old woman mumbled. "I don't…no. Not Henrietta."
"Tell us what you're talking about!" John scoffed. "You can't come in here and say our daughter is dead. What the hell do you mean?!"
Ramirez took a seat.
Denial, Avery thought. And anger.
"She was found dead this morning," Ramirez said, "and identified because of her position within the community. We're not sure why it happened. Right now, we have a lot of questions. If you can, please just bear with us during this time and help answer some of them."
"How?" the mother cried. "How did it happen?"
Avery pulled a seat beside Ramirez.
"I'm afraid this is an ongoing investigation. We can't talk about any specifics at this time. Right now, we just need to know anything that you might know to help us identify her killer. Did Henrietta have a boyfriend? A close friend you might know about? Someone that might have had a grudge against her?"
"Are you sure it was Henrietta?" the mother wondered.
"Henrietta had no enemies!" John shouted. "Everybody loved her. A goddamn saint she was. Came over once a week with groceries. Helped out homeless people. This can't be right. This has got to be some kind of mistake."
Bargaining, Avery thought.
"I assure you," she said, "you'll both be called later this week to make a positive identification of the body. I know this is a lot to absorb. You've just received some terrible news, but please, let's stay focused on finding out who might have done this."
"No one!" John blared. "This is obviously a mistake. You have the wrong child. Henrietta had no enemies," he declared. "Was she hit by a bus? Did she fall off a bridge? At least give us some idea what we're dealing with here."
"She was killed," Avery offered. "That's all I can say."
"Killed," the mother whispered.
"Please," Ramirez said. "Anything you can think of? Anything at all. Even if it seems insignificant to you, it might be a big help to us."
"No," the mother replied. "She had no boyfriend. There's a circle of girlfriends she keeps. They were over last year for Thanksgiving. None of them could have done something like this. You must be wrong."
She looked up with pleading eyes.
"You must!"
