Cause to Run. Blake Pierce
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were analyzed. There were stacks of female romance novels. The rest were mostly on spiritual subjects: self-help, religion.
Religion, Avery thought.
The victim had a star above her head.
Star of David?
Having observed the dead body on the boat and the apartment, Avery began to form a picture of the killer in her mind. He would have attacked from the hall. The kill was quick and he left no marks, made no mistakes. The victim’s clothing and effects had been left behind in a neat spot, so as not to disturb the apartment. Only the rug was moved, and it was dusty in that area and around the edges. Something about that harked to anger in the killer. If he was so meticulous in every other way, Avery wondered, why not clean the dust from the rug sides? Why take the rug at all? Why not leave everything in perfect condition? She worked it through: He snapped her neck, undressed her, put the clothing away and left everything in order, but then he rolled her in a rug and carried her out like a savage.
She headed over to the window and stared down at the street. There were a few places where someone could hide and observe the apartment without being noticed. One spot in particular called to her: a dark, narrow alleyway behind a fence. Were you there? she asked herself. Watching? Waiting for the right moment?
“Well?” O’Malley said. “What do you think?”
“We have a serial killer on our hands.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“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