Detective Sullivan stepped inside, balancing two coffees.One had a lopsided smiley face drawn on the lid — an optimistic barista’s attempt at cheer that clashed with the morning’s realities.
He’d showered since Brennan’s yard — his hair still damp, the collar of his shirt less rumpled — but the fatigue in his posture was undeniable.He looked like a man who had been up since before dawn and was only now realizing it.
“Saw you were back,” he said, setting one coffee on her desk.“Thought you might need reinforcements.Caffeine or human.”
She didn’t look away from the screen.“Thanks, Brian.”
“We let Webb go.It all checked out.”
Kate held a finger aloft in recognition.
But the Boston cop lingered beside her desk for a beat, clearly hoping for something — a smile, eye contact, acknowledgement of a shared burden.
When she didn’t turn, he eased himself into the spare chair with a soft exhale.
“You’re back on the artworks?”he asked casually, as though he wasn’t already sure of the answer.
"Looks like it," she said tersely.
“Well, that tracks,” he said with a small, self-deprecating chuckle.“I’ve been told I get hyper-focused too, but you… you make me feel like a housecat.”
No response.
He tried again, softer.“Rough morning.”
Still nothing.
His gaze drifted to the monitor.“A murder of crows, isn’t that right?The collective noun?”
She looked at him.“Yes, you’re right.I hadn’t spotted that.”
He shrugged.“I doubt it matters.I mean, we don’t need a collective noun to tell us what’s going on when we got three crime scenes.”
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, squinting at the enlarged images.“Man, blown up like that, they’re… something.That’s a lot of work.A lot of time with a brush and a grudge.Then he’s got to shrink it down, I’m guessing laser-print it onto the canvas?”
If he was hoping for an answer, he’d be waiting a long while.
He craned his neck slightly, inspecting the third drawing the way a person evaluates a painting they don’t fully understand but are trying to pretend they do.
“What’s with the berries?”
Kate sighed and looked at him.“That’s the million-dollar question.I keep staring at it in the hope that the answer’s going to pop out.But it doesn’t.”
“Four,” Sullivan said. “Four berries.Three crime scenes.”
She looked at him sharply.
“Sorry,” Sullivan said.“I’m just trying to help.”
“I know.Finish the thought.”
“Well… it’s just that if there’s four berries and we only know of three killings…”
“Then there might be another body out there, waiting to be discovered,” Kate said, slowly.
“Or he’s planning to kill one more person.”
Kate didn’t like that thought. She especially didn’t like that thought, because the bird in the last painting seemed to be looking directly at her.
