Larsen moves to help Jeffrey, who seems to have lost all sense of his surroundings in his grief. As he supports the distraught father, Nick can't help but reflect on his complicated feelings towards the sheriff. Like many in town, Nick had never particularly warmed to Jeffrey. At fifty-eight, Jeffrey Saltano cut a rather unsightly figure – short and stout, with swarthy skin, a round face dominated by a bulbous nose, and thinning dark hair peppered with gray at the temples. His personality was as rough as his appearance – ignorant and rude, selfish and stubborn, known for achieving his goals by any means necessary. Rumors of bribery and covering up petty crimes had dogged Jeffrey for years. He seemed to have no real friends, and even his relationship with his wife Mary was notoriously strained.

But in this moment, Nick pushes aside his personal feelings. Watching Jeffrey break down, he's struck by a wave of genuine sympathy. The loss of a child is a pain Nick can scarcely imagine, despite being a father himself to nine-year-old Gina and seven-year-old Edward. In this moment of raw grief, Jeffrey isn't the difficult sheriff – he's simply a devastated father.

"Jeffrey," Nick says gently, placing a steadying hand on the man's shoulder, "I know how hard this is, but we need you to try and pull yourself together. We have to take Rose's body for an autopsy. It's necessary for the investigation."

Jeffrey looks up at Nick, his face a mask of pain. The thought of his only child's body being further violated is almost too much to bear, but somewhere in the haze of his grief, he understands the grim necessity.

"Do what you have to," he growls, his voice hoarse. "Just find the bastard who did this. Whatever it takes." He pauses, running a shaking hand over his face as he stares up at the gray sky once more. "Last night… Rose didn't answer when Mary called. She didn't come home." A bitter laugh escapes him. "It wasn't the first time she'd spent the night away. We didn't think… who could have imagined…" His voice trails off before rising again in a heated shout, "Find them! You hear me? Find whoever did this!"

"We'll do everything in our power," Nick assures him, his voice steady despite the turmoil he feels. "Go home to Mary now. You need each other. I'll call as soon as we have the autopsy report."

As he walks Jeffrey back to his car, Nick keeps his assumptions about the cause of death to himself. He wants solid evidence from the medical examiner before jumping to conclusions. Despite the brutality of the crime, a part of him still hopes they'll find some clue, some piece of evidence that will lead them to Rose's killer.

Once Jeffrey's truck disappears around the corner, Nick turns his attention back to the crime scene. Rose's body is carefully loaded into the coroner's van and taken away. The crowd of onlookers begins to disperse, an air of shocked disbelief hanging over them. Nick's thirty-four-year-old assistant, Christian Basher, approaches him with a grim expression.

Christian is a good man, having worked under Larsen's command for nearly three years now. Nick often jokes that Christian looks like he stepped out of an old detective movie with his tall, thin frame and slight stoop. His features are pleasant enough – a neat nose, thin but defined lips, and eyes the color of a calm sea, though they're usually hidden behind his glasses. His short, sparse blonde hair completes the picture of a classic gumshoe.

Despite his best efforts to maintain a professional demeanor, Christian can't quite hide his horror at the scene they've witnessed. Still, for someone as peace-loving and generally mild-mannered as Christian, he's holding up admirably.

"What do you make of all this?" Christian asks in a low voice, his eyes darting around as if the killer might still be lurking nearby. "The victim's clothes aren't torn, so it doesn't look like an attempted rape. No obvious signs of a beating either. And her jewelry – gold earrings, a bracelet – it's all still there. What was the killer after?"

Nick nods, having been pondering the same questions. Could someone have interrupted the killer? Or was the perpetrator simply afraid of being seen?

"I don't know, Christian," Nick admits with a sigh. "We've got a lot of work ahead of us to figure this out. Let's wait for the autopsy results. Hopefully, that will give us a clearer picture of what we're dealing with."

The Saltano residence stands at the heart of town, a sprawling two-story Victorian that seems to lord over its neighbors. The house had come to Jeffrey's wife, Mary, as an inheritance from her parents – a fact that had always been a point of contention. Mr. and Mrs. Grace had never approved of their son-in-law, viewing the match with barely concealed disdain from the start. Unlike his wife, Jeffrey came from humble beginnings – the son of an alcoholic father and a mother who worked herself to the bone, paying little attention to her child. Both had died relatively young, leaving Jeffrey to forge his own path.

Jeffrey had met Mary just after college, and their whirlwind romance had resulted in a hasty marriage when Mary found herself pregnant. The birth of Rose had forced Mary's parents to grudgingly accept their daughter's choice, but the tension had never truly dissipated. Physically, Mary and Rose had been near mirror images of each other – both petite and slender, with dark hair and light eyes that seemed to hold secrets.

Behind the imposing façade of their home, the Saltano marriage had long since cooled. Love and understanding had given way to a sort of uneasy coexistence – two people living side by side but worlds apart. Mary had never quite settled into the role of housewife. She disliked cooking and found cleaning tedious, often hiring help when the dust and clutter became too much to bear. The house itself was a testament to their discordant lives – expensive furniture arranged with more concern for appearance than comfort, the overall effect both tasteless and oddly vulgar.

The living room walls were papered in an aggressive shade of red, offset by black carpets that seemed to attract dust like magnets. Sofas and armchairs upholstered in dark burgundy suede surrounded a glass coffee table, the centerpiece of a room that felt more like a stage set than a home. Heavy burgundy curtains, their vibrancy dulled by a film of dust, framed the windows. The kitchen, done up in harsh tones of red and black, boasted the house's only large window – a constant source of neighborhood gossip for those inclined to eavesdrop.

The second floor housed three bedrooms. The master bedroom, shared by Jeffrey and Mary, echoed the garish tones of the living room below. Next was Rose's room, a stark contrast with its pink wallpaper, fluffy white carpet, and oversized bed. It was the only truly clean space in the house, meticulously maintained by Rose herself. Finally, there was a half-empty guest room, its large wardrobe bursting with clothes, and a bed where Jeffrey often found himself sleeping after yet another argument with Mary.

As Jeffrey entered the house, the air felt thick with grief. After Larsen's call, he had broken the devastating news to his wife, but Mary couldn't find the strength to accompany him to the crime scene. A chill permeated the house, all the windows thrown open as if trying to air out the suffocating sorrow. Mary, still clad in her purple pajamas, sat huddled on the living room floor, her back against the sofa as she cried, hugging her knees to her chest. At the sound of Jeffrey's entrance, she looked up, her face a mask of anguish.

"You have to find who did this," she cried out, her voice raw and breaking. "You have to find that bastard, or I'll never forgive you!" In a surge of emotion, she launched herself at Jeffrey, her fists pounding against his chest as sobs wracked her body.