The Sinner

by Tess Gerritsen

“You concealed information.”

  “Now you’re talking like a goddamn cop. Are you going to whip out the badge and handcuffs next?”

  “I’m trying not to get the police involved. I’m trying to give you a chance to explain.”

  “Why bother? You’ve already passed judgment.”

  “And you’re already acting guilty.”

  He stood very still, his gaze averted, one hand clutching the granite countertop. The seconds ticked by in silence. And she suddenly focused on the wooden block of knives resting just within his reach. Eight Wusthof chef’s knives, which she always kept well honed and ready for use. Never before had she felt afraid of Victor. But the man standing so close to those knives was someone she did not know, did not even recognize.

  She said, quietly, “I think you should leave.”

  He turned to face her. “What are you going to do?”

  “Just leave, Victor.”

  For a moment he didn’t move. She stared at him, her heart hammering, every muscle tensed. Watching his hands, waiting for his next move, the whole time thinking: No, he wouldn’t hurt me. I don’t believe he’d ever hurt me.

  And, at the same time, frighteningly aware of the strength of his hands. She wondered if those same hands would ever reach for a hammer and crush a woman’s skull.

  “I love you, Maura,” he said. “But there are some things more important than either one of us. Before you do anything, think about what you might be destroying. How many people—innocent people—you might be hurting.”

  She flinched as he moved toward her. But he didn’t stop; he walked right past her. She heard his footsteps move down the hallway, and then the front door slammed shut.

  At once she rose and went into the living room. Through the window, she watched his car back out of the driveway. She went to the front door and turned the deadbolt. Then she bolted the door leading to the garage. Locking Victor out.

  She returned to the kitchen to lock the back door as well, her hand shaking as she slid the chain in place. She turned and gazed at a room that now seemed foreign to her, the air still reverberating with the echoes of threat. The cocktail that Victor had poured for her was sitting on the countertop. She picked up the drink, which was no longer chilled, and poured it down the sink, as though it was contaminated.

  She felt contaminated now, by his touch. By his lovemaking.

  She went straight to the bathroom, peeled off her clothes, and stepped into the shower. There she stood under the stream of hot water, trying to wash away all traces of him from her skin, but she could not purge the memories. She closed her eyes and it was still his face she saw, his touch she remembered.

  In the bedroom, she stripped the sheets, and his scent wafted up from the linen. Yet another painful reminder. She made the bed with fresh sheets that did not smell of their lovemaking. Replaced the towels in the bathroom, towels he had used. Went back to the kitchen and discarded the takeout food he had left warming in the oven—a casserole of eggplant parmesan.

  She ate no dinner that night; instead she poured a glass of zinfandel and carried it into the living room. She lit the gas fireplace and sat staring at the Christmas tree.

  Happy holidays, she thought. I can crack open a chest and bare the contents of a torso. I can slice off slivers of lung, and through the microscope, diagnose cancer or tuberculosis or emphysema. But the secret of what lies inside a human heart is beyond the reach of my scalpel.

  The wine was an anesthetic, deadening her pain. She finished the glass and went to bed.

  In the night, she awakened with a start, and heard the house creaking in the wind. She was breathing hard, her heart racing, as the last shreds of a nightmare tore away. Burned bodies, stacked like black twigs on a pyre. Flames, casting their glow on a circle of standing figures. And she, trying to stay in the shadows, trying to hide from the firelight. Even in my dreams, she thought, I can’t get away from those images. I live with my own private Dante’s inferno in my head.

  She reached out to feel cool sheets beside her, where Victor had once slept. And she missed him then, his absence suddenly so painful to her that she crossed her arms over her stomach, to quell the emptiness there.

  What if she was wrong? What if he was telling her the truth?

  At dawn, she finally climbed out of bed, feeling drugged and unrested. She went to the kitchen to make coffee, and sat down at the table, sipping from her mug in the gloomy light of morning. Her gaze fell to the folder of photographs, still lying on the table.

  She opened it, and saw the inspiration for last night’s nightmares. The burned bodies, the charred remains of huts. So many dead, she thought, killed in one night’s paroxysm of violence. What terrible rage must have driven the attackers to slaughter even the animals? She gazed at dead goats and humans, mingled in a common tangle of corpses.

  The goats. Why the goats?

  She mulled this over, trying to understand what could motivate such senseless destruction.

  Dead animals.

  She turned to the next photo. It showed the One Earth clinic, its cinder block walls scorched by fire, the pile of burned bodies lying in front of the doorway. But it was not the bodies she focused on; it was the clinic roof, made of corrugated tin, still intact. She had not really looked at the roof before. Now she studied what appeared to be fallen leaves. Dark blots were scattered atop the ridged metal. They were too small for her to make out any detail.

  She carried the photo into her office and switched on the lights. Hunting in her desk, she found a magnifying glass. Under the bright desk lamp, she studied the image, focusing on the tin roof, her lens bringing out every detail of the fallen leaves. The dark blots suddenly took on a terrible new shape. A chill whispered up her spine. She dropped the magnifying glass and sat stunned.

  Birds. They were dead birds.

  She went into the kitchen, picked up the phone, and paged Rizzoli. When her phone rang a few minutes later, she jumped at the sound.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” said Maura.

  “At six-thirty?”

  “I should have told Agent Dean yesterday, before he left town. But I didn’t want to say anything. Not until I could talk to Victor.”

  “Victor? That’s your ex-husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does he have to do with anything?”

  “I think he knows what happened in India. In that village.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Not yet. That’s why you have to bring him in for questioning.”

  NINETEEN

  THEY SAT IN BARRY FROST’S CAR, parked just outside the Colonnade Hotel. Frost and Rizzoli were in the front seat, Maura in the back.

  “Let me talk to him first,” said Maura.

  “It’d be better if you stayed right here, Doc,” said Frost. “We don’t know how he’ll react.”

  “He’ll be less likely to resist if I speak to him.”

  “But if he’s armed—”

  “He won’t hurt me,” said Maura. “And I don’t want you to hurt him, is that clear? You aren’t arresting him.”

  “What if he decides he doesn’t want to come?”

  “He’ll come.” She pushed open the car door. “Just let me handle it.”

  They took the elevator to the fourth floor, sharing the ride with a young couple who probably wondered about the grim trio standing beside them. Flanked by Rizzoli and Frost, Maura knocked on the door to room 426.

  A moment passed.

  She was about to knock again when the door finally swung open and Victor stood looking at her. His eyes were tired, his expression infinitely sad.

  “I wondered what you’d decide,” he said. “I was starting to hope that . . .” He shook his head.

  “Victor—”

  “But then, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” He looked at Rizzoli and Frost, standing in the hallway. Gave a bitter laugh. “Did you bring handcuffs?”

  “There’s no need for handcuffs
,” said Maura. “They only want to talk to you.”

  “Yes, of course. Just talk. Should I call a lawyer?”

  “It’s up to you.”

  “No, you tell me. Am I going to need a lawyer?”

  “You’re the only one who knows that, Victor.”

  “That’s the test, isn’t it? Only the guilty insist on a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer is never a bad idea.”

  “Then just to prove something to you, I’m not going to call one.” He looked at the two detectives. “I need to put on my shoes. If you have no objections.” He turned and walked toward the closet.

  Maura said to Rizzoli, “Could you wait out here?” She followed Victor into the room, letting the door swing shut behind her for one last moment of privacy. He was sitting in a chair, lacing up his boots. She noticed his suitcase was lying on the bed.

  “You’re packing,” she said.

  “I’m booked on a flight home at four. But I guess those plans are about to change, aren’t they?”

  “I had to tell them. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  He stood. “You had a choice, and you made it. I guess that says it all.” He crossed the room and opened the door. “I’m ready,” he announced. He handed Rizzoli a key ring. “I assume you’ll want to search my rental car. It’s the blue Toyota, parked in the garage, third floor. Don’t say I didn’t cooperate.”

  It was Frost who walked Victor down the hall. Rizzoli tugged on Maura’s sleeve, holding her back as the two men continued toward the elevators.

  “Here’s where you have to back off,” Rizzoli said.

  “I’m the one who gave him to you.”

  “That’s why you can’t be part of this.”

  “He was my husband.”

  “Exactly. You have to step away and let us handle this. You know that.”

  Of course she did.

  She followed them downstairs anyway. Climbed into her own car and tailed them to Schroeder Plaza. She could see Victor in the back seat. Only once, as they waited at a stoplight, did he turn and look at her. Their gazes met, just for an instant, through the window. Then he turned away and did not look at her again.

  By the time she found a parking spot and walked into Boston PD headquarters, they had already brought Victor upstairs. She took the elevator to the second floor and headed straight for the Homicide Unit.

  Barry Frost intercepted her. “You can’t go back there, Doc.”

  “He’s already being questioned?”

  “Rizzoli and Crowe are handling it.”

  “I gave him to you, goddamn it. At least let me hear what he has to say. I could watch from the next room.”

  “You have to wait here.” He added, gently, “Please, Dr. Isles.”

  She met his sympathetic gaze. Of all the detectives in the unit, he was the only one who, with just a kind look, could silence her protest.

  “Why don’t you sit over there, at my desk?” he said. “I’ll bring you a cup of coffee.”

  She sank into a chair and stared at the photo on Frost’s desk—his wife, she assumed. A pretty blonde with aristocratic cheekbones. A moment later, he brought her the coffee and set it in front of her.

  She didn’t touch it. She just kept gazing at the photo of Frost’s wife, and thought of other marriages. Of happy endings.

  Rizzoli did not like Victor Banks.

  He sat at the table in the interrogation room, calmly sipping from a cup of water, his shoulders relaxed, his posture almost casual. A good-looking man, and he knew it. Too good-looking. She eyed the worn leather jacket, the khaki trousers, and was reminded of an upscale Indiana Jones, without the bullwhip. He had a medical degree to boot, with solid-gold humanitarian credentials. Oh yeah, the girls would go for this one. Even Dr. Isles, always so cool and levelheaded in the autopsy lab, had lost her heart to this man.

  And you betrayed her, you son of a bitch.

  Darren Crowe sat to her right. By earlier agreement, she would do most of the talking. So far, Victor had been chilly but cooperative, answering her introductory questions with the curt responses of a man who wished to make quick work of this. A man who had no particular respect for the police.

  By the time she was finished with him, he’d respect her, all right.

  “So you’ve been in Boston for how long, Mr. Banks?” she asked.

  “It’s Dr. Banks. And I told you, I’ve been here about nine days. I flew in last Sunday night.”

  “You said you came to Boston for a meeting?”

  “With the dean of the Harvard School of Public Health.”

  “The reason for that meeting?”

  “My organization has work-study arrangements with a number of universities.”

  “Your organization being One Earth?”

  “Yes. We’re an international medical charity. We operate clinics around the world. Of course we welcome any medical and nursing students who want to volunteer at our clinics. The students get some real-life experience in the field. We, in return, benefit from their skills.”

  “And who set up this meeting at Harvard?”

  He shrugged. “It was just a routine visit.”

  “Who actually made the call?”

  A silence. Gotcha.

  “You did, didn’t you?” she said. “You called Harvard two weeks ago. Told the Dean you’d be coming to Boston anyway, and could you drop by his office.”

  “I need to keep my contacts fresh.”

  “Why did you really come to Boston, Dr. Banks? Wasn’t there another reason?”

  A pause. “Yes.”

  “And that was?”

  “My ex-wife lives here. I wanted to see her.”

  “But you haven’t spoken to her in—what? Nearly three years.”

  “Obviously she’s already told you everything. Why do you need to talk to me?”

  “And suddenly you want to see her so desperately that you fly across the country, without even knowing if she’ll see you?”

  “Love sometimes demands we take risks. It’s a matter of faith. Believing in something you can’t see or touch. We just have to take the leap.” He looked her in the eye. “Don’t we, Detective?”

  Rizzoli felt herself flush, and for a moment could not think of anything to say. Victor had just reversed the question, twisting it so that she suddenly felt the conversation was about her. Love demands risks.

  Crowe broke the silence. “Hey, nice-looking lady, your ex-wife,” he said. Not hostile, but in the casual tone of one guy to another, the two of them now ignoring Rizzoli. “I can see why you’d fly all this way to try and patch things up. So did you manage to?”

  “Things were working out between us.”

  “Yeah, I hear you’ve been staying at her house for the last few days. Sounds like progress to me.”

  “Why don’t we just get down to the truth,” Rizzoli cut in.

  “The truth?” asked Victor.

  “The real reason you came to Boston.”

  “Why don’t you tell me which answer you’re fishing for, and I’ll just give it to you? It’ll save us both time.”

  Rizzoli dropped a folder on the table. “Take a look at those.”

  He opened it and saw it was the set of photographs from the devastated village. “I’ve already seen these,” he said, and closed the folder again. “Maura showed them to me.”

  “You don’t seem very interested.”

  “It’s not exactly pleasant viewing.”

  “It’s not meant to be. Take another look.” She opened the folder, fished out one of the photos, and slapped it on top. “This one in particular.”

  Victor looked at Crowe, as though seeking an ally against this unpleasant woman, but Crowe simply gave him a what-can-you-do? shrug.

  “The photo, Dr. Banks,” said Rizzoli.

  “Exactly what am I supposed to say about it?”

  “That was a One Earth clinic in that village.”r />
  “Is that so surprising? We go where people need us. Which means we’re sometimes in uncomfortable or even dangerous situations.” He was still not looking at the photo, still avoiding the grotesque image. “It’s the price we pay as humanitarian workers. We take on the same risks our patients do.”

  “What happened in that village?”

  “I think it’s pretty obvious.”

  “Look at the picture.”

  “It’s all in the police report, I’m sure.”

  “Look at the goddamn picture! Tell me what you see.”

  At last his gaze fell on the photograph. After a moment, he said: “Burned bodies. Lying in front of our clinic.”

  “And how did they die?”

  “I’m told it was a massacre.”

  “Do you know that for a fact?”

  His gaze snapped up to hers. “I wasn’t there, Detective. I was at home in San Francisco when I got the phone call from India. So you can hardly expect me to provide the details.”

  “How do you know it was a massacre?”

  “That was the report we got from the police in Andhra Pradesh. That it was either a political or religious attack, and there were no witnesses, since the village was relatively isolated. People tend to avoid having much contact with lepers.”

  “Yet they burned the bodies. Don’t you find that odd?”

  “Why is it odd?”

  “The bodies were dragged into large piles before they were set on fire. You’d think that no one would want to touch a leper. So why stack the bodies together?”

  “It would be more efficient, I suppose. To burn them in groups.”

  “Efficient?”

  “I’m trying to come at this logically.”

  “And what’s the logical reason for burning them at all?”

  “Rage? Vandalism? I don’t know.”

  “All that work, moving the dead bodies. Hauling in the cans of gasoline. Building wooden pyres. And the whole time, the threat of discovery was hanging over them.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I’m saying the bodies had to be burned. To destroy the evidence.”

  “Evidence of what? It’s clearly a massacre. No fire’s going to hide that.”

  “But a fire would hide the fact it’s not a massacre.”