The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  Agent Dean said, “We’ve completed the external exam. The skin’s been sticky-taped for fibers, and the nail clippings have been collected.”

  “And when did you get here, Agent Dean?”

  “He was here before me, too,” said Korsak. “I guess some of us rate higher on the food chain.”

  If Korsak’s comment was meant to feed her irritation, it worked. A victim’s fingernails may harbor bits of skin clawed from the attacker. Hair or fibers may be clutched in a closed fist. The examination of the victim’s hands was a crucial step in the autopsy, and she had missed it.

  But Dean had not.

  “We already have a positive I.D.,” said Isles. “Gail Yeager’s dental X rays are up on the light box.”

  Rizzoli crossed to the light box and studied the series of small films clipped there. Teeth glowed like a row of ghostly headstones on the film’s black background.

  “Mrs. Yeager’s dentist did some crown work on her last year. You can see it there. The gold crown is number twenty on the periapical series. Also, she had silver amalgam fillings in numbers three, fourteen, and twenty-nine.” “It’s a match?”

  Dr. Isles nodded. “I have no doubt these are the remains of Gail Yeager.”

  Rizzoli turned back to the body on the table, her gaze falling on the ring of bruises around the throat. “Did you X-ray the neck?”

  “Yes. There are bilateral thyroid horn fractures. Consistent with manual strangulation.” Isles turned to Yoshima, whose silent and ghostly efficiency sometimes made one forget he was even in the room. “Let’s get her into position for the vaginal swabs.”

  What followed next struck Rizzoli as the worst indignity that could befall a woman’s mortal remains. It was worse than the gutting open of the belly, worse than the resection of heart and lungs. Yoshima maneuvered the flaccid legs into a froglike position, spreading the thighs wide for the pelvic exam.

  “Excuse me, Detective?” Yoshima said to Korsak, who was standing closest to Gail Yeager’s left thigh. “Could you hold that leg in position?”

  Korsak stared at him in horror. “Me?”

  “Just keep the knee flexed like that, so we can collect the swabs.”

  Reluctantly Korsak reached for the corpse’s thigh, then jerked back as a layer of skin peeled off in his gloved hand. “Christ. Aw, Christ.”

  “The skin’s going to slip, no matter what you do. If you could just hold the leg open, okay?”

  Korsak let out a sharp breath. Through the stench of the room, Rizzoli caught a whiff of Vicks menthol. Korsak, at least, had not been too proud to dab it on his upper lip. Grimacing, he grabbed the thigh and rotated it sideways, exposing Gail Yeager’s genitalia. “Like this is gonna make sex real appealing from now on,” he muttered.

  Dr. Isles directed the exam light onto the perineum. Gently she spread apart the swollen labia to reveal the introitus. Rizzoli, stoic as she was, could not bear to watch this grotesque invasion, and she turned away.

  Her gaze met Gabriel Dean’s.

  Up till that moment, he had been observing the proceedings with quiet detachment. But at that instant, she saw anger in his eyes. It was the same rage she now felt toward the man who had brought Gail Yeager to this ultimate degradation. Staring at each other in shared outrage, their rivalry was temporarily forgotten.

  Dr. Isles inserted a cotton swab into the vagina, smeared it across a microscope slide, and set the slide on a tray. Next she took a rectal swab, which would also be analyzed for the presence of sperm. When she’d completed the collection and Gail Yeager’s legs were once again lying straight on the table, Rizzoli felt as though the worst was over. Even as Isles started the Y incision, cutting diagonally from the right shoulder down to the lower end of the sternum, Rizzoli thought that nothing could surpass the indignity of what had already been done to this victim.

  Isles was just about to cut a matching incision from the left shoulder when Dean said, “What about the vaginal smear?”

  “The slides will go to the crime lab,” said Dr. Isles.

  “Aren’t you going to do a wet prep?”

  “The lab can identify sperm perfectly well on a dry slide.”

  “This is your only chance to examine the fresh specimen.”

  Dr. Isles paused, scalpel tip poised over the skin, and gave Dean a puzzled look. Then she said to Yoshima, “Put a few drops of saline on that slide and slip it under the microscope. I’ll take a look in just a second.”

  The abdominal incision came next, Dr. Isles’s scalpel slicing into the bloated belly. The stench of decomposing organs was suddenly more than Rizzoli could bear. She lurched away and stood gagging over the sink, regretting that she had so foolishly tried to prove her own fortitude. She wondered if Agent Dean was watching her now and feeling any sense of superiority. She had not seen Vicks glistening on his upper lip. She kept her back turned to the table and listened, rather than watched, as the autopsy proceeded behind her. She heard the air blowing steadily through the ventilation system and water gurgling and the clang of metal instruments.

  Then she heard Yoshima call out, in a startled voice, “Dr. Isles?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve got the slide under the scope, and …”

  “Is there sperm?”

  “You really need to see this for yourself.”

  Her nausea fading, Rizzoli turned to watch as Isles peeled off her gloves and sat down at the microscope. Yoshima hovered over her as she gazed into the eyepiece.

  “Do you see them?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she murmured. She sat back, looking stunned.

  She turned to Rizzoli. “The body was found around two P.M.?”

  “About then.”

  “And it’s now nine P.M.—”

  “Well, is there sperm or not?” cut in Korsak.

  “Yes, there’s sperm,” said Isles. “And it’s motile.”

  Korsak frowned. “Meaning what? Like it’s moving?”

  “Yes. It’s moving.”

  A silence dropped over the room. The significance of this finding had startled them all.

  “How long does sperm stay motile?” asked Rizzoli.

  “It depends on the environment.”

  “How long?”

  “After ejaculation, they can remain motile for one or two days. At least half of the sperm under that microscope are moving. This is fresh ejaculate. Probably no more than a day old.”

  “And how long has the victim been dead?” asked Dean.

  “Based on her vitreous potassium levels, which I drew about five hours ago, she’s been dead at least sixty hours.”

  Another silence passed. Rizzoli saw the same conclusion register on everyone’s faces. She looked at Gail Yeager, who now lay with torso split open, organs bared. Hand clapped to her mouth, Rizzoli spun toward the sink. For the first time in her career as a cop, Jane Rizzoli was sick.

  “He knew,” said Korsak. “That son of a bitch knew.”

  They stood together in the parking lot behind the M.E.’s building, the tip of Korsak’s cigarette glowing orange. After the chill air of the autopsy room, it almost felt good to be bathed in the steam of a summer night, to escape the harsh procedure lights and retreat into this cloak of darkness. She had been humiliated by her display of weakness, humiliated most of all that Agent Dean was there to see it. At least he’d been considerate enough to make no comment and had regarded her with neither sympathy nor ridicule, merely indifference.

  “Dean’s the one who asked for that test on the sperm,” said Korsak. “Whatever he called it—”

  “The wet prep.”

  “Yeah, the wet prep thing. Isles wasn’t even gonna look at it fresh. She was gonna let it dry out first. So here’s this fibbie guy telling the doc what to do. Like he knows exactly what he’s looking for, exactly what we’ll find. How did he know? And what the hell’s the FBI doing on this case, anyway?”

  “You did the background on the Yeagers. What’s there to attract the FBI?”
<
br />   “Not a thing.”

  “Were they into something they shouldn’t have been?”

  “You make it sound like the Yeagers got themselves killed.”

  “He was a doctor. Are we talking about drug deals here? A federal witness?”

  “He was clean. His wife was clean.”

  “That coup de grâce—like an execution. Maybe that’s the symbolism. A slice across the throat, to silence him.”

  “Jesus, Rizzoli. You’ve made a hundred-eighty-degree turn here. First we’re thinking sex perp who kills for the thrill of it. Now you’re into conspiracies.”

  “I’m trying to understand why Dean’s involved. The FBI never gives a shit about what we’re doing. They stay out of our way, we stay out of theirs, and that’s how everybody likes it. We didn’t ask for their help with the Surgeon. We handled it all in-house, used our own profiler. Their behavioral unit’s too busy kissing up to Hollywood to give us the time of day. So what’s different about this case? What makes the Yeagers special?”

  “We didn’t find a thing on them,” said Korsak. “No debts, no financial red flags. No pending court cases. No one who’d say boo about either one of them.”

  “Then why the FBI interest?”

  Korsak thought it over. “Maybe the Yeagers had friends in high places. Someone who’s now screaming for justice.”

  “Wouldn’t Dean just come out and tell us that?”

  “Fibbies never like to tell you anything,” said Korsak.

  She looked back at the building. It was nearly midnight, and they had not yet seen Maura Isles leave. When Rizzoli had walked out of the autopsy suite, Isles had been dictating her report and had scarcely even waved good night. The Queen of the Dead paid scant attention to the living.

  Am I any different? When I lie in bed at night, it’s the faces of the murdered I see.

  “This case is bigger than just the Yeagers,” said Korsak. “Now we’ve got that second set of remains.”

  “I think this may let Joey Valentine off the hook,” said Rizzoli. “It explains how our unsub picked up that corpse hair—from an earlier victim.”

  “I’m not done with Joey yet. One more twist of the screw.”

  “You got anything on him?”

  “I’m looking; I’m looking.”

  “You’ll need more than an old charge of voyeurism.”

  “But that Joey, he’s weird. You gotta be weird to enjoy putting lipstick on dead ladies.”

  “Weirdness isn’t enough.” She stared at the building, thinking of Maura Isles. “In some ways, we’re all weird.”

  “Yeah, but we’re normal weird. Joey’s got, like, no normal in his weirdness.”

  She laughed. This conversation had meandered into the absurd, and she was too tired to make sense of it any longer.

  “What the hell’d I say?” Korsak asked.

  She turned to her car. “I’m getting punchy. I need to go home and get some sleep.”

  “You gonna be here for the bone doctor?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Tomorrow afternoon, a forensic anthropologist would be joining Isles to examine the skeletal remains of the second woman. Though she was not looking forward to another visit to this house of horrors, it was a duty Rizzoli could not avoid. She crossed to her car and unlocked the door.

  “Hey, Rizzoli?” Korsak called out.

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you get dinner? Wanna go out for a burger or something?”

  It was the sort of invitation any cop might extend to another. A hamburger, a beer, a few hours to unwind after a stressful day. Nothing unusual or untoward about it, yet it made her uncomfortable because she sensed the loneliness, the desperation, behind it. And she did not want to be entangled in this man’s sticky web of need.

  “Maybe another time,” she said.

  “Yeah. Okay,” he said. “Another time.” And with a quick wave, he turned and walked to his own car.

  When she got home, she found a message from her brother Frankie on the answering machine. While she flipped through her mail, she listened to his voice boom out and could picture his swaggering stance, his bullying face.

  “Hey, Janie? You there?” A long pause. “Aw, shit. Look, I forgot all ’bout Mom’s birthday tomorrow. How ’bout us going in together on a present? Put my name on it, too. I’ll mail you a check. Just tell me how much I owe ya, okay? Bye. Oh, and hey, how ya doing?”

  She threw her mail down on the table and muttered, “Yeah, Frankie. Like you paid me for the last gift.” It was too late, anyway. The gift had already been delivered—a box of peach bath towels, monogrammed with Angela’s initials. This year, Janie gets full credit. For all the difference it makes. Frankie was the man of a thousand excuses, all of them solid gold as far as Mom was concerned. He was a drill sergeant at Camp Pendleton, and Angela worried about him, obsessed over his safety, as though he faced enemy fire every day in that dangerous California scrub brush. She’d even wondered aloud if Frankie was getting enough to eat. Yeah, sure, Ma. The U.S. Marine Corps is gonna let your 220-pound baby starve to death. It was Jane who had not, in fact, eaten anything since noon. That embarrassing upchuck into the autopsy lab sink had emptied whatever was left in her stomach, and now she was ravenous.

  She raided her cupboard and found the lazy woman’s treasure: Starkist Tuna, which she ate straight out of the can, along with a handful of saltine crackers. Still hungry, she returned to the cupboard for sliced peaches and polished those off as well, licking the syrup from her fork as she stared at the map of Boston tacked to her wall.

  Stony Brook Reservation was a broad swath of green surrounded by suburbia—West Roxbury and Clarendon Hills to the north, Dedham and Readville to the south. On any summer day, the reservation would draw large numbers of families and joggers and picnickers. Who would notice a lone man in a car, driving along Enneking Parkway? Who would bother to watch as he pulled into one of the service parking areas and stared into the woods? A suburban park is irresistible to those weary of concrete and asphalt, jackhammers and blaring horns. Along with those seeking refuge in the coolness of woods and grass was one who came with an entirely different purpose in mind. A predator seeking a place to discard his prey. She saw it through his eyes: the dense trees, the carpet of dead leaves. A world where insects and forest animals would happily collaborate in the act of disposal.

  She set down her fork, and its clatter against the table was startlingly loud.

  From the bookshelf she picked up the packet of color-coded pushpins. She pressed a red one on the street where Gail Yeager had lived in Newton and pressed another red one in Stony Brook Reservation where Gail’s body was found. She added a second pin in Stony Brook—this one blue—to represent the remains of the unknown woman. Then she sat down and considered the geography of the unsub’s world.

  During the Surgeon killings, she had learned to study a city map the way a predator studies his hunting grounds. She was, after all, a hunter as well, and to catch her prey she had to understand the universe in which he lived, the streets he walked, the neighborhoods he roamed. She knew that human predators most often hunted in areas that were familiar to them. Like everyone else, they had their comfort zones, their daily routines. So when she looked at the pins on the map, she knew that she was seeing more than just the location of crime scenes and body dumps; she was seeing his sphere of activity.

  The town of Newton was upscale and expensive, a suburb of professionals. Stony Brook Reservation was three miles southeast, in a neighborhood not nearly as tony as Newton. Was the unsub a resident of one of these neighborhoods, stalking prey that crossed his path as he moved between home and work? He would have to be someone who fit in, someone who did not rouse suspicion as an outsider. If he lived in Newton, he’d have to be a white-collar man with white-collar tastes.

  And white-collar victims.

  The grid of Boston streets blurred before her tired eyes, yet she did not give up and go to bed; she sat in a daze beyon
d exhaustion, a hundred details swimming in her head. She thought of fresh sperm in a decomposing corpse. She thought of skeletal remains with no name. Navy-blue carpet fibers. A killer who sheds the hair of his past victims. A stun gun, a hunter’s knife, and folded nightclothes.

  And Gabriel Dean. What was the FBI’s role in all this?

  She dropped her head in her hands, feeling as though it would explode with so much information. She had wanted to be lead detective, had even demanded it, and now the weight of this investigation was crushing her. She was too tired to think and too wound up to sleep. She wondered if this was what a breakdown felt like and ruthlessly suppressed the thought. Jane Rizzoli would never allow herself to be so spineless as to suffer a nervous breakdown. In the course of her career she had chased a perp across a rooftop, had kicked down doors, had confronted her own death in a dark cellar.

  She had killed a man.

  But until this moment, she had never felt so close to crumbling.

  The prison nurse is not gentle as she ties the tourniquet around my right arm, snapping the latex like a rubber band. It pinches my skin and tears at my hairs, but she does not care; to her, I am just another malingerer who has roused her from her cot and interrupted her normally uneventful shift in the prison clinic. She is middle-aged, or at least she looks it, with puffy eyes and overplucked brows, and her breath smells like sleep and cigarettes. But she is a woman, and I stare at her neck, loose and wattled, as she bends over my arm to locate a good vein. I think of what lies beneath her crepey white skin. The carotid artery, pulsing with bright blood, and beside it, the jugular vein, swollen with its darker river of venous blood. I am intimately familiar with the anatomy of a woman’s neck, and I study hers, unattractive as it is.

  My antecubital vein has plumped up, and she grunts in satisfaction. She opens an alcohol swab and wipes it across my skin. It is a careless and slovenly gesture, not what one expects from a medical professional, done out of habit and nothing more.

  “You’ll feel a poke,” she announces.

  I register the prick of the needle without flinching. She has hit the vein cleanly, and blood streams into the red-topped Vacutainer tube. I have worked with the blood of countless others, but never my own, so I stare at it with interest, noting that it is rich and dark, the color of black cherries.