The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  He laughed. “It was pretty tense tonight. What was the story there, anyway?”

  “I don’t know.” She sank back against the seat. “But sooner or later, we’ll hear all about it.”

  SIX

  Jane slipped paper booties over her shoes, donned a surgical gown, and looped the ties behind her waist. Gazing through the glass partition into the autopsy lab, she thought: I really don’t want to go in there. But already Frost was in the room, gowned and masked, with just enough of his face visible for Jane to see his grimace. Maura’s assistant, Yoshima, pulled x-rays out of an envelope and mounted them on the viewing box. Maura’s back obstructed Jane’s view of the table, hiding what she had little wish to confront. Just an hour ago, she had been sitting at her kitchen table, Regina cooing on her lap as Gabriel had cooked breakfast. Now the scrambled eggs churned in her stomach and she wanted to yank off this gown and walk back out of the building, into the purifying snow.

  Instead she pushed through the door, into the autopsy room.

  Maura glanced over her shoulder, and her face betrayed no qualms about the procedure to follow. She was merely a professional like any other, about to do her job. Though they both dealt in death, Maura was on far more intimate terms with it, far more comfortable staring into its face.

  “We were just about to start,” said Maura.

  “I got hung up in traffic. The roads are a mess out there this morning.” Jane tied on her mask as she moved toward the foot of the table. She avoided looking at the remains but focused, instead, on the x-ray viewing box.

  Yoshima flipped the switch and the light flickered on, glowing behind two rows of films. Skull x-rays. But these were unlike any skull films Jane had seen before. Where the cervical spine should be, she saw only a few vertebrae, and then…nothing. Just the ragged shadow of soft tissue where the neck had been severed. She pictured Yoshima positioning that head for the films. Had it rolled around like a beach ball as he’d set it on the film cassette, as he’d angled the collimator? She turned away from the light box.

  And found herself staring at the table. At the remains, displayed in anatomical position. The torso was on its back, the severed parts laid out approximately where they should be. A jigsaw puzzle in flesh and bone, the pieces waiting for reassembly. Though she did not want to look at it, there it was: the head, which had tilted onto its left ear, as though the victim was turning to look sideways.

  “I need to approximate this wound,” said Maura. “Can you help me hold it in position?” A pause. “Jane?”

  Startled, Jane met Maura’s gaze. “What?”

  “Yoshima’s going to take photos, and I need to get a look through the magnifier.” Maura grasped the cranium in her gloved hands and rotated the head, trying to match the wound edges. “Here, just hold it in this position. Pull on some gloves and come around to this end.”

  Jane glanced at Frost. Better you than me, his eyes said. She moved to the head of the table. There she paused to snap on gloves, then reached down to cradle the head. Found herself gazing into the victim’s eyes, the corneas dull as wax. A day and a half in a refrigerator had chilled the flesh, and as she cupped the face, she thought of the butcher counter in her local supermarket, with its icy chickens wrapped in plastic. We are all, in the end, merely meat.

  Maura bent over the wound, studying it through the magnifier. “There seems to be a single sweep across the anterior. Very sharp blade. The only notching I see is quite a ways back, under the ears. Minimal bread-knife repetition.”

  “A bread knife’s not exactly sharp,” said Frost, his voice sounding very far away. Jane looked up and saw that he had retreated from the table and was standing halfway to the sink, his hand covering his mask.

  “By bread-knifing, I’m not referring to the blade,” said Maura. “It’s a cutting pattern. Repeated slices going deeper, in the same plane. What we see here is one very deep initial slice, cutting right through the thyroid cartilage, down to the spinal column. Then a quick disarticulation, between the second and third cervical vertebrae. It could have taken less than a minute to complete this decapitation.”

  Yoshima moved in with the digital camera, taking photos of the approximated wound. Frontal view, lateral. Horror from every angle.

  “Okay, Jane,” said Maura. “Let’s take a look at the incision plane.” Maura grasped the head and turned it upside down. “Hold it there for me.”

  Jane caught a glimpse of severed flesh and the open windpipe, and she abruptly averted her gaze, blindly holding the head in place.

  Again, Maura moved in with the magnifier to examine the cut surface. “I see striations on the thyroid cartilage. I think the blade was serrated. Get some shots of this.”

  Once again, the shutter clicked as Yoshima leaned in for more photos. My hands will be in these shots, thought Jane, this moment preserved for the evidence files. Her head, my hands.

  “You said…you said that was arterial spray on the wall,” said Frost.

  Maura nodded. “In the bedroom.”

  “She was alive.”

  “Yes.”

  “And this—decapitation—took only seconds?”

  “With a sharp knife, a skillful hand, a killer could certainly do it in that time. Only the vertebral column might slow him down.”

  “Then she knew, didn’t she? She must have felt it.”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  “If someone cuts off your head, you’d be conscious for at least a few seconds. That’s what I heard on The Art Bell Show. Some doctor was on the radio with him, talking about what it’s like to be guillotined. That you’re probably still conscious as your head drops into the bucket. You can actually feel yourself falling into it.”

  “That may be true, but—”

  “The doctor said that Mary, Queen of Scots was still trying to speak, even after they cut off her head. Her lips kept moving.”

  “Jesus, Frost,” said Jane. “Like I need to be creeped out even more?”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it? That this victim felt her head come off?”

  “It’s highly unlikely,” said Maura. “And I’m not saying that just to ease your mind.” She turned the head sideways on the table. “Feel the cranium. Right here.”

  Frost stared at her in horror. “No, that’s okay. I don’t need to.”

  “Come on. Pull on a glove and run your fingers over the temporal bone. There’s a scalp laceration. I didn’t see it until we washed away the blood. Palpate the skull here and tell me what you feel.”

  It was clearly the last thing Frost wanted to do, but he pulled on a glove and tentatively placed his fingers on the cranium. “There’s a, uh, dip in the bone.”

  “A depressed skull fracture. You can see it on x-ray.” Maura crossed to the light box and pointed to the skull table. “On the lateral film, you see fractures fanning out from that impact point. They radiate like a spiderweb across the temporal bone. In fact, that’s exactly what we call this type of fracture. A mosaic or spiderweb pattern. It’s in a particularly critical location, because the middle meningeal artery runs right under here. If you rupture that, the patient bleeds into the cranial cavity. When we open the skull, we’ll see if that’s what happened.” She looked at Frost. “This was a significant blow to the head. I think the victim was unconscious when the cutting began.”

  “But still alive.”

  “Yes. She was definitely still alive.”

  “You don’t know that she was unconscious.”

  “There are no defense wounds on her limbs. No physical evidence that she fought back. You don’t just let someone cut your throat without a struggle. I think she was stunned by that blow. I don’t think she felt the blade.” Maura paused and added, quietly, “At least, I hope not.” She moved to the corpse’s right side, grasped the amputated arm, and lifted the incised end to the magnifier. “We have more tool markings here on the cartilage surface, where he disarticulated the elbow joint,” she said. “It looks like the same blade was u
sed here. Very sharp, serrated edge.” She opposed the unattached arm to the elbow, as though assembling a mannequin, and eyed the match. There was no expression of horror on her face, only concentration. She might be studying widgets or ball bearings, not incised flesh. Not the limb of a woman who’d once lifted that arm to brush back her hair, to wave, to dance. How did Maura do it? How did she walk into this building every morning, knowing what waited for her? Day after day, picking up the scalpel, dissecting the tragedy of lives cut short? I deal with those tragedies, too. But I don’t have to saw open skulls or thrust my hands into chests.

  Maura circled to the corpse’s left side. Without hesitation, she picked up the severed hand. Chilled and drained of blood, it looked like wax, not flesh, like a movie propmaster’s idea of what a real hand would look like. Maura swung the magnifier over it and inspected the raw, cut surface. For a moment she said nothing, but a frown was now etched on her forehead.

  She set down the hand and lifted the left arm to examine the wrist stump. Her frown deepened. Again she picked up the hand and opposed the two wounds, trying to match the incised surfaces, hand to wrist, waxy skin to waxy skin.

  Abruptly she set down the body parts and looked at Yoshima. “Could you put up the wrist and hand films?”

  “You’re done with all these skull x-rays?”

  “I’ll get back to those later. Right now I want to see the left hand and wrist.”

  Yoshima removed the first set of x-rays and mounted a fresh set. Against the backlight of the viewing box, hand and finger bones glowed, the columns of phalanges like slender stalks of bamboo. Maura stripped off her gloves and approached the light box, her gaze riveted on the images. She said nothing; it was her silence that told Jane that something was very wrong.

  Maura turned and looked at her. “Have you searched the victim’s entire house?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “The whole house? Every closet, every drawer?”

  “There wasn’t a lot there. She’d moved in just a few months before.”

  “And the refrigerator? The freezer?”

  “CSU went through it. Why?”

  “Come look at this x-ray.”

  Jane pulled off her soiled gloves and crossed to the light box to scan the films. She saw nothing there to account for Maura’s sudden tone of urgency, nothing that did not correspond with what she saw lying on the table. “What am I supposed to look at?”

  “You see this view of the hand? These little bones here are called the carpals. They make up the base of the hand, before the finger bones branch off.” Maura took Jane’s hand to demonstrate, turning it palm side up, revealing the scar that would forever remind Jane of what another killer had done to her. A record of violence, marked in her flesh by Warren Hoyt. But Maura made no comment on the scar; instead she pointed to the meaty base of Jane’s palm, near the wrist.

  “The carpal bones are here. On the x-ray, they look like eight little stones. They’re just small chunks of bone, held together by ligaments and muscles and connective tissue. These give our hands flexibility, allow us to do a whole range of amazing tasks, from sculpting to playing the piano.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “This one here, in this proximal row”—Maura pointed to the x-ray, to a bone near the wrist—“it’s called the scaphoid. You’ll notice there’s a joint space beneath it, and then on this film, there’s a distinct chip of another bone. It’s part of the styloid process. When he cut off this hand, he also took off a fragment of the arm bone.”

  “I’m still not getting the significance.”

  “Now look at the x-ray of the arm stump.” Maura pointed to a different film. “You see the distal end of the two forearm bones. The thinner bone is the ulna—the funny bone. And the thick one, on the thumb side, is the radius. Here’s that styloid process I was talking about earlier. You see what I’m getting at?”

  Jane frowned. “It’s intact. On this arm x-ray, that bone is all here.”

  “That’s right. Not only is it intact, there’s even a chunk of the next bone still attached to it. A chip from the scaphoid.”

  In that chilly room, Jane’s face suddenly felt numb. “Oh man,” she said softly. “This is starting to sound bad.”

  “It is bad.”

  Jane turned and crossed back to the table. She stared down at the severed hand, lying beside what she had believed—what they had all believed—was the arm it had once been attached to.

  “The cut surfaces don’t match,” said Maura. “Neither do the x-rays.”

  Frost said, “You’re telling us this hand doesn’t belong to her?”

  “We’ll need DNA analysis to confirm it. But I think the evidence is right here, on the light box.” She turned and looked at Jane. “There’s another victim that you haven’t found yet. And we have her left hand.”

  SEVEN

  July 15, Wednesday. Phase of the moon: New.

  These are the rituals of the Saul family.

  At one P.M., Uncle Peter comes home from his half day at the clinic. He changes into jeans and a T-shirt and heads for his vegetable garden, where a jungle of tomato plants and cucumber vines weigh down their string trellises.

  At two P.M., little Teddy comes up the hill from the lake, carrying his fishing pole. But no catch. I have not yet seen him bring home a single fish.

  At two-fifteen, Lily’s two girlfriends walk up the hill, carrying bathing suits and beach towels. The taller one—I think her name is Sarah—also brings a radio. Its strange and thumping music now disturbs the otherwise silent afternoon. Their towels spread out on the lawn, the three girls bask in the sun like drowsy felines. Their skin gleams with suntan lotion. Lily sits up and reaches for her bottle of water. As she lifts it to her lips, she suddenly goes still, her gaze on my window. She sees me watching her.

  It is not the first time.

  Slowly she sets down the water bottle and says something to her two friends. The other girls now sit up and look in my direction. For a moment they stare at me, as I am staring at them. Sarah shuts off the radio. They all rise to their feet, shake out their towels, and come into the house.

  A moment later, Lily knocks on my door. She doesn’t wait for an answer but walks uninvited into my room.

  “Why do you watch us?” she says.

  “I was just looking out the window.”

  “You’re looking at us.”

  “Because you happen to be there.”

  Her gaze falls on my desk. Lying open there is the book my mother gave me when I turned ten years old. Popularly known as the Egyptian Book of the Dead, it is a collection of ancient coffin texts. All the spells and incantations one needs to navigate the afterlife. She moves closer to the book, but hesitates to touch it, as though the pages might burn her fingers.

  “Are you interested in death rituals?” I ask.

  “It’s just superstition.”

  “How do you know unless you’ve tried them?”

  “You can actually read these hieroglyphs?”

  “My mother taught me. But those are just minor spells. Not the really powerful ones.”

  “And what can a powerful spell do?” She looks at me, her gaze so direct and unflinching that I wonder if she is more than she seems. If I’ve underestimated her.

  “The most powerful spells,” I tell her, “can bring the dead back to life.”

  “You mean, like in The Mummy?” She laughs.

  I hear more giggles behind me and turn to see her two friends standing in the doorway. They’ve been eavesdropping, and they look at me with disdain. I am clearly the weirdest boy they have ever met. They have no idea how different I really am.

  Lily closes the Book of the Dead. “Let’s go swimming, girls,” she says, and walks out of the room, trailing the sweet scent of her suntan lotion.

  Through my window, I watch them head down the hill, toward the lake. The house is now quiet.

  I go into Lily’s room. From her hairbrush, I pull off long brown strands of
hair and slip them into my pocket. I uncap the lotions and creams on her dresser and sniff them; each scent brings with it the flash of a memory: Lily at the breakfast table. Lily sitting beside me in the car. I open her drawers, her closet, and touch her clothes. Clothes that any American teenager might wear. She’s just a girl after all, nothing more. But she needs watching.

  It’s what I do best.

  EIGHT

  Siena, Italy. August.

  Lily Saul bolted awake, straight from a deep sleep, and lay gasping among twisted bedsheets. The amber light of late afternoon glowed through the crack between the partially closed wooden shutters. In the gloom above her bed, a fly buzzed, circling in anticipation of a taste of her damp flesh. Her fear. She sat up on the thin mattress, shoved back tangled hair, and massaged her head as her heartbeat gradually slowed. Sweat trickled from her armpits, soaking into her T-shirt. She had managed to sleep through the worst heat of the afternoon, but the room still felt suffocating, the air thick enough to smother her. I can’t keep living this way forever, she thought, or I’ll go insane.

  Maybe I’m already insane.

  She rose from the bed and crossed to the window. Even the ceramic tiles beneath her feet radiated heat. Throwing open the shutters, she gazed across the tiny piazza, at buildings baking like stone ovens in the sun. A golden haze leafed domes and rooftops in umber. The summer heat had driven the sensible locals of Siena indoors; only the tourists would be out now, wandering wide-eyed through narrow alleys, huffing and sweating their way up the steep incline to the basilica or posing for photographs on the Piazza del Campo, their shoe soles melting and tacky on the scorching brickwork: all the usual tourist things that she herself had done when she’d first arrived in Siena, before she’d settled into the rhythms of the natives, before the heat of August had closed in on this medieval city.

  Below her window, on the piazzetta, not a soul moved. But as she was turning away, she spied a twitch of motion in the shadow of a doorway. She went very still, her gaze fixed on the spot. I can’t see him. Can he see me? Then the inhabitant sheltering in that doorway emerged from its hiding place, trotted across the piazzetta, and vanished.