Formalities completed, Aguilar finally got down to specifics. “Did you perform an autopsy on an individual named Fabian Dixon last October?”
“I did,” answered Maura. A matter-of-fact response, yet she felt the tension instantly ratchet up in the courtroom.
“Tell us how Mr. Dixon came to be a medical examiner’s case.” Aguilar stood with her gaze fixed on Maura, as though to say: Ignore everyone else in the room. Just look at me and state the facts.
Maura straightened and began to speak, loudly enough for the courtroom to hear. “The decedent was a twenty-four-year-old man who was discovered unresponsive in the backseat of a Boston Police Department cruiser. This was approximately twenty minutes after his arrest. He was transported by ambulance to Massachusetts General Hospital, where he was pronounced dead on arrival in the emergency room.”
“And that made him a medical examiner’s case?”
“Yes, it did. He was subsequently transferred to our morgue.”
“Describe for the court Mr. Dixon’s appearance when you first saw him.”
It didn’t escape Maura’s attention that Aguilar referred to the dead man by name. Not as the body or the deceased. It was her way of reminding the court that the victim had an identity. A name and a face and a life.
Maura responded likewise. “Mr. Dixon was a well-nourished man, of average height and weight, who arrived at our facility clothed only in cotton briefs and socks. His other clothing had been earlier removed during resuscitation attempts in the emergency room. EKG pads were still affixed to his chest, and an intravenous catheter remained in his left arm …” She paused. Here was where things got uncomfortable. Although she avoided looking at the audience and the defendant, she knew their eyes were upon her.
“And the condition of his body? Would you describe it for us?” Aguilar prodded.
“There were multiple bruises over the chest, the left flank, and the upper abdomen. Both eyes were swollen shut, and there were lacerations of the lip and scalp. Two of his teeth—the upper front incisors—were missing.”
“Objection.” The defense attorney stood. “There’s no way of knowing when he lost those teeth. They could have been missing for years.”
“One tooth showed up on X-ray. In his stomach,” said Maura.
“The witness should refrain from commenting until I’ve ruled,” the judge cut in severely. He looked at the defense attorney. “Objection overruled. Ms. Aguilar, proceed.”
The assistant DA nodded, her lips twitching into a smile, and she refocused on Maura. “So Mr. Dixon was badly bruised, he had lacerations, and at least one of his teeth had recently been knocked out.”
“Yes,” said Maura. “As you’ll see from the morgue photographs.”
“If it please the court, we would like to show those morgue photos now,” said Aguilar. “I should warn the audience, these are not pleasant to look at. If any visitors in the courtroom would prefer not to see them, I suggest you leave at this point.” She paused and looked around.
No one left the room.
As the first slide went up, revealing Fabian Dixon’s battered body, there were audible intakes of breath. Maura had kept her description of Dixon’s bruises understated, because she knew the photos would tell the story better than she could. Photos couldn’t be accused of taking sides or lying. And the truth staring from that image was obvious to all: Fabian Dixon had been savagely battered before being placed in the backseat of the police cruiser.
Other slides appeared as Maura described what she had found on autopsy. Multiple broken ribs. A swallowed tooth in the stomach. Aspirated blood in the lungs. And the cause of death: a splenic rupture, which had led to massive intraperitoneal hemorrhage.
“And what was the manner of Mr. Dixon’s death, Dr. Isles?” Aguilar asked.
This was the key question, the one that she dreaded answering, because of the consequences that would follow.
“Homicide,” said Maura. It was not her job to point out the guilty party. She restricted her answer to that one word, but she couldn’t help glancing at Wayne Graff. The accused police officer sat motionless, his face as unreadable as granite. For more than a decade, he had served the city of Boston with distinction. A dozen character witnesses had stepped forward to tell the court how Officer Graff had courageously come to their aid. He was a hero, they said, and Maura believed them.
But on the night of October 31, the night that Fabian Dixon murdered a police officer, Wayne Graff and his partner had transformed into angels of vengeance. They’d made the arrest, and Dixon was in their custody when he died. Subject was agitated and violent, as if under the influence of PCP or crack, they wrote in their statement. They described Dixon’s crazed resistance, his superhuman strength. It had taken both officers to wrestle the prisoner into the cruiser. Controlling him required force, but he did not seem to notice pain. During this struggle, he was making grunts and animal sounds and trying to take off his clothes, even though it was forty degrees that night. They had described, almost too perfectly, the known medical condition of excited delirium, which had killed other cocaine-addled prisoners.
But months later, the toxicology report showed only alcohol in Dixon’s system. It left no doubt in Maura’s mind that the manner of death was homicide. And one of the killers now sat at the defense table, staring at Maura.
“I have no further questions,” said Aguilar. She sat down, looking confident that she had successfully made her case.
Morris Whaley, the defense attorney, rose for the cross-examination, and Maura felt her muscles tense. Whaley appeared cordial enough as he approached the witness stand, as if he intended only to have a friendly chat. Had they met at a cocktail party, she might have found him pleasant company, an attractive enough man in his Brooks Brothers suit.
“I think we’re all impressed by your credentials, Dr. Isles,” he said. “So I won’t take up any more of the court’s time reviewing your academic achievements.”
She said nothing, just stared at his smiling face, wondering from which direction the attack would come.
“I don’t think anyone in this room doubts that you’ve worked hard to get where you are today,” Whaley continued. “Especially taking into account some of the challenges you’ve faced in your personal life in the past few months.”
“Objection.” Aguilar heaved out an exasperated sigh and stood. “This is not relevant.”
“It is, Your Honor. It goes to the witness’s judgment,” said Whaley.
“How so?” the judge countered.
“Past experiences can affect how a witness interprets the evidence.”
“What experiences are you referring to?”
“If you’ll allow me to explore that issue, it will become apparent.”
The judge stared hard at Whaley. “For the moment, I’ll allow this line of questioning. But only for the moment.”
Aguilar sat back down, scowling.
Whaley turned his attention back to Maura. “Dr. Isles, do you happen to recall the date that you examined the deceased?”
Maura paused, taken aback by the abrupt return to the topic of the autopsy. It did not slip past her that he’d avoided using the victim’s name.
“You are referring to Mr. Dixon?” she said, and saw irritation flicker in his eyes.
“Yes.”
“The date of the postmortem was November first of last year.”
“And on that date, did you determine the cause of death?”
“Yes. As I said earlier, he died of massive internal hemorrhage secondary to a ruptured spleen.”
“On that same date, did you also specify the manner of death?”
She hesitated. “No. At least, not a final—”
“Why not?”
She took a breath, aware of all the eyes watching her. “I wanted to wait for the results of the toxicology screen. To see whether Mr. Dixon was, in fact, under the influence of cocaine or other pharmaceuticals. I wanted to be cautious.”
; “As well you should. When your decision could destroy the careers, even the lives, of two dedicated peace officers.”
“I only concern myself with the facts, Mr. Whaley, wherever they may lead.”
He did not like that answer; she saw it in the twitch of his jaw muscle. All semblance of cordiality had vanished; this was now a battle.
“So you performed the autopsy on November first,” he said.
“Yes.”
“What happened after that?”
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
“Did you take the weekend off? Did you spend the following week performing other autopsies?”
She stared at him, anxiety coiling like a serpent in her stomach. She didn’t know where he was taking this, but she didn’t like the direction. “I attended a pathology conference,” she said.
“In Wyoming, I believe.”
“Yes.”
“Where you had something of a traumatic experience. You were assaulted by a rogue police officer.”
Aguilar shot to her feet. “Objection! Not relevant!”
“Overruled,” the judge said.
Whaley smiled, his path now cleared to ask the questions that Maura dreaded. “Is that correct, Dr. Isles? Were you attacked by a police officer?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I’m afraid I didn’t hear that.”
“Yes,” she repeated, louder.
“And how did you survive that attack?”
The room was dead silent, waiting for her story. A story that she did not want to even think about, because it still gave her nightmares. She remembered the lonely hilltop in Wyoming. She remembered the thud of the deputy’s vehicle door as it closed, trapping her in the backseat behind the prisoner grating. She remembered her panic as she’d futilely battered her hands against the window, trying to escape a man she knew was about to kill her.
“Dr. Isles, how did you survive? Who came to your aid?”
She swallowed. “A boy.”
“Julian Perkins, age sixteen, I believe. A young man who shot and killed that police officer.”
“He had no choice!”
Whaley cocked his head. “You’re defending a boy who killed a cop?”
“A bad cop!”
“And then you came home to Boston. And declared Mr. Dixon’s death a homicide.”
“Because it was.”
“Or was it merely a tragic accident? The unavoidable consequence after a violent prisoner fought back and had to be subdued?”
“You saw the morgue photos. The police used far more force than was necessary.”
“So did that boy in Wyoming, Julian Perkins. He shot and killed a sheriff’s deputy. Do you consider that justifiable force?”
“Objection,” said Aguilar. “Dr. Isles isn’t on trial here.”
Whaley barreled ahead with the next question, his gaze fixed on Maura. “What happened in Wyoming, Dr. Isles? While you were fighting for your life, was there an epiphany? A sudden realization that cops are the enemy?”
“Objection!”
“Or have cops always been the enemy? Members of your own family seem to think so.”
The gavel banged down. “Mr. Whaley, you will approach the bench now.”
Maura sat stunned as both attorneys huddled with the judge. So it had come to this, the dredging up of her family. Every cop in Boston probably knew about her mother, Amalthea, now serving a life sentence in a women’s prison in Framingham. The monster who gave birth to me, she thought. Everyone who looks at me must wonder if the same evil has seeped into my blood as well. She saw that the defendant, Officer Graff, was staring at her. Their gazes locked, and a smile curled his lips. Welcome to the consequences, she read in his eyes. This is what happens when you betray the thin blue line.
“The court will take a recess,” the judge announced. “We’ll resume at two this afternoon.”
As the jury filed out, Maura sagged back against the chair and didn’t notice that Aguilar was standing beside her.
“That was dirty pool,” said Aguilar. “It should never have been allowed.”
“He made it all about me,” said Maura.
“Yeah, well, that’s all he has. Because the autopsy photos are pretty damn convincing.” Aguilar looked hard at her. “Is there anything else I should know about you, Dr. Isles?”
“Other than the fact my mother’s a convicted murderer and I torture kittens for fun?”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You said it earlier. I’m not the one on trial.”
“No, but they’ll try to make it about you. Whether you hate cops. Whether you have a hidden agenda. We could lose this case if that jury thinks you’re not on the level. So tell me if there’s anything else they might bring up. Any secrets that you haven’t mentioned to me.”
Maura considered the private embarrassments that she guarded. The illicit affair that she’d just ended. Her family’s history of violence. “Everyone has secrets,” she said. “Mine aren’t relevant.”
“Let’s hope not,” said Aguilar.
WHEREVER YOU LOOKED IN BOSTON’S CHINATOWN, THERE WERE ghosts. They haunted quiet Tai Tung Village as well as garish Beach Street, hovered along Ping On Alley and flitted down the dark lane behind Oxford Place. Ghosts were everywhere on these streets. That, at least, was tour guide Billy Foo’s story, and he was sticking to it. Whether he himself believed in ghosts hardly mattered; his job was to convince the tourists that these streets were haunted by spirits. People wanted to believe in ghosts; that’s why so many of them were willing to pony up fifteen bucks apiece to stand shivering on the corner of Beach and Oxford and listen to Billy’s gory tales of murder. Tonight, an auspicious thirteen of them had signed up for the late-night Chinatown Ghost Tour, including a pair of bratty ten-year-old twins who should have been put to bed three hours ago. But when you need the money, you don’t turn away paying guests, even bratty little boys. Billy was a theater major with no job prospects on the horizon, and tonight’s haul was a cool $195, plus tips. Not a bad payday for two hours of telling tall tales, even if it came with the humiliation of wearing a satin mandarin robe and a fake pigtail.
Billy cleared his throat and held up his arms, drawing on skills he’d learned from six semesters of theater classes to get their attention. “The year is 1907! August second, a warm Friday evening.” His voice, deep and ominous, rose above the distracting sound of traffic. Like Death singling out his next victim, Billy pointed across the street. “There, in the square known as Oxford Place, beats the heart of Boston’s Chinese quarter. Walk with me now, as we step back into an era when these streets teemed with immigrants. When the steamy night smelled of sweating bodies and strange spices. Come back to a night when murder was in the air!” With a dramatic wave, he beckoned the group to follow him to Oxford Place, where they all moved in closer to listen. Gazing at their attentive faces, he thought: Now it’s time to enchant them, time to weave a spell as only a fine actor can. He spread his arms, and the sleeves of his mandarin robe flapped like satin wings as he took in a breath to speak.
“Mahhhh-mee!” one of the brats whined. “He’s kicking me!”
“Stop it, Michael,” the mother snapped. “You stop it right this minute.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“You’re annoying your brother.”
“Well, he’s annoying me.”
“Do you boys want to go back to the hotel? Do you?”
Oh Lord, please go back to your hotel, thought Billy. But the two brothers just stood glowering at each other, arms crossed, refusing to be entertained.
“As I was saying,” continued Billy. But the interruption had ruined his concentration, and he could almost hear the pffft! of the dramatic tension leaking away like air from a balloon with a hole in it. Gritting his teeth, he continued.
“It was a steamy night in August. In this square, after a long day’s work in their laundries and grocery stores, a crowd of Chinamen sat restin
g.” He hated that word Chinamen, but forced himself to say it anyway, to evoke an era when newspapers regularly referred to furtive and sinister Orientals. When even Time magazine had seen fit to describe malice palely half-smiling from faces as yellow as telegraph blanks. An era when Billy Foo, a Chinese American, would have found no jobs open to him except as laundryman or cook or laborer.
“Here in this square, a battle is about to erupt,” said Billy. “A battle between two rival Chinese clans, the On Leongs and the Hip Sings. A battle that will leave this square awash in blood …
“Someone lights a firecracker. Suddenly the night explodes with gunfire! Scores of Chinamen flee in terror! But some do not run fast enough, and when the bullets fall silent, five men lie dead or dying. They are just the latest casualties in the bloody and infamous tong wars …”
“Mommy, can we go now?”
“Shhhh. Listen to the man’s story.”
“But he’s borrrring.”
Billy paused, hands twitching to grab the little brat around the throat. He shot the boy a poison glance. The unimpressed kid just shrugged.
“On foggy nights like this one,” Billy said through clenched teeth, “you can sometimes hear the distant sound of those firecrackers. You can see shadowy figures flit past in mortal terror, forever desperate to escape the bullets that flew that night!” Billy turned, waving an arm. “Now follow me across Beach Street. To another place where ghosts dwell.”
“Mommy. Mommy!”
Billy ignored the little turd and led the group across the street. Keep smiling, keep up the patter. It’s all about the tips. He had to maintain the energy for only another hour. First they’d head to Knapp Street for the next stop. Then it was on to Tyler Street and the gambling parlor where five men were massacred in ’91. In Chinatown, there were murder sites galore.
The Silent Girl: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel Page 2