She focused again on the body. On the gun that was still clutched in the headless corpse’s hand. “I believe you now.”
FROM HER PARKED CAR, MAURA SAW THREE POLICE OFFICERS STANDING by the barrier of crime scene tape. They all glanced her way and almost certainly recognized her black Lexus, so they knew the medical examiner had just arrived. But as she climbed out of her car and walked toward them, they turned their backs and continued chatting among themselves. Only when she formally announced herself did they finally deign to meet her gaze.
“Is Detective Rizzoli in the residence?” she asked.
“I don’t know, ma’am,” one of the patrolmen answered. “Why don’t you check inside?”
Was he being intentionally unhelpful? It was impossible to tell from his coolly neutral expression. As she ducked under the tape and walked toward the front door, she heard them laugh and wondered if that was directed at her. Wondered if this was what she’d face at every future death scene. The looks, the whispers, the thinly disguised hostility. She stopped at the front door to pull booties over her shoes, careful not to lose her balance and give them one more thing to snicker about. As she straightened, the front door opened and Detective Tam stood looking at her.
“Dr. Isles. Sorry to drag you out this time of night.”
“Are both victims in the house?”
“One of them’s in the kitchen. The second victim’s a few blocks away, in an alley.”
“How did number two end up so far away from number one?”
“He was trying to get away from Rizzoli. I guess she’s a hard gal to shake.”
Tam led her from the foyer and down the hall. Booties rustling over the floor, she followed him into the kitchen and was surprised to see the commander of Boston PD’s homicide unit standing next to Barry Frost. It was rare to encounter Lieutenant Marquette at a crime scene, and his appearance here told her that something was very different about this homicide.
The victim lay on his side on the tiled floor, his face resting in a congealing pool of blood. He was a heavyset white man in his seventies, dressed in tan trousers, a knit shirt, and dark socks. One slipper was still on his foot. The bullet wound in his left temple left little doubt about the cause of death. Maura did not immediately move toward the body but remained where she stood for a moment, scanning the floor for a weapon. She saw no gun anywhere near the body. Not a suicide.
“He was a cop,” said Jane quietly.
Maura had not heard her approach. She turned and stared at Jane’s blood-splattered blouse. Instead of her usual dark trouser suit, Jane was wearing baggy sweatpants, obviously an emergency change of clothes.
“My God, Jane.”
“Things got a little rough out there.”
“Are you all right?”
Jane nodded and looked down at the dead man. “I can’t say the same for him.”
“Who is he?”
Lieutenant Marquette answered. “Detective Lou Ingersoll. He retired from the homicide unit sixteen years ago. He was one of ours, Dr. Isles. He deserves our very best effort.”
Was he implying that she would give this victim any less than her best? That an ME who’d betray the thin blue line would betray this cop as well? Cheeks burning, she crouched down by the body. It took her a few seconds to register the name. Lou Ingersoll.
She glanced up at Tam. “This was the man who worked the Red Phoenix massacre.”
“You already know about him?” asked Jane.
“Detective Tam and I discussed it when he brought me the autopsy reports.”
Jane turned to Tam: “I didn’t know you consulted her.”
Tam shrugged. “I just wanted Dr. Isles’s opinion. Whether something might have been missed nineteen years ago.”
“Detective Rizzoli?” One of the criminalists stood in the kitchen doorway, a set of headphones looped around his neck. “We swept the room with a radio frequency scanner, and you’re right. There’s definitely a signal coming from his landline phone.”
“A signal?” Marquette looked at Jane.
“Ingersoll thought someone was monitoring his phone calls,” said Jane. “To be honest, I’m kind of surprised we actually found anything.”
“Why would anyone bug his phone?”
“It wouldn’t be for the usual reason. He’s been widowed for eighteen years, so there’s no divorce war. He’s got one daughter, and she has no idea what’s going on.” Jane stared down at the dead man. “This just gets weirder and weirder. He complained about a van watching his house. He said someone broke in here while he was away. To me, it sounded like crazy talk.”
“Not so crazy after all.” Marquette looked at the criminalist. “You checked his cell phone yet?”
“We didn’t detect any signal on that one. The battery’s dead. Once we charge it up, we’ll take a look at his call log.”
“Let’s get all his phone records, cell and landline. See who he’s been talking to lately.”
Maura rose to her feet. “I understand there’s a second victim.”
“The shooter,” said Jane. “At least, the man we assume is the shooter. I chased him a few blocks away.”
“You brought him down yourself?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
Jane drew in a deep breath, as though steeling herself for what came next. “It’s not easy to explain. I’ll have to show you.”
They walked outside, where a crowd was gathering, mesmerized by the invasion of law enforcement into their neighborhood. Jane forged a path through the gawkers and led Maura around the corner to a quiet side street. Although Jane walked at her usual brisk pace, the swagger was gone, and her shoulders were slumped as though the night had beaten her down and stolen her confidence.
“Are you really all right?” Maura asked.
“Aside from having my good pantsuit trashed? Yeah, I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay. Jane, talk to me.”
Jane’s pace slowed, stopped. She stared down the street as if afraid to look at Maura, afraid to reveal how vulnerable she felt at that moment. “I shouldn’t be standing here right now,” she murmured. “I should be dead, like Ingersoll. Lying in the alley with a bullet in my head.” She frowned at her hands, as if they belonged to someone else. “Look at this. I’ve got the goddamn shakes.”
“You said you chased down the perp.”
“Chased him, yeah. But I got cocky. Followed him into an alley. I’m the one who went down.” She hugged herself, as though suddenly chilled. “Saved by my birthday present. Remember how Gabriel bought me a Kevlar vest? How you and I laughed about it? So romantic, what every gal wants. When I didn’t wear it, he got royally pissed off at me, so just to keep the peace at home I put it on this morning. Now I’ll never hear the end of it. That he was right.”
“Does he know what happened to you?”
“I haven’t called him yet.” Jane swiped a sleeve across her face. “I haven’t had the chance.”
“You need to go home. Right now.”
“In the middle of this?”
“Jane, you’re barely holding it together. Your team can process the scene.”
“Right, with Marquette here? Seeing that I can’t handle a little thing like being shot in the back? Fuck that.” Jane turned and walked away, as though in a hurry to get this business over with. To prove she was up to the task.
Oh Jane, thought Maura. You’ve proved yourself time and again, but it will never be enough for you. You’ll always be that rookie fighting to be acknowledged. Afraid to show weakness.
They came to another barrier of crime scene tape, where a patrolman guarded the entrance to an alley. Once again, Maura was greeted with cold indifference. As she pulled on fresh shoe covers and ducked under the tape, she felt the patrolman watching her, and it was a relief to escape his stare and follow Jane into the gloom of the alley.
“And here’s bachelor number two,” announced Jane, aiming her flashlight at the pavement. The jarringl
y flippant remark left Maura unprepared for the horror lying at their feet.
The decapitation was complete. The head, wearing a dark knit cap, had come to rest a few feet away from the torso—a white male, perhaps forty. The body, garbed entirely in black, lay chest-down as though in mid-breaststroke through an ocean of its own spilled blood. Frozen in cadaveric spasm, the hand still clutched a gun. Swinging her flashlight, Maura saw stuttering arcs splashed across the walls, saw congealed pools, like puddles of black pudding on the pavement.
“Meet the asshole who ruined my favorite suit,” said Jane.
Maura frowned at the headless torso. At the weapon in the man’s hand. “This is the man you chased from the residence?”
“Yeah. Followed him from Ingersoll’s backyard. He got off one round and hit me in the back. Still hurts like hell.”
“Then how did he end up …”
“A third party stepped in. If you have any questions about the manner of death, just ask me, because I was here. I was here on the ground, and this guy was about to pump a bullet in my head. I thought I was dead. I thought …” She swallowed. “Then I heard a sound, this whoosh in the air. He just collapsed on top of me.” Staring down, Jane said softly: “And I’m still alive.”
“Did you see who did this?”
“Just a shadow. Silver hair.”
“That’s all?”
Jane hesitated. “A sword. I think he had a sword.”
Maura looked down at the body and felt a puff of wind sweep down the alley. Wondered if the fatal blow had sounded like that same whisper of wind. She remembered the amputated wrist of Jane Doe, joints and tendons so cleanly divided. Her gaze sharpened on the gun in the dead man’s grasp. “This gun has a suppressor.”
“Yeah. He’s dressed in black and carrying a hit man’s special. Just like Jane Doe, the woman on the rooftop.”
“This is not any run-of-the-mill burglar.” Maura looked up. “Why was Ingersoll’s phone bugged?”
“He never got the chance to tell me, but it was obvious he was worried and wanted to talk. Something about girls. What happened to those girls, he said.”
“Which girls?”
“I think it’s connected to the Red Phoenix. Did you know that two of the victims had their daughters go missing?”
Maura heard voices and the slam of vehicle doors. She looked up the alley and saw the approaching flashlights of the CSU team. “Now I’m definitely going to read those files that Tam brought me.”
“Why did he? I was surprised to hear he’d dropped that on you.”
“He wanted an unbiased opinion. I don’t think he believes that the cook was a suicide.”
“What do you think?”
“I’ve been too busy to look at the files. Rat’s visiting this week, so I’m spending time with him.” Maura turned to leave. “I’ll do the autopsies first thing in the morning. If you want to be there.”
“You’re going to do both of them?”
That struck Maura as an odd question and she looked back. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Ingersoll was a cop. I’m just thinking it’s kind of a delicate time right now. With you and the Graff trial.”
Maura heard the discomfort in Jane’s voice and knew the reason for it. “Am I no longer allowed to autopsy cops?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Trust me, you don’t have to. I’m fully aware of what’s being said. I’m aware of it every time a cop looks at me, or refuses to look at me. They consider me the enemy.”
“It’ll pass, Maura. It just takes time.”
Until I testify against the next cop. “I wouldn’t want to be politically incorrect,” said Maura. “I’ll ask Dr. Bristol to do the postmortem on Ingersoll.” She ducked under the crime scene tape and walked away, past the CSU team. Felt the knot in her neck gradually ease only after she’d left the alley a block behind her. It’ll pass, Maura, Jane had said, but would it? Cops had long memories. They recalled the details of cases that were decades old, and they held grudges, never forgetting who was with them or against them. I am always going to be placed in the second category, she thought. Twenty years from now, they’re still going to remember that I helped send a cop to jail.
By the time she was back at Ingersoll’s residence, more official vehicles had arrived. She paused, dazzled by the flashing lights and the carnival atmosphere of confusion. Suddenly a woman’s sobs pierced the chatter of police radios.
“Let me see him! I need to see my father!”
“Ma’am, please. You can’t go in there,” a patrolman said, holding her back. “Someone will be out to talk to you as soon as they can.”
“But he’s my dad. I have a right to know what happened to him!”
“Father Brophy,” the cop called out. “Can you help this lady, please?”
A tall man wearing a priest’s collar quietly made his way through the crowd. As the clergyman for Boston PD, Daniel Brophy was frequently called to scenes of tragedy, so Maura was not surprised to see him here, but the sight of him stunned her nonetheless. She watched with hungry eyes as Daniel led Ingersoll’s daughter away from the crime scene tape. Did he look thinner? Was his face haunted, his hair more gray? Do you miss me the way I miss you?
He guided the sobbing woman toward a patrol car, then suddenly he saw Maura and their gazes locked. For a moment the world dropped away and she saw only Daniel. Felt the drumming of her own heart, as frantic as the wings of a dying bird.
She was still staring as he walked away, cradling the sobbing woman against his shoulder.
JANE STOOD BEFORE THE MORGUE’S LIGHT BOX, STUDYING THE dead man’s X-rays. His bony structures appeared normal in every way, except for one glaring detail: His cranium had been separated from his body, severed cleanly between the third and fourth cervical vertebrae. Although Tam and Frost were already standing at the autopsy table, waiting for the postmortem to begin, Jane stayed rooted where she was, not yet ready to face what was lying beneath the drape. X-rays were abstract things, cartoon anatomy in black and white. They did not look or smell like flesh; they did not have a face. And so she lingered longer than she needed to, focused on the shadow of lungs and heart, the same heart that had sent blood spurting across her clothes last night. If not for my nameless savior, my X-rays would be hanging here, she thought. My body would be lying on the table.
“Jane?” said Maura.
“It’s hard to imagine a blade sharp enough to do this with one stroke,” Jane said, her gaze still fixed on the X-ray.
“It’s a matter of anatomy,” said Maura. “The angle at which the blade hits the joint. In medieval times, a skilled executioner could behead a prisoner with one stroke. If he had to keep hacking away, that was a sure sign he was incompetent. Or drunk.”
“Pleasant image to start off the morning,” said Tam.
Maura whisked off the drape. “We haven’t undressed him yet. I assumed you all wanted to be here when we did.”
No, I don’t want to be here, thought Jane. I don’t want to see this. But she forced herself to turn to the table. Although what lay there was no surprise, she still sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of the severed head. She knew nothing yet about this man, neither his name nor his origins. The only clues they had so far came from the items removed from his pockets last night: an ammunition clip, a roll of cash, and keys to a stolen Ford van, which had been parked two blocks from Ingersoll’s residence. He carried no ID of any kind.
Tam bent over the table, his expression unruffled as he took a closer look at the severed head. He didn’t flinch when Maura peeled off the victim’s stocking cap, revealing neatly clipped brown hair. The dead man’s face was unremarkable, with an utterly average nose, average mouth, average chin. A man you’d forget a moment after you’d passed him on the street.
The hands had already been swabbed and his fingerprints collected last night upon arrival. Purple ink still stained the fingers. Maura and Yoshima worked together to remove the clothing, peelin
g off the sweatshirt and trousers, briefs and socks. The headless body was stocky and well muscled. A healed scar ran diagonally across the right knee—a souvenir of old surgery. Jane stared at the scar and thought: Now I know why I was able to run him down so easily last night.
Under the magnifier, Maura examined the incised soft tissues, searching for irregularities and bruising. “I don’t see any serration marks,” she said. “The wound is uniform, without secondary cuts. This was a single slice.”
“That’s what I told you,” said Jane. “It was a sword. One slash.”
Maura glanced up. “No matter how reliable I consider a witness, I always need to confirm.” She refocused on the incision. “This cut was delivered at an odd angle. Which hand was holding the sword, right or left?”
Jane hesitated. “I didn’t see the actual slash. But as he was walking away, it was … it was in his right hand.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because this cut starts lower on the right, and angles upward as it exits the left side of the neck.”
“So?”
“This victim is about five foot ten, five eleven. If the killer attacked from behind, slashing right to left, he was probably shorter.” Maura looked at Jane. “Would you agree?”
“I was lying on my back. At that angle, everyone looks tall, especially someone with a big honking sword.” She let out a breath, suddenly aware that Maura was looking at her with the analytical gaze that so irritated her. A look that invaded her privacy, made her feel like a specimen floating in formalin.
Abruptly Jane turned from the table. “I don’t think I need to see any more of this. What’s this autopsy going to tell us? Surprise, someone whacked off his head?” She tossed the gown in the contaminated linen bin. “You guys finish up here. I’m going to check with the crime lab, find out if Ingersoll’s cell phone turned up anything.”
The anteroom door suddenly swung open, and Jane was startled to see her husband walk in. “What are you doing here?”
Special Agent Gabriel Dean was no stranger to autopsy rooms. It had been a serial murder case that introduced Jane to her husband, and over the course of that investigation they had spent more than a few malodorous hours together, bending over corpses that had been found in various stages of decomposition. Gabriel was already wearing a gown and shoe covers, and his face was focused and grim as he pulled on gloves and approached the table.
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