“Please tell me it’s not a scalpel.”
“No, it’s not a scalpel. Take a look.”
Rizzoli stepped toward the magnifier and peered at the wound. The incised edges had been pulled together by the transparent tape, and what she now saw was a clearer approximation of the weapon’s cross-sectional shape. There were parallel striations along one edge of the incision.
“A serrated blade,” she said.
“At first glance, it does appear that way.”
Rizzoli looked up and met Isles’s quietly challenging gaze. “But it’s not?”
“The cutting edge itself is not serrated, because the other edge of the incision is absolutely smooth. And notice how these parallel scratches appear along only one-third of the incision? Not the entire length. Those scratch marks were made as the blade was being withdrawn. The killer started his incision under the left jaw, and sliced toward the front of the throat, ending the incision just on the far side of the tracheal ring. The scratch marks appear as he’s ending his cut, and slightly twisting the blade as he withdraws.”
“So what made those scratches?”
“It’s not from the cutting edge. This weapon has serrations on the back edge, and they made the parallel scratches as the weapon was pulled out.” Isles looked at Rizzoli. “This is typical of a Rambo or survival-type knife. Something a hunter might use.”
A hunter. Rizzoli looked at the thickly muscled shoulders of Richard Yeager and thought: This was not a man who’d meekly assume the role of prey.
“Okay, so let me get this straight,” said Korsak. “This vic, Dr. Weight Lifter here, watches our perp pull out a big friggin’ Rambo knife. And he just sits there and lets him cut his throat?”
“His wrists and ankles were bound,” said Isles.
“I don’t care if he’s trussed up like Tutankhamen. Any redblooded man’s gonna squirm like hell.”
Rizzoli said, “He’s right. Even with your wrists and ankles bound, you can still kick. You can even head-butt. But he was just sitting there, against the wall.”
Dr. Isles straightened. For a moment, she didn’t say anything, just stood as regally as though her surgical gown were a priestess’s robe. She looked at Yoshima. “Hand me a wet towel. Direct that light over here. Let’s really wipe him down and go over his skin. Inch by inch.”
“What’re we looking for?” asked Korsak.
“I’ll tell you when I see it.”
Moments later, when Isles lifted the right arm, she spotted the marks on the side of the chest. Beneath the magnifying lens, two faint red bumps stood out. Isles ran her gloved finger over the skin. “Wheals,” she said. “It’s a Lewis Triple Response.”
“Lewis what?” asked Rizzoli.
“Lewis Triple Response. It’s a signature effect on the skin. First you see erythema—red spots—and then a flare caused by cutaneous arteriolar dilatation. And finally, in the third stage, wheals pop up due to increased vascular permeability.”
“It looks to me like a Taser mark,” said Rizzoli.
Isles nodded. “Exactly. This is the classic skin response to an electrical shock from a Taser-like device. It would certainly incapacitate him. Zap, and he loses all neuromuscular control. Certainly long enough for someone to bind his wrists and ankles.”
“How long do these wheals usually last?”
“On a living subject, they normally fade after two hours.”
“And on a dead subject?”
“Death arrests the skin process. That’s why we can still see it. Although it’s very faint.”
“So he died within two hours of receiving this shock?”
“Correct.”
“But a Taser only brings you down for a few minutes,” said Korsak. “Five, ten at the most. To keep him down, he’d have to be shocked again.”
“And that’s why we’re going to keep looking for more,” said Isles. She shifted the light farther down the torso.
The beam mercilessly spotlighted Richard Yeager’s genitals. Up till that moment, Rizzoli had avoided looking at that region of his anatomy. To stare at a corpse’s sexual organs always struck her as a cruel invasion, yet one more outrage, one more humiliation visited upon the victim’s body. Now the light was focused on the limp penis and scrotum, and the violation of Richard Yeager seemed complete.
“There are more wheals,” said Isles, wiping away a smear of blood to reveal the skin. “Here, on the lower abdomen.”
“And on his thigh,” Rizzoli said softly.
Isles glanced up. “Where?”
Rizzoli pointed to the telltale marks, just to the left of the victim’s scrotum. So these are Richard Yeager’s last terrible moments, she thought. Fully awake and alert, but he cannot move. He cannot defend himself. The bulging muscles, the hours at the gym, mean nothing in the end, because his body will not obey him. His limbs lie useless, short-circuited by the electrical storm that has sizzled through his nervous system. He is dragged from his bedroom, helpless as a stunned cow on the way to slaughter. Propped up against the wall, to witness what comes next.
But the Taser’s effect is brief. Soon his muscles twitch; his fingers clench into fists. He watches his wife’s ordeal, and rage floods his body with adrenaline. This time, when he moves, his muscles obey. He tries to rise, but the clatter of the teacup falling from his lap betrays him.
It takes only another burst of the Taser and he collapses, despairing, like Sisyphus tumbling back down the hill.
She looked at Richard Yeager’s face, at the eyelids slitted open, and thought of the last images his brain must have registered. His own legs, stretched useless in front of him. His wife, lying conquered on the beige rug. And a knife, gripped in the hunter’s hand, closing in for the kill.
It is noisy in the dayroom, where men pace like the caged beasts they are. The TV blares, and the metal stairs leading to the upper tier of cells clang with every footfall. We are never out of our watchers’ sights. Surveillance cameras are everywhere, in the shower room, even in the toilet area. From the windows of the guard station, our keepers look down on us as we mingle here in the well. They can see every move we make. Souza-Baranowski Correctional Center is a level-six facility, the newest in the Massachusetts Correctional Institute system, and it is a technical marvel. The locks are keyless, operated by computer terminals in the guard tower. Commands are issued to us by bodiless voices over intercoms. The doors to every cell in this pod can be opened or closed by remote access, without a human being ever appearing. There are days when I wonder if any of our guards are flesh and blood or if the silhouettes we see, standing behind glass, are merely animatronic robots, torsos swiveling, heads nodding. Whether by man or by machine, I am being watched, yet it does not bother me, as they cannot see into my mind; they cannot enter the dark landscape of my fantasies. That place belongs only to me.
As I sit in the dayroom, watching the six o’clock news on the TV, I am wandering that very landscape. It is the woman newscaster, smiling from the screen, who makes the journey with me. I imagine her dark hair as a splash of black upon the pillow. I see sweat glistening on her skin. And in my world, she is not smiling; oh no, her eyes are wide, the dilated pupils like bottomless pools, the lips drawn back in a rictus of terror. All this I imagine as I gaze at the pretty newscaster in her jade-green suit. I see her smile, hear her well-modulated voice, and I wonder what her screams would sound like.
Then a new image comes on the TV, and all thoughts of the newscaster vanish. A male reporter stands in front of the Newton home of Dr. Richard Yeager. In a somber voice, he reveals that, two days after the doctor’s murder and the abduction of his wife, no arrests have been made. I am already acquainted with the case of Dr. Yeager and his wife. Now I lean forward, staring intently at the screen, waiting for a glimpse.
I finally see her.
The camera has swung toward the house, and it catches her in close-up as she walks out the front door. A heavyset man emerges right behind her. They stand talking in the fron
t yard, unaware that at that moment the TV cameraman has zoomed in on them. The man looks coarse and piggish with his sagging jowls and sparse strands of hair combed over a bare scalp. Beside him, she looks small and insubstantial. It has been a long time since I last saw her, and much about her seems changed. Oh, her hair is still an unruly mane of black curls, and she wears yet another one of her navy-blue pantsuits, the jacket hanging too loose on her shoulders, the cut unflattering to her petite frame. But her face is different. Once it was square-jawed and confident, not particularly beautiful, but arresting nonetheless, because of the fierce intelligence of her eyes. Now she looks worn and troubled. She has lost weight. I see new shadows in her face, in the hollows of her cheeks.
Suddenly she spots the TV camera and she stares, looking straight at me, her eyes seeming to see me, even as I see her, as though she stands before me in the flesh. We have a history together, she and I, a shared experience so intimate we are as forever bonded as lovers.
I rise from the couch and walk to the TV. Press my hand to the screen. I am not listening to the reporter’s voice-over; I am focused only on her face. My little Janie. Do your hands still trouble you? Do you still rub your palms, the way you did in the courtroom, as though worrying at a splinter trapped in your flesh? Do you think of the scars the way I do, as love tokens? Little reminders of my high regard for you?
“Get the fuck away from the TV! We can’t see!” someone yells.
I do not move. I stand in front of the screen, touching her face, remembering how her coal-dark eyes once stared up at me in submission. Remembering the slickness of her skin. Perfect skin, unadorned by even the lightest stroke of the makeup brush.
“Asshole, move!”
Suddenly she is gone, vanished from the screen. The female newscaster in the jade-green jacket is back. Only a moment ago, I had been content to settle for this well-groomed mannequin in my fantasies. Now she strikes me as vapid, just another pretty face, another slender throat. It took only one glimpse of Jane Rizzoli to remind me of what is truly worthy prey.
I return to the couch and sit through a commercial for Lexus automobiles. But I am no longer watching the TV. Instead, I am remembering what it was like to walk in freedom. To wander city streets, inhaling the scents of women who pass by me. Not the chemist’s busy florals that come from bottles, but the real perfume of a woman’s sweat, or a woman’s hair warmed by the sun. On summer days, I would join the other pedestrians waiting for the crosswalk light to turn green. In the press of a crowded street corner, who would notice that the man behind you has leaned close to sniff your hair? Who would notice that the man beside you is staring at your neck, marking your pulse points, where he knows your skin smells sweetest?
But they don’t notice. The crosswalk light turns green. The crowd begins to move. And the woman walks on, never knowing, never suspecting, that the hunter has caught her scent.
“The folding of the nightgown does not in itself mean you’re dealing with a copycat,” said Dr. Lawrence Zucker. “This is merely a demonstration of control. The killer displaying his mastery over the victims. Over the crime scene.”
“The way Warren Hoyt used to do,” said Rizzoli.
“Other killers have done this as well. It’s not unique to the Surgeon.”
Dr. Zucker was watching her with a strange, almost feral glint in his eye. He was a criminal psychologist at Northeastern University and he frequently consulted for the Boston Police Department. He had worked with the homicide unit during the Surgeon investigation a year ago, and the criminal profile he’d compiled of the unknown subject at that time had turned out to be eerily accurate. Sometimes, Rizzoli wondered how normal Zucker himself could be. Only a man intimately familiar with the territory of evil could have insinuated himself so deeply into the mind of a man like Warren Hoyt. She had never been comfortable with this man, whose sly, whispery voice and intense stares made her feel invaded and vulnerable. But he was one of the few who had truly understood Hoyt; perhaps he would understand a copycat as well.
Rizzoli said, “It’s not just the folded nightclothes. There are other similarities. Duct tape was used to bind this victim.”
“Again, not unique. Did you ever watch the TV show MacGyver? He showed us a thousand and one uses for duct tape.”
“Nocturnal entry through a window. The victims surprised in bed—”
“When they’re most vulnerable. It’s a logical time to attack.”
“And the single slash, across the neck.”
Zucker shrugged. “A quiet and efficient way to kill.”
“But add it all together. The folded nightgown. The duct tape. The method of entry. The coup de grâce—”
“And what you get is an unknown subject who is choosing rather common strategies. Even the teacup on the victim’s lap—it’s a variation on what’s been done before, by serial rapists. They set a plate or other dishes on the husband. If he moves, the falling chinaware alerts the perp. These are common strategies because they work.”
In frustration, Rizzoli pulled out the Newton crime scene photos and laid them across his desk. “We’re trying to find a missing woman, Dr. Zucker. So far we have no leads. I don’t even want to think about what she’s going through right now—if she’s still alive. So you take a good long look at these. Tell me about this unsub. Tell me how we can find him. How we can find her.”
Dr. Zucker slipped on his glasses and picked up the first photo. He said nothing, just stared for a moment, then reached for the next in the series of images. The only sounds were the creak of his leather chair and his occasional murmur of interest. Through his office window Rizzoli could see the campus of Northeastern University, nearly deserted on this summer’s day. Only a few students were lolling on the grass outside, backpacks and books spread around them. She envied those students, envied their carefree days and their innocence. Their blind faith in the future. And their nights, uninterrupted by dark dreams.
“You said you found semen,” said Dr. Zucker.
Reluctantly she turned from the view of sunning students and looked at him. “Yes. On that oval rug in the photo. The lab confirms it’s a different blood type from the husband’s. The DNA’s been entered into the CODIS database.”
“Somehow, I doubt this unsub is careless enough to be identified by a national database match. No, I’m betting his DNA isn’t in CODIS.” Zucker looked up from the photo. “And I’ll bet he left no fingerprints.”
“Nothing that popped up on AFIS. Unfortunately, the Yeagers had at least fifty visitors at the house following the funeral for Mrs. Yeager’s mother. Which means we’re looking at a lot of unidentified prints.”
Zucker gazed down at the photo of Dr. Yeager, slumped against the blood-splattered wall. “This homicide was in Newton.”
“Yes.”
“Not an investigation you’d normally take part in. Why are you involved?” He looked up again, his gaze holding hers with discomforting intensity.
“I was asked by Detective Korsak—”
“Who is nominally in charge. Right?”
“Right. But—”
“Aren’t there enough homicides in Boston to keep you busy, Detective? Why do you feel the need to take this on?”
She stared back, feeling as though he had somehow crawled inside her brain, that he was poking around, searching for just the tender spot to torment. “I told you,” she said. “The woman may still be alive.”
“And you want to save her.”
“Don’t you?” she shot back.
“I’m curious, Detective,” said Zucker, unruffled by her anger. “Have you talked to anyone about the Hoyt case? I mean, about its impact on you, personally?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“Have you received any counseling?”
“Are you asking if I’ve seen a shrink?”
“It must have been a pretty awful experience, what happened to you in that basement. Warren Hoyt did things to you that would haunt any cop.
He left scars, both emotional and physical. Most people would have lingering trauma. Flashbacks, nightmares. Depression.”
“The memories aren’t any fun. But I can deal with them.”
“That’s always been your way, hasn’t it? To tough it out. Never complain.”
“I bitch about things like everyone else.”
“But never about anything that would make you look weak. Or vulnerable.”
“I can’t stand whiners. I refuse to be one myself.”
“I’m not talking about whining. I’m talking about being honest enough to acknowledge you’re having problems.”
“What problems?”
“You tell me, Detective.”
“No, you tell me. Since you seem to think I’m all fucked up.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you think that.”
“You’re the one who used the term fucked up. Is that how you feel?”
“Look, I came about that.” She pointed to the Yeager crime scene photos. “Why are we talking about me?”
“Because when you look at these photos, all you see is Warren Hoyt. I’m just wondering why.”
“That case is closed. I’ve moved on.”
“Have you? Really?”
The question, asked so softly, made her fall silent. She resented his probing. Resented, most of all, that he’d recognized a truth she could not admit. Warren Hoyt had left scars. All she had to do was look down at her hands to be reminded of the damage he’d inflicted. But the worst damage was not physical. What she had lost, in that dark basement last summer, was her sense of invincibility. Her sense of confidence. Warren Hoyt had taught her how vulnerable she really was.
“I’m not here to talk about Warren Hoyt,” she said.
“Yet he’s the reason you’re here.”
“No. I’m here because I see parallels between these two killers. I’m not the only one who does. Detective Korsak sees it, too. So let’s stick to the subject, okay?”
He regarded her with a bland smile. “Okay.”
“So what about this unsub?” She tapped on the photos. “What can you tell me about him?”
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