Maura stared straight back at him. “Every orifice was swabbed. All the clothing was examined for traces of semen. There was no physical evidence of sexual assault.”
“But it doesn’t rule out a sexual motive.”
“I can’t comment on motive, Dr. Zucker. Only on the evidence.”
Zucker’s lips twitched into a faint smile. There was something deeply disquieting about this man, as if he knew details about Maura that she herself wasn’t aware of. Certainly he knew about Amalthea. Everyone at Boston PD knew the painful fact that Maura had a mother serving a life sentence in prison for multiple homicides. Did he see some trace of Amalthea in her face, in her personality? Was that a smile of recognition he’d just given her?
“I didn’t mean to offend, Dr. Isles. I’m aware that evidence is your stock in trade,” said Zucker. “But my role is to understand why the killer chose these two victims in particular, if in fact it is the same killer. Because there are significant differences between these victims. Gender. Circle of acquaintances. Neighborhoods. Method of postmortem mutilation. A couple of weeks ago, when Detectives Frost and Rizzoli asked my opinion on Cassandra Coyle, we were working with a completely different psychological theory about why her eyes were removed.” He looked at Jane. “You called it see no evil.”
“You agreed at the time,” said Jane.
“Because removing the eyes is a powerfully symbolic act. It’s also very specific. A killer chooses the eyes because they represent something to him and he gets a sexual thrill from excising them. I’m trying to understand why he’d then target a male victim and use a radically different method of mutilation.”
“So you don’t think these cases are related,” said Jane.
“I’ll need more to go on before I’m convinced.” Zucker closed his notebook and looked at Maura. “Let me know when you have it.”
As Dr. Zucker left the room, Maura remained in her chair, resignedly staring at the documents spread across the table.
“That turned into a harder sell than I thought,” said Jane.
“But he’s right,” Maura admitted. “We don’t have enough evidence yet to prove it’s the same killer.”
“But you see a connection, and that’s good enough for me.”
“I don’t know why.”
Jane leaned forward. “Because you don’t normally believe in hunches. You’re always going on about that pesky thing called evidence. The last time you had a hunch, I didn’t believe you, but you turned out to be right. You saw the connection that no one else saw, including me. So this time, Maura, I’m going to listen to you.”
“I’m not sure you should.”
“Don’t tell me you’re doubting yourself now.”
Maura stacked the pages. “We need to find something that these victims had in common. Something that brought them both into contact with this killer.” She placed Timothy McDougal’s crime-scene photos in a folder and was about to close the cover when she paused, staring at the image. A memory suddenly rippled to the surface, a memory of sunlight glowing through jeweled panes of glass.
“What?” said Jane.
Maura didn’t answer. She pulled out a photo of Cassandra Coyle’s corpse and placed it beside Timothy McDougal’s crime-scene photo. Two different victims, one a man, the other a woman. The man skewered with multiple arrows, the woman with her eyes removed. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it,” she said.
“Want to tell me what you’re thinking?” said Jane.
“Not yet. Not till I’ve done some more research.” Maura whisked the photos into her folder and headed for the door. “I need to consult someone.”
“Who?”
Maura paused in the doorway. “I’d rather not tell you,” she said, and walked out of the room.
NEUTRAL GROUND. THAT WAS THE agreement, someplace public, where they’d both be obliged to behave as professionals. Certainly they could not meet in her house, where they had met so many times before, and where temptation would whisper from the bedroom. Nor could they meet at Our Lady of Divine Light, where church staff or parishioners might see them together again and wonder. No, this café on Huntington Avenue was far safer territory, and at 3:00 P.M., it was quiet enough for them to linger unnoticed and undisturbed.
She was the first to arrive, and she chose a booth at the rear of the café. She sat with her back to the wall, like a gunslinger waiting for the enemy to arrive, but the true enemy wasn’t Daniel; it was her own heart. She ordered coffee. Even before her first caffeinated sip, her pulse was racing. She tried to distract herself by pulling out the case files and reviewing the crime-scene photos. How twisted was this, that scenes of violence and death were what calmed her? The dead were always good company. They made no demands, expected no favors.
Aroused no desires.
She heard the door open and her gaze snapped up as he stepped into the café. Bundled as he was in a winter coat and a scarf, he might be just another patron escaping the chill to warm up with coffee, but Daniel Brophy was not just any man. The waitress paused in the middle of laying out silverware to stare as he walked past, and no wonder. With his dark hair and long black coat, he looked like a somber Heathcliff striding in from the moors. Daniel did not notice the waitress’s lingering look; he had spotted Maura, and his gaze was only on her as he walked straight to her booth.
“It’s been too long,” he said quietly.
“It wasn’t so long ago. April, I think.” In truth, she remembered the exact date, the time, and the circumstances when they’d last seen each other. So did he.
“Roxbury Crossing,” he said. “The night that retired cop was killed.”
Crime scenes were now the only places where they encountered each other. While she attended to the dead, Father Daniel Brophy’s role as Boston PD chaplain was to administer to the living, the grief-stricken and the traumatized who were so often left in the wake of violent crime. They had their separate duties and no reason to speak to each other at death scenes, but she was always aware of him. Even when they exchanged not a glance, she knew whenever he was nearby and could feel the disturbance in her well-ordered universe.
Now that universe seemed to tilt around her.
He shrugged off his coat and unwound his scarf, exposing the priest’s collar around his neck. That unforgiving band of white was merely starched fabric, but it had the power to keep apart two people who loved each other.
She avoided looking at the collar as she said, “Did you resign as police chaplain? I haven’t seen you at any crime scenes.”
“I’ve been in Canada for the last six months. I got back to town only a few weeks ago.”
“Canada? Why?”
“For a spiritual retreat. I requested it. I needed to get away from Boston for a while.”
She didn’t ask the reason why he needed time away. She could see the deeper worry lines in his face, the new strands of silver in his dark hair. It wasn’t Boston he had fled from; it was her.
“I was surprised when you called me today,” he said. “The last time we spoke, you asked me never to contact you again. It hasn’t been easy, but I want only what’s best for you, Maura. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“Daniel, this isn’t about us. It’s about—”
“Can I get you something, sir?”
They both looked up to see the waitress standing at their table, her pen and pad in hand.
“Just coffee, please,” said Daniel.
They were silent as the waitress filled his cup and warmed Maura’s. Did the woman wonder about this odd couple sitting so glum and silent in the booth? Did she assume it was merely a counseling session, that Maura was seeking comfort from her priest? Or did she see more, understand more?
Only after the waitress had left did Maura say to Daniel, “I called you because something’s come up in an investigation. I need your opinion.”
“About?”
“Could you look at this? Tell me what immediately comes to mind.” She slid a cri
me-scene photo across the table to him.
He frowned at the image. “Why are you showing this to me?”
“The victim’s name is Timothy McDougal. He was found on a pier at Jeffries Point on Christmas Eve. So far the police have no leads and no suspects.”
“I’m not sure how I can help you.”
“Just keep that image in mind. Now look at this one.” She slid him the photo of Cassandra Coyle’s corpse. It was a close-up of her face, with two gaping holes where the eyes had once been. As he stared, she said nothing, waiting to see if he would be jarred by the same revelation. When at last he glanced up at her, there was astonishment in his eyes. “Saint Lucy.”
She nodded. “That’s exactly who I thought of.”
“You never attend church, yet you recognize this symbolism?”
“My parents were Catholic, and…” She hesitated, reluctant to confess her secret. “You don’t know this, but I used to sit in your church, just to meditate. Sometimes I was the only one there. The last pew on the left, that’s where I’d always sit.”
“Why? When you don’t even believe?”
“I wanted to feel close to you. Even when you weren’t there.”
He reached across the table to touch her hand. “Maura.”
“Next to the pew where I sat, along the left wall, there are these beautiful stained-glass windows with portraits of the saints. I used to stare at those windows, thinking about their lives. About the agonies they suffered as martyrs. Strangely enough, I found that comforting, because their pain made me count my blessings. I remember one window in particular. It shows a man with his arms bound to a post, and he’s looking up toward heaven. A man who’s been shot with arrows.”
He nodded. “Sebastian, patron saint of archers and policemen. One of the most recognizable martyrs in medieval art. He was a Roman officer who converted to Christianity, and when he refused to honor the old gods, he was tied to a post and executed.” He tapped on the photo of Timothy McDougal. “You think this is a re-creation of Sebastian’s martyrdom?”
She nodded. “I’m glad you see the symbolism too.”
He pointed to the photo of Cassandra Coyle. “Tell me about this victim.”
“A twenty-six-year-old woman, found dead in her bedroom. Both her eyes were surgically removed postmortem. Her eyeballs were placed in her open palm.”
“The classic portrayal of Lucy, patron saint of the blind. She was a virgin who devoted herself to Christ, and when she refused to marry, the man she was betrothed to had her thrown in prison and tortured. The torturer dug out her eyes.”
“Once you recognize it, the symbolism practically screams at you. One victim was stabbed with arrows, like Saint Sebastian. One victim had her eyes cut out, like Saint Lucy.”
“What does Boston PD think?”
“I haven’t mentioned the symbolism to them yet. I wanted to hear your reaction first. You know the history of the saints, so you’d have the answers.”
“I know the liturgical calendar, and I’m familiar with the lives of most of the saints. But I’m not any sort of expert.”
“No? I remember you explaining in great detail the iconography of sacred art. You told me that when you see an old man holding keys, it’s almost certainly a depiction of Saint Peter, holding the keys to heaven. That a woman with an ointment pot is Mary Magdalene, and a man with ragged clothes and a lamb is John the Baptist.”
“Any art historian can tell you that.”
“But how many art historians are as well versed as you are in religious symbolism? You might be able to help us identify this killer’s other victims.”
“Are there other victims?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we just haven’t recognized them yet. And that’s where we need your help.”
For a moment he said nothing. She knew why he was hesitating. It was because of their history together as lovers. A year ago they had gone their separate ways, and the wound from that separation had not yet healed. It was still fresh, still painful. She both hoped and dreaded that he would agree to her request.
Calmly he reached for his coat and scarf. So this is his answer, she thought; a wise decision, of course. It was far better that he walk away now, but she was left heartsick as he rose to his feet. Would there ever be a day when she’d look at Daniel Brophy and feel nothing? Certainly this was not that day.
“Let’s go now,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the church.”
She frowned at him. “The church?”
“If I’m going to advise you, we should start with the basics. I’ll see you there.”
—
HOW MANY TIMES HAD SHE huddled in a pew in Our Lady of Divine Light, wallowing in her own misery? She was not a believer, yet she longed for guidance from some higher authority, and she drew comfort from the familiar symbols she saw everywhere in this building: The votive candles, flickering in the shadows. The altar, draped in rich red velvet. The stone Madonna, gazing down benignly from her alcove throne. How many times had she studied the figures of saints in the stained-glass windows and pondered their torments? Today the light that shone through those windows cast a cold and wintry gleam on Daniel’s face.
“I haven’t taken enough time to really study the glasswork in these windows, but they’re beautiful, aren’t they?” he said, as he and Maura stood admiring the first window. In each of the four corners was a different saintly figure. “I was told these aren’t very old—only a hundred years, not much more. They were crafted in France, in the traditional style, similar to what you can find in medieval churches all across Europe.”
She pointed to the top left corner. “Saint Sebastian.”
“Yes,” said Daniel. “He’s easy to identify by the manner of his martyrdom. He’s often depicted tied to a post, with his body pierced by arrows.”
“And the man in the upper right corner?” she asked. “Which saint is he?”
“That would be Bartholomew, the patron saint of Armenia. Do you see the knife he’s holding? It’s the symbol of his martyrdom.”
“He was stabbed to death?”
“No, his death was far worse. Bartholomew was flayed alive as punishment for converting the king of Armenia to Christianity. In some paintings, he’s depicted with his own excised skin hanging over his arm like a bloody cloak.” Daniel gave her a rueful smile. “Not surprisingly, he’s the patron saint of butchers and tanners.”
“Who is the saint in the bottom left corner?”
“That’s Saint Agatha, yet another martyr.”
“What’s on the plate she’s carrying? They look like loaves of bread.”
“They’re not, um, actually loaves of bread.” He paused, his discomfort so apparent that she frowned at him.
“How was she martyred?”
“Her death was particularly brutal. When she refused to honor the old Roman gods, she was tortured. Forced to walk on glass and burned with live coals. Finally, they ripped off her breasts with pincers.”
Maura stared at the objects resting on the plate, which she now knew weren’t loaves of bread but the excised breasts of a mutilated woman. She shook her head. “God, these stories.”
“They’re horrifying, yes. But they can’t be entirely unknown to you. Since your adoptive parents were Catholic.”
“Only in the nominal sense. Attendance at Christmas Mass was about the extent of their involvement, and by the time I was twelve, I’d stopped going to church at all. I hadn’t set foot in one in years until…” She paused. “Until I met you.”
They stood silent for a moment, each avoiding the other’s gaze, both of them staring ahead at the window, as if all the answers, the remedies to their pain, were etched in stained glass.
“I never stopped loving you,” he said softly. “I never will.”
“Yet we’re not together.”
He looked at her. “I’m not the one who said goodbye.”
“What choice did I have when you believe so completely in this?” She nodded at the
window of saints, at the altar and the pews. “Something I can’t believe in, won’t believe in.”
“Science doesn’t have all the answers, Maura.”
“No, it certainly doesn’t,” she said with a note of bitterness. Science didn’t explain why some people chose to be miserable in love.
“There’s more to consider than just our happiness,” he said. “There are people in this parish who depend on me, people in deep pain who need my help. And there’s my sister. She’s still alive, still healthy after all these years. I know you don’t believe in miracles, but I do.”
“Medical science cured her leukemia. Not a miracle.”
“And if you’re wrong? If I go back on my word, leave the Church, and my sister gets sick again…”
He’ll never forgive himself, thought Maura. He’ll never forgive me.
She sighed. “I didn’t come here to talk about us.”
“No, of course not.” He looked up at the window. “You’re here to talk about murder.”
She refocused on the stained glass, on the fourth saint in the window, yet another woman who’d chosen misery. This saint she did not need help to identify; she already knew her name.
“Saint Lucy,” she said.
He nodded. “Carrying a plate with her eyes on it. The eyes dug out by her torturers.”
Outside, sunlight suddenly broke through the clouds and lit up the window, suffusing the glass with colors as rich as jewels. Maura frowned at the four figures gazing from the window. “They’re both here, in the same window. Sebastian and Lucy. Is it possible he’s been in this church and stood in this very spot?”
“The killer?”
“It’s like we’re looking at his storyboard, and here are two of his victims. A man pierced with arrows. A woman with her eyes cut out.”
“This window isn’t unique, Maura. These four saints show up everywhere, and you’ll probably find their images in Catholic churches all around the world. And, look, there are a dozen more saints here.” He moved on to the next window. “There’s Saint Anthony of Padua, holding bread and the lily. Saint Luke the Evangelist with his ox. Saint Francis with his wild birds. And that’s the martyred Saint Agnes with her lamb.”