“Yes, I’ll be dead,” said Amalthea matter-of-factly. “And you’ll be left to wonder who your people are.”
“My people?” Maura laughed. “As if we’re some sort of tribe?”
“We are. We belong to a tribe that profits from the dead. Your father and I did. Your brother did. And isn’t it ironic that you do as well? Ask yourself, Maura, why did you choose your profession? Such a strange one to pursue. Why aren’t you a teacher or a banker? What compels you to slice open the dead?”
“It’s about the science. I want to understand why they died.”
“Of course. The intellectual answer.”
“Is there a better one?”
“It’s because of the darkness. We both share it. The difference is, I’m not afraid of it, but you are. You deal with your fear by cutting it open with your scalpels, hoping to reveal its secrets. But that doesn’t work, does it? It doesn’t solve your fundamental problem.”
“Which is?”
“That it’s inside you. The darkness is part of you.”
Maura looked into her mother’s eyes, and what she saw there made her throat suddenly go dry. Dear God, I see myself. She backed away. “I’m done here. You asked me to come and I did. Don’t send me any more letters, because I won’t answer them.” She turned. “Goodbye, Amalthea.”
“You’re not the only one I write to.”
Maura paused, about to open the cubicle door.
“I hear things. Things you might want to know.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “You don’t seem interested, but you will be. Because you’ll find another one soon.”
Another what?
Maura hovered on the verge of walking out, struggling not to be sucked back into the conversation. Don’t respond, she thought. Don’t let her trap you here.
It was her cell phone that saved her, its deep-throated buzz trembling in her pocket. Without a backward glance, she stepped out of the cubicle, yanked off the face mask, and fumbled under the isolation gown for the phone. “Dr. Isles,” she answered.
“Got an early Christmas present for you,” said Detective Jane Rizzoli, sounding far too breezy for the news she was about to deliver. “Twenty-six-year-old white female. Dead in bed, fully dressed.”
“Where?”
“We’re in the Leather District. It’s a loft apartment on Utica Street. I can’t wait to hear what you think about this one.”
“You said she’s in bed? Her own?”
“Yeah. Her father found her.”
“And is this clearly a homicide?”
“No doubt about it. But it’s what happened to her afterward that’s making Frost freak out over here.” Jane paused and added quietly, “At least, I hope she was dead when it happened.”
Through the cubicle window, Maura saw that Amalthea was watching the conversation, eyes sharp with interest. Of course she would be interested; death was their family trade.
“How soon can you get here?” said Jane.
“I’m in Framingham at the moment. It might take me a while, depending on traffic.”
“Framingham? What’re you doing out there?”
It was not a subject Maura wanted to discuss, certainly not with Jane. “I’m leaving now” was all she said. She hung up and looked at her dying mother. I’m done here, she thought. Now I never have to see you again.
Amalthea’s lips slowly curved into a smile.
BY THE TIME MAURA ARRIVED in Boston, darkness had fallen and a bone-chilling wind had driven most pedestrians indoors. Utica Street was narrow and already crowded with official vehicles, so she parked around the corner and paused to survey the deserted street. Over the last few days there’d been snow followed by a thaw followed by this bitter cold, and the sidewalk had the treacherous gleam of ice. Time to go to work. Time to put Amalthea behind me, she thought. Which was exactly what Jane had advised her to do months ago: Don’t visit Amalthea; don’t even think about her. Let the woman rot in jail.
Now it’s over and done with, thought Maura. I’ve said my goodbyes and she is finally out of my life.
She stepped out of her Lexus and the wind whipped the hem of her long black coat, piercing straight through the fabric of her woolen trousers. She walked as quickly as she dared to on the slick sidewalk, past a coffee shop and a shuttered travel agency, and turned the corner onto Utica Street, which cut like a narrow canyon between red-brick warehouses. Once this had been a district of leather workers and wholesalers. Many of those nineteenth-century buildings had been converted to loft apartments, and what had once been an industrial part of the city was now a trendy neighborhood for artists.
Maura stepped around construction rubbish, which partially blocked the street, and spied blue cruiser lights ahead, flashing like a grim homing beacon. Through the windshield she could see the silhouettes of two patrolmen sitting inside, their engine running to keep the vehicle warm. A cruiser window rolled down as she approached.
“Hey, Doc!” The patrolman grinned out at her. “You missed the excitement. The ambulance just left.” Though he looked familiar, and he clearly recognized her, she had no idea what his name was, something that happened all too frequently.
“What excitement?” she asked.
“Rizzoli was inside talking to some guy when he clutches his chest and keels over. Probably a heart attack.”
“Is he still alive?”
“He was when they drove off with him. You should’ve been here. They could’ve used a doctor.”
“Wrong specialty.” She glanced at the building. “Rizzoli still inside?”
“Yeah. Just go up the stairs. It’s a real nice apartment up there. Cool place to live, if you’re not dead.” As the window rolled up, she could hear the cops chuckling at their own humor. Ha-ha, death-scene joke. Never funny.
She paused in the biting wind to pull on shoe covers and gloves, then pushed into the building. As the door slammed shut with a bang behind her, she stopped dead in her tracks, confronted by the image of a blood-spattered girl. Hanging on the foyer wall like a macabre welcome sign was a poster for the horror film Carrie, a splash of Technicolor gore that would startle every visitor who walked in the door. A whole gallery of other movie posters adorned the red-brick wall along the stairway. As she climbed the steps she passed Day of the Triffids, The Pit and the Pendulum, The Birds, and Night of the Living Dead.
“You finally got here,” Jane called down from the second-floor landing. She pointed to Night of the Living Dead. “Imagine coming home to that happy image every night.”
“These posters all look like originals. They’re not to my taste, but they’re probably pretty valuable.”
“Come in and get a load of something else that’s not to your taste. Sure as hell not my taste anyway.”
Maura followed Jane into the apartment and paused to admire the massive wood beams overhead. The floor still had its original wide oak planks, now polished to a high gloss. Tasteful renovations had transformed what was once a warehouse into a stunning brick-walled loft that was certainly unaffordable for any starving artist.
“Way nicer than my apartment,” said Jane. “I could move right in here, but first I’d get rid of that creepy thing on the wall.” She pointed to the monstrous red eye that stared from yet another horror-movie poster. “Notice the name of the movie?”
“I See You?” said Maura.
“Remember that title. It could be significant,” Jane said ominously. She led Maura through an open kitchen, past a vase filled with fresh roses and lilies, a lavish touch of spring on this December night. On the black granite countertop was a florist’s card with Happy Birthday! Love, Dad written in purple ink.
“You said she was found by her father?” said Maura.
“Yeah, he owns this building. Lets her live here rent-free. She was supposed to meet Dad for lunch today at the Four Seasons to celebrate her birthday. When she didn’t show up and she didn’t answer her cell phone, Dad drove here to check on her. Says he found the entrance unlocked
, but everything else looked fine to him. Until he got to the bedroom.” Jane paused. “About this point in his story, he turned white, clutched his chest, and we had to call the ambulance.”
“The patrolman downstairs said the man was still alive when the ambulance left.”
“But he wasn’t looking good. After what we found in the bedroom, I was worried that Frost might need an ambulance too.”
Detective Barry Frost was standing in the far corner of the bedroom, determinedly focused on what he was jotting in a notebook. His wintry pallor was more pronounced than usual, and he managed only a feeble nod as Maura entered. She gave Frost scarcely a glance; her attention was fixed on the bed, where the victim was lying. The young woman lay in a strangely serene pose, her arms at her sides, as if she’d simply settled on top of the bedspread, fully dressed, for a nap. She was all in black, in leggings and a turtleneck, which emphasized the ghostly whiteness of her face. Her hair was black as well, but the blond roots betrayed the fact that her raven color was merely a dye job. Multiple gold studs pierced her ears, and a gold hoop gleamed on her right eyebrow. But it was what gaped beneath the eyebrows that drew Maura’s shocked attention.
Both eye sockets were empty. The contents had been scooped out, leaving behind only bloody hollows.
Stunned, Maura glanced down at the woman’s left hand. At what were nestled like two gruesome marbles in her open palm.
“And that’s what makes this a fun night, boys and girls,” Jane said.
“Bilateral globe enucleation,” said Maura softly.
“Is that some kind of fancy medical talk for someone cut out her eyeballs?”
“Yes.”
“I love how you give everything a nice dry clinical spin. It makes the fact she’s holding her own eyeballs somehow seem less, oh, totally fucked up.”
“Tell me about this victim,” said Maura.
Frost looked up reluctantly from his notebook. “Cassandra Coyle, twenty-six years old. Lives—lived here alone; no current boyfriend. She’s an independent filmmaker, has her own production company called Crazy Ruby Films. Works out of a small studio on South Street.”
“That’s another building that her dad owns,” added Jane. “Obviously there’s money in the family.”
Frost continued. “Her father says he last spoke to the victim yesterday afternoon, around five or six P.M., just as she was leaving her film studio. We’re gonna head over there next to interview her colleagues, try to nail down the exact time they last saw her.”
“What kind of films do they make?” asked Maura, although the answer had already been apparent, based on the movie posters she’d seen hanging in the loft.
“Horror flicks,” said Frost. “Her dad said they’d just finished filming their second one.”
“And that goes along with her sense of fashion,” said Jane, eyeing the victim’s multiple piercings and raven-black hair. “I thought Goth had gone out of style, but this gal totally rocked the look.”
Reluctantly, Maura focused again on what was cradled in the victim’s hand. Exposure to air had dried the corneas, and blue eyes that once glistened were now dull and clouded. Although the severed muscles had shriveled, she could identify the recti and oblique muscles that so precisely control the movements of the human eye. Those six muscles, working in intricate collaboration, allowed a hunter to track a duck through the sky, a student to scan a textbook.
“Please tell us she was already dead when he did…that,” said Jane.
“These enucleations appear to be postmortem, judging by the condition of the palpebrae.”
“The what?”
“The eyelids. Do you see how there’s almost no extraneous damage to the tissues? Whoever removed the globes took his time doing it, and that would be difficult if she were conscious and struggling. Also there’s minimal blood loss, which indicates to me that she had no pulse. Her circulation was already shut down when the first cut was made.” Maura paused, studying the hollowed-out sockets. “The symbolism is fascinating.”
Jane turned to Frost. “Didn’t I tell you she’d say that?”
“The eyes are considered the windows to the soul. Maybe this killer didn’t like what he saw in hers. Or he didn’t like the way she looked at him. Maybe he felt threatened by her gaze and reacted by cutting out the eyes.”
“Or maybe her last movie had something to do with it,” said Frost. “I See You.”
Maura looked at him. “That poster was for her movie?”
“She wrote and produced it. According to Dad, it was her first feature film. You never know who might have watched it. Maybe some weirdo.”
“Who might have been inspired by it,” said Maura, staring at the two eyes cupped in the victim’s hand.
“You ever seen a case like this, Doc?” asked Frost. “A victim with the eyes cut out?”
“Dallas,” Maura said. “It wasn’t my case, but I heard about it from a colleague. Three women were shot to death and their eyes excised postmortem. The killer’s first excision was surgically precise, like this one. But by the third victim, he’d gotten sloppy. Which was how they caught him.”
“So…a serial killer.”
“Who also happened to be skilled in taxidermy. After he was arrested, police found dozens of women’s photos in his apartment, and he’d snipped out all the eyes of the photos. He hated women and was sexually aroused when he hurt them.” She glanced at Frost. “But that’s the only case I’ve heard of. This sort of mutilation is unusual.”
“It’s a first for us,” said Jane.
“Let’s hope it’s your first and only.” Maura grasped the right arm, tried to flex the elbow, and found the joint immovable. “The skin is cold and she’s in full rigor mortis. Based on the phone call with her father, we know she was still alive around five P.M. yesterday. That narrows the postmortem interval to somewhere between twelve and twenty-four hours.” She looked up. “Any witnesses who can help us narrow down time of death? Security cameras in the area?”
“Not on this block,” said Frost. “But I spotted a camera on the building around the corner, and it looks like it’s pointed right at the entrance to Utica Street. Maybe it caught her as she was walking home. And, if we’re lucky, it recorded someone else too.”
Maura peeled down the turtleneck collar to check for bruises or ligature marks, but she saw neither. Next she pulled up the victim’s black turtleneck to expose the torso and, with Jane’s help, rolled the body onto its side. The back was a deep purple, where blood had pooled after death. She pressed a gloved finger against the discolored flesh and found that livor mortis was fixed, which confirmed that the victim had been dead for at least twelve hours.
But what had caused this death? Except for the mutilated eyes, Maura saw no evidence of trauma. “No bullet wounds, no blood, no evidence of strangulation,” she said. “I see no other injuries.”
“He cuts out the eyeballs, but he doesn’t take them,” Jane said, frowning. “Instead, he leaves them in her hand, like some sick parting gift. What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“That’s a question for a psychologist.” Maura straightened. “I can’t determine the cause of death here. Let’s see what turns up at autopsy.”
“Maybe it was an OD,” suggested Frost.
“That’s certainly high on the list. The drug and tox screen will give us that answer.” Maura stripped off her gloves. “She’ll be first on my schedule tomorrow.”
Jane followed Maura out of the bedroom. “Is there anything you want to talk about, Maura?”
“I can’t tell you more until the autopsy.”
“I don’t mean about this case.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“On the phone, you said you were in Framingham. Please tell me you didn’t go to see that woman.”
Calmly, Maura buttoned up her coat. “You make it sound like I’ve committed a crime.”
“So you were there. I thought we both agreed you should stay away from h
er.”
“Amalthea’s been admitted to the ICU, Jane. She had complications from her chemotherapy, and I have no idea how much longer she’ll be alive.”
“She’s using you, playing on your sympathy. Geez, Maura, you’re just going to get hurt again.”
“You know, I really don’t want to talk about this.” Without a backward glance, Maura headed down the stairs and walked out of the building. Outside, a frigid wind funneled down the street, lashing her hair and face. As she walked toward her car, she heard the building door slam shut again. Glancing back, she saw that Jane had followed her outside.
“What does she want from you?” Jane asked.
“She’s dying of cancer. What do you think she wants? Maybe a little sympathy?”
“She’s messing with your head. She knows how to get to you. Look how she twisted her son.”
“You think I’d ever be like him?”
“Of course not! But you said it yourself once. You said you were born with the same streak of darkness that runs in the Lank family. Somehow she’ll find a way to use that to her advantage.”
Maura unlocked her Lexus. “I’ve got enough problems on my plate. I don’t need a lecture from you.”
“Okay, okay.” Jane held up both hands, a gesture of surrender. “I’m just looking out for you. You’re usually so smart. Please don’t do something stupid.”
Maura watched as Jane strode back to the crime scene. Back to the bedroom where a dead woman lay, her body frozen in rigor mortis. A woman with no eyes.
Suddenly Amalthea’s words came back to her: You’ll find another one soon.
Turning, she quickly scanned the street, surveying every doorway, every window. Was that a face watching her from the second floor? Did someone move in that alleyway? Everywhere she looked, she imagined ominous silhouettes. This was what Jane had warned her about. This was Amalthea’s power; she’d parted the curtain to reveal a nightmarish landscape where everything was painted in shadows.
Shivering, Maura climbed into her car and started the engine. Icy air blasted from the heater vent. It was time to go home.