I Know a Secret

  “What do you think you’re going to see?” said Jane.

  “Put on the goggles and let’s find out.”

  Details hidden to the naked eye under normal light could sometimes magically become visible under wavelengths from a forensic light source. Fibers and body fluids will fluoresce, and against a background of pale skin, otherwise invisible residues and inks will show up as dark patches. This search would not be entirely random; Maura already knew what she was looking for.

  And where she would find it.

  “Lights off,” she said to Yoshima, and he flipped the switch.

  The room went dark. Under the glow of the CrimeScope, a host of new details suddenly became visible as Maura tuned the instrument, altering the wavelength. Strands of hair glowed on the floor, the detritus shed by multiple cops and ME staff. Gloves, gowns, and shoe covers were not 100 percent effective in preventing the shedding of hairs and fibers, and here was the evidence.

  Maura focused the beam on Timothy McDougal’s face.

  “CSRU already searched him for trace evidence at the scene,” said Jane.

  “I know, but I’m looking for something else. Something I’m not even sure will turn up.” She couldn’t see it yet on the face, so she lowered the beam to the neck and once again tuned through different wavelengths, ignoring the dark pinpoints of blood spatter that she’d disseminated during her Y incision. She was looking for something less random. Something geometric.

  And there, just above the level of the thyroid cartilage, she saw it. A faint band that encircled the throat and extended toward the back of the neck, where it vanished from sight.

  “What the hell’s that?” asked Jane. “A ligature mark?”

  “No. I’ve already examined the neck and there’s no bruising, no impressions on the skin itself. And his hyoid bone is intact on the X-ray.”

  “Then what made that pattern?”

  “I think it’s residue. Adhesive manufacturers sometimes add materials like titanium dioxide or iron oxide to their products. I was hoping this would show up under the CrimeScope, and here it is.”

  “Adhesive? You mean like duct tape?”

  “Possibly, but this tape wasn’t used to restrain him. See how the pattern extends only around the front of the neck? The tape was used to hold something in place, but it wasn’t tight enough to leave bruises. If this man’s tox screen also comes back positive for ketamine, then I have a pretty good idea what happened to him. And to Cassandra Coyle. Yoshima, lights.”

  Jane pulled off her goggles and frowned at Maura. “You think they were killed by the same perp?”

  Maura nodded. “And I know how he did it.”

  BLUE EYES LOOKS SURPRISED TO see me standing in his doorway. It’s been nearly two weeks since we slept together, since I sneaked like a thief out of his bedroom. I haven’t tried to contact him, not once, because sometimes a girl doesn’t need any more obligations in her life. It’s too much work trying to keep a man happy, and I have my own needs to look after.

  Which is why I’m now standing on his doorstep: Because I need him. Not him, specifically, just someone who’ll make me feel safe again after the unsettling news I read on the Boston Globe website. I’m not even sure why I chose to run to him. Maybe it’s because instinct tells me he’s reliable and utterly harmless, someone I can turn my back on without worrying about a knife sinking between my shoulder blades. Maybe because he’s a relative stranger who won’t know the difference between truth and the fiction I occasionally spin. All I know is, for the first time I can remember, I’m hungry for some human connection. I think he is too.

  But he doesn’t seem eager to invite me in. He just frowns at me as if I’m some pesky neighborhood evangelist he’d love to get rid of.

  “It’s cold out here,” I say. “Can I come in?”

  “You never even bothered to say goodbye.”

  “That was shitty of me. I’m sorry. I was going through a tough time at work and I wasn’t myself. And that night I spent with you, it sort of overwhelmed me. I needed time to think about what happened between us. What it all meant.”

  He gives a resigned sigh. “Okay, Holly, come in. It’s, like, ten degrees out there and I don’t want you to catch pneumonia.”

  I don’t bother to correct him that you can’t catch pneumonia from the cold, and I just follow him inside. Once again I’m impressed by his townhouse, which feels like a palace compared with my dinky apartment. Everett is what my late mother would have called a quality acquaintance, a boyfriend worth cultivating. I fear I’ve already fouled things up between us, and he’s too nice a guy to throw me out yet. He’s wearing blue jeans and an old flannel shirt, so it must be his day off, which gives me time to make things right between us. We stand for a moment in awkward silence, regarding each other. I’m mesmerized by the blueness of his eyes. His hair’s uncombed and his shirt’s missing a button, but those details only make him seem more genuine to me. For once, a man I don’t have to be wary of.

  “I want to explain why I left without saying goodbye,” I tell him. “That night we met, you—well, you took my breath away. I couldn’t help myself. I jumped into bed with you way too soon. And the next morning, I felt…ashamed.”

  His gaze instantly softens. “Why?”

  “Because I’m not that kind of girl.” Actually, I am that kind of girl, but he doesn’t need to know that. “When I woke up the next morning, I knew what you probably thought of me, and I couldn’t face you. I was too embarrassed. So I climbed out of bed, put on my clothes, and…” I let my voice trail away and I sink onto his sofa. It’s a beautiful black leather sofa, very comfortable and certainly expensive. Not something I could ever afford.

  Another point in his favor.

  He sits down next to me and takes my hand. “Holly, I understand exactly what you’re saying,” he says quietly. “I may be a guy, but I felt the same way, jumping into bed with you so soon. I was afraid you’d think I was just using you. I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of jerk. Because I’m not.”

  “I never thought so.”

  He takes a deep breath and smiles. “Okay, shall we start over?” He holds out his hand. “Hello, I’m Everett Prescott. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  We shake hands and grin at each other. Instantly, everything’s all better between us. I feel warmth flood through me, not a sexual flush this time but something deeper. Something that takes me by surprise. A connection. Is this what it’s like to fall in love?

  “So tell me, why did you come back?” he asks. “Why today?”

  I look down at our hands, joined together, and decide to tell him the truth. “Something awful happened. I saw it on the news this morning.”

  “What happened?”

  “There was a man murdered on Christmas Eve. They found his body on Jeffries Point pier.”

  “Yes, I heard about that.”

  “The thing is, I knew him.”

  Everett stares at me. “God, I’m sorry. Was he a good friend?”

  “No, we just went to school together, in Brookline. But the news shook me up, you know? It reminded me that anything can happen to us. At any time.”

  He puts his arm around me and pulls me against him. I press my cheek against his soft flannel shirt and sniff the scent of laundry detergent and aftershave. Comforting smells that make me feel like a little girl again, safe in Daddy’s arms.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you, Holly,” he murmurs.

  It’s something my father always says, and I don’t believe him either.

  I sigh against his shirt. “No one can make that promise.”

  “Well, I did.” Everett tucks a hand under my chin and lifts my gaze to his. He’s studying me, trying to understand what has shaken me so deeply. I’ve told him about Tim, but that’s only part of the story. He doesn’t need to know the rest of it.

  He doesn’t need to know about the others who’ve died.

  “What can I do to make you feel safe???
? he says.

  “Just be my friend.” I take a breath. “That’s what I need right now. Someone I can count on.” Someone who won’t ask too many questions.

  “Would you like me to go with you to the funeral?”

  “What?”

  “For your friend. If you’re this upset about his death, you should go. It’s important to acknowledge grief, Holly. It will give you closure, and I’ll be right beside you.”

  There could be advantages to having him accompany me at Tim’s funeral. He’d be an extra pair of ears to listen in on gossip, to gather information about how Tim died and what the police are thinking. But there’d be dangers as well. At Sarah Byrne’s funeral, I’d been quick to slip away. At Cassie Coyle’s funeral, I was able to pass myself off as a college classmate named Sasha, because no one recognized me. But Everett knows my name is Holly. He knows a bit of the truth, not all of it, and that’s enough to complicate any lies I need to tell. There’s an old poem that goes: Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive, but that’s all backward. Real problems don’t come from deception; they come from the truth.

  “I can be your rock, Holly, if you want me to be,” he offers.

  I look into Everett’s eyes and see the definite gleam of infatuation. Yes, he could be useful, in ways I’m only now considering.

  “What do you think?” he says.

  I smile. “I think I’d like that very much.”

  But as our lips meet in a kiss, it suddenly occurs to me that a rock isn’t just something to cling to, something to keep you safe. It’s also something that can drag you down, down under the waves.

  “THIS IS THE ONLY MECHANISM of death that makes sense to me,” said Maura. “The problem is, it’s almost impossible for me to prove.”

  Maura looked across the Boston PD conference table at forensic psychologist Dr. Lawrence Zucker, whose expression offered little indication whether she’d convinced him. Both Jane and Frost had remained silent, allowing Maura to present her theory without interruption. Now she had to defend it to a man whose face she’d never been able to read. A familiar visitor to the homicide unit, Dr. Zucker was the psychologist whom Boston PD consulted when they needed help understanding a perpetrator’s behavior. While Maura respected him as a fellow professional, she had never warmed to him, and no wonder. With his coldly probing gaze, he seemed more android than human, a machine designed to drill deeply and dispassionately into the mind of whoever sat before him.

  And that gaze was now focused on Maura.

  “Do you have any evidence to support your proposed mechanism of death?” Dr. Zucker asked, pale eyes unblinking.

  “The swab of the victim’s neck turned up traces of polyisoprene as well as a C5 hydrocarbon component,” said Maura. “Both of these are commonly used in duct-tape adhesives. Inorganic materials are also common components, and that’s what made the residue visible under the CrimeScope.”

  Jane said, “You can see the residue outline in the photos of his neck,” and she turned her laptop to face him.

  Zucker squinted at the image. “It’s pretty subtle.”

  “But it’s definitely there. Evidence of tape adhesive on his skin.”

  “Maybe the tape was used to restrain him.”

  “His neck showed no bruising and no scratches,” said Maura. “There was nothing on his hands to indicate a physical struggle. I believe he was already unconscious when he was killed. The lab confirmed there was alcohol and ketamine in his blood, just like we found in Cassandra Coyle. But the blood levels weren’t high enough to kill. Only to incapacitate.”

  “So what was the tape on his neck for, if not to restrain him?”

  “I believe it was used to fix something in place against his skin. Something that needed a fairly airtight seal. When I realized that was adhesive residue on his neck, I immediately thought of Heaven’s Gate. And I’m not referring to the Michael Cimino movie.” She paused, waiting to see if Zucker recognized the reference.

  “I assume you’re referring to the cult in San Diego?” said Zucker.

  Maura nodded and looked at Frost. “It happened in 1997. Heaven’s Gate was an oddball New Age cult led by a man named Marshall Applewhite, who believed he was descended from Jesus Christ. He told his followers that the world was about to be destroyed by aliens and the only way to survive was to leave earth. The comet Hale-Bopp happened to be approaching around that time, and Applewhite believed that in the comet’s tail was an alien spaceship, waiting to beam aboard their souls. But to board that ship, they first had to abandon their earthly bodies.” She paused. “I think you can all guess what that entailed.”

  “Suicide,” said Frost.

  “Thirty-nine cult members dressed themselves in identical black shirts, sweatpants, and Nike athletic shoes. They ingested just enough phenobarbital and vodka to sedate themselves so they wouldn’t experience any anxiety or panic. Then they secured plastic bags over their heads. They died of asphyxiation.”

  “In that case, the cause of death was obvious,” said Zucker.

  “Of course. When a victim’s found with a plastic bag over his head, the mechanism of death is apparent, and that’s what they found in the Heaven’s Gate mass suicide. But what if someone removes the plastic bag after the victim has died? It’s very difficult to prove homicide, because that form of asphyxiation doesn’t leave any specific pathologic changes. When I performed the autopsies on Cassandra Coyle and Timothy McDougal, all I found was a minor degree of lung edema and scattered lung petechiae. If it weren’t for the fact they were both mutilated postmortem, I would have had a hard time classifying either case as homicide.”

  “Let me get this straight,” said Zucker. “Someone commits the perfect murders. And then ensures that we know these are murders by mutilating the corpses?”

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Zucker rocked forward in his chair, his reptilian-cold eyes lit with interest. “This is fascinating.”

  “What it is is sick,” said Jane.

  “Consider the message this killer is trying to convey,” said Zucker. “He’s telling the world how clever he is, saying, If I want to, I can kill and get away with it. But I want you to know what I’ve done.”

  “So he’s bragging,” said Jane.

  “Yes, but bragging to whom?”

  “To us, of course. He’s taunting the police, telling us he’s too smart to be caught.”

  “Are you certain we’re the ones he’s trying to communicate with? Mob hits leave calling cards as well, designed to intimidate.”

  “We’re not seeing any mob connections with either of these victims,” said Jane.

  “Then the message could be for someone else entirely. Someone who understands the symbolism of removing the eyes or stabbing with arrows. Tell me more about this second victim, the young man. You said he was found on the pier, but where was he killed?”

  “We don’t know. He was last seen leaving his apartment building in the North End around four P.M., five hours before his body was found. Dark-blue fibers collected from his pants are consistent with carpet commonly used in autos, so after he was killed, the body was probably transported by car to the pier.”

  Zucker leaned back, fingers tented, eyes narrowed in thought. “Our killer made a point of placing his victim in a public location. He could have dumped the body in the harbor or hidden it in the woods. But, no, he wanted it found. He wanted publicity. This is definitely a message of some kind.”

  “That’s why I asked Dr. Isles to present her theory to you,” Jane said to Zucker. “I think we’re wading into some deep, dark psychological shit here. We want your take on what kind of weirdo we’re dealing with.”

  This was precisely the type of case Zucker savored, and Maura saw excitement in his eyes as he considered the question. She wondered what manner of man chose to delve so enthusiastically into the darkness. To understand a killer’s mind, did it take someone equally twisted? What does that say about me?

  “Why d
o you believe these two victims were killed by the same perpetrator?” Zucker asked Maura.

  “It seems pretty clear to me. Both of them had ketamine and alcohol in their blood. Neither had an apparent cause of death. Both were mutilated postmortem.”

  “Cutting out the eyeballs is very different symbolism from stabbing arrows into the chest.”

  “In either case, it takes a sick puppy to do it,” said Jane.

  “The mere presence of ketamine in the tox screen isn’t all that unique,” said Zucker. “It’s a common-enough club drug. According to one recent study, even high school students are now using it.”

  “Yes,” Maura conceded. “It’s common enough, but—”

  “Then there’s the fact that the first victim’s female, the second is male,” said Zucker. “Is there anything that ties them together?” He looked at Jane. “Did they know each other? Have friends or jobs in common?”

  “As far as we’ve determined, no,” Jane admitted. “Different neighborhoods, different circles of friends, different colleges, different jobs.”

  “Online connections? Social media?”

  “Tim McDougal didn’t have a Facebook or Twitter account, so we can’t connect them that way.”

  “I’ve also reviewed their credit-card statements,” said Frost. “Over the last six months they didn’t frequent the same restaurants, bars, or even grocery stores. Timothy’s younger sister doesn’t recognize Cassandra’s name. And Cassandra’s stepmother never heard of Timothy McDougal.”

  “So how and why did the killer choose these two particular people?”

  There was a long silence. No one had the answer.

  “They both had alcohol in their stomachs,” said Maura.

  Dr. Zucker had been silently jotting notes, and now he looked up from his yellow legal pad. “Spiking a drink with ketamine sounds like a common prelude to date rape.”

  “Neither victim was sexually assaulted,” said Maura.

  “You’re certain?”