Freaks: A Rizzoli & Isles Short Story

courtroom.

“Tell us how Mr. Dixon came to be a medical examiner’s case.” Aguilar stood with her gaze fixed on Maura’s, as though to say: Ignore everyone else in the room. Just look at me and state the facts.

Maura straightened and began to speak, loudly enough for everyone in the courtroom to hear. “The decedent was a twenty-four-year-old man who was discovered unresponsive in the backseat of a Boston Police Department cruiser. This was approximately twenty minutes after his arrest. He was transported by ambulance to Massachusetts General Hospital, where he was pronounced dead on arrival in the emergency room.”

“And that made him a medical examiner’s case?”

“Yes, it did. He was subsequently transferred to our morgue.”

“Describe for the court Mr. Dixon’s appearance when you first saw him.”

It didn’t escape Maura’s attention that Aguilar referred to the dead man by name. Not as the body or the deceased. It was her way of reminding the court that the victim had an identity. A name and a face and a life.

Maura responded likewise. “Mr. Dixon was a well-nourished man, of average height and weight, who arrived at our facility clothed only in cotton briefs and socks. His other clothing had been removed earlier during resuscitation attempts in the emergency room. EKG pads were still affixed to his chest, and an intravenous catheter remained in his left arm …” She paused. Here was where things got uncomfortable. Although she avoided looking at the audience and the defendant, she could feel their eyes on her.

“And the condition of his body? Would you describe it for us?” Aguilar prodded.

“There were multiple bruises over the chest, the left flank, and the upper abdomen. Both eyes were swollen shut, and there were lacerations of the lip and scalp. Two of his teeth—the upper front incisors—were missing.”

“Objection.” The defense attorney stood. “There’s no way of knowing when he lost those teeth. They could have been missing for years.”

“One tooth showed up on X-ray. In his stomach,” said Maura.

“The witness should refrain from commenting until I’ve ruled,” the judge cut in severely. He looked at the defense attorney. “Objection overruled. Ms. Aguilar, proceed.”

The ADA nodded, her lips twitching into a smile, and she refocused on Maura. “So Mr. Dixon was badly bruised, he had lacerations, and at least one of his teeth had recently been knocked out.”

“Yes,” said Maura. “As you’ll see from the morgue photographs.”

“If it please the court, we would like to show those morgue photos now,” said Aguilar. “I should warn the audience, these are not pleasant to look at. If any visitors in the courtroom would prefer not to see them, I suggest they leave at this point.” She paused and looked around.

No one left the room.

As the first slide went up, revealing Fabian Dixon’s battered body, there were audible intakes of breath. Maura had kept her description of Dixon’s bruises understated, because she knew the photos would tell the story better than she could. Photos couldn’t be accused of taking sides or lying. And the truth staring from that image was obvious to all: Fabian Dixon had been savagely battered before being placed in the backseat of the police cruiser.

Other slides appeared as Maura described what she had found on autopsy. Multiple broken ribs. A swallowed tooth in the stomach. Aspirated blood in the lungs. And the cause of death: a splenic rupture, which had led to massive intraperitoneal hemorrhage.

“And what was the manner of Mr. Dixon’s death, Dr. Isles?” Aguilar asked.

This was the key question, the one that she dreaded answering, because of the consequences that would follow.

“Homicide,” said Maura. It was not her job to point out the guilty party. She restricted her answer to that one word, but she couldn’t help glancing at Wayne Graff. The accused police officer sat motionless, his face as unreadable as granite. For more than a decade, he had served the city of Boston with distinction. A dozen character witnesses had stepped forward to tell the court how Officer Graff had courageously come to their aid. He was a hero, they said, and Maura believed them.

But on the night of October 31, the night that Fabian Dixon murdered a police officer, Wayne Graff and his partner had transformed into angels of vengeance. They’d made the arrest, and Dixon was in their custody when he died. Subject was agitated and violent, as if under the influence of PCP or crack, they wrote in their statement. They described Dixon’s crazed resistance, his superhuman strength. It had taken both officers to wrestle the prisoner into the cruiser. Controlling him required force, but he did not seem to notice pain. During this struggle, he was making grunts and animal sounds and trying to take off his clothes, even though it was forty degrees that night. They had described, almost too perfectly, the known medical condition of excited delirium, which had killed other cocaine-addled prisoners.

But months later, the toxicology report showed only alcohol in Dixon’s system. It left no doubt in Maura’s mind that the manner of death was homicide. And one of the killers now sat at the defense table, staring at Maura.

“I have no further questions,” said Aguilar and she sat down, looking confident that she had successfully made her case.

Morris Whaley, the defense attorney, rose for the cross-examination, and Maura felt her muscles tense. Whaley appeared cordial enough as he approached the witness stand, as if he intended only to have a friendly chat. Had they met at a cocktail party, she might have found him pleasant company, an attractive enough man in his Brooks Brothers suit.

“I think we’re all impressed by your credentials, Dr. Isles,” he said. “So I won’t take up any more of the court’s time reviewing your academic achievements.”

She said nothing, just stared at his smiling face, wondering from which direction the attack would come.

“I don’t think anyone in this room doubts that you’ve worked hard to get where you are today,” Whaley continued. “Especially taking into account some of the challenges you’ve faced in your personal life in the past few months.”

“Objection.” Aguilar heaved an exasperated sigh and stood. “This is not relevant.”

“It is, your honor. It goes to the witness’s judgment,” said Whaley.

“How so?” the judge countered.

“Past experiences can affect how a witness interprets the evidence.”

“What experiences are you referring to?”

“If you’ll allow me to explore that issue, it will become apparent.”

The judge stared hard at Whaley. “For the moment, I’ll allow this line of questioning. But only for the moment.”

Aguilar sat back down, scowling.

Whaley turned his attention back to Maura. “Dr. Isles, do you happen to recall the date that you examined the deceased?”

Maura paused, taken aback by the abrupt return to the topic of the autopsy. It did not slip past her that he’d avoided using the victim’s name.

“You are referring to Mr. Dixon?” she said, and saw irritation flicker in his eyes.

“Yes.”

“The date of the postmortem was November first of last year.”

“And on that date, did you determine the cause of death?”

“Yes. As I said earlier, he died of massive internal hemorrhage secondary to a ruptured spleen.”

“On that same date, did you also specify the manner of death?”

She hesitated. “No. At least, not a final—”

“Why not?”

She took a breath, aware of all the eyes watching her. “I wanted to wait for the results of the toxicology screen. To see whether Mr. Dixon was, in fact, under the influence of cocaine or other pharmaceuticals. I wanted