Last to Die

“You’ve already ruled out homicide, have you?” said Dr. Owen.

He nodded. “We talked to the witness. Girl named Claire Ward, age thirteen. She was outside, standing right here when it happened, and she didn’t see anyone else on the roof but the victim. Said the woman spread her arms and took a dive.” He pointed up toward the brightly lit turret. “The door leading from her office was wide open, and we saw no signs of a struggle. She stepped out onto the roof walk, climbed over the railing, and jumped.”

“Why?”

The detective shrugged. “That I’ll leave to the shrinks. The ones who haven’t jumped.”

Dr. Owen quickly rose back to her feet, but Maura felt her own age as she stood up more slowly, her right knee stiff from too many summers of gardening, from four decades of inevitable wear and tear on tendons and cartilage. It was yet another creaky reminder that a new generation always stood waiting in the wings.

“So, based on what the witness told you,” said Dr. Owen, “this doesn’t sound like an accidental death.”

“Unless she accidentally climbed over the railing and accidentally flung herself off the roof.”

“Okay.” Dr. Owen stripped off her gloves. “I have to agree. Manner of death is suicide.”

“Except we never saw it coming,” said Maura. “There was no warning at all.”

In the dark, she could not see the expressions of the two cops, but could imagine them both rolling their eyes.

“You want a suicide note?” one detective said.

“I want a reason. I knew the woman.”

“Wives think they know their husbands. And parents know their kids.”

“Yes, I hear the same thing all the time after suicides. We had no warning. I’m fully aware that families are sometimes clueless. But this …” Maura paused, aware of three pairs of eyes watching her, the distinguished ME from Boston, trying to defend something as illogical as a hunch. “You have to understand, Dr. Welliver’s job was to counsel damaged children. To help them heal after severe emotional trauma. It was her life’s work, so why would she traumatize them further by making them see this? By dying in such a spectacular way?”

“Do you have an answer?”

“No, I don’t. Neither do her colleagues. No one on the faculty or staff understands this.”

“Next of kin?” asked Dr. Owen. “Anyone who might provide insight?”

“She was a widow. As far as Headmaster Baum knows, she has no family left.”

“Then I’m afraid it’s just one of those unknowns,” said Dr. Owen.

“But I will do an autopsy, even though the cause of death seems apparent.”

Maura looked down at the body and thought: determining cause of death will be the easy part. Slice open skin, examine ruptured organs and shattered bones, and you’ll find answers. It was the questions she could not answer that troubled her. The motives, the secret torments that drove human beings to kill strangers or take their own lives.

After the last official vehicle finally left that night, Maura made her way upstairs to the faculty common room, where most of the staff had gathered. A fire was burning in the hearth, but no one had turned on any of the lamps, as if none of them could bear any bright light on this tragic night. Maura sank into a velvet armchair and watched firelight flicker on the faces. She heard a soft clink as Gottfried poured a glass of brandy. Without a word he set it down on the table beside Maura, surmising that she, too, could use a stiff drink. She gave a nod and gratefully took a sip.

“Someone here must have a clue why she did it,” said Lily. “There had to be some sign, something we didn’t realize was significant.”

Gottfried said: “We can’t check her emails because I don’t have her password. But the police searched her personal effects, looking for a suicide note. Nothing. I spoke to the cook, the gardener, and they saw nothing of significance, not a single sign that Anna was suicidal.”

“I saw her in the garden this morning, snipping roses for her desk,” said Lily “Does that sound like something a suicidal woman would do?”

“How would we know?” Dr. Pasquantonio muttered. “She was the psychologist.”

Gottfried looked around the room at his colleagues. “You’ve all spoken to the students. Do any of them have an answer?”

“No one,” said Karla Duplessis, the literature teacher. “She had four student sessions scheduled today. Arthur Toombs was her last appointment, at one P.M., and he said she seemed a little distracted, but nothing else. The children are as bewildered as we are. If you think this is difficult for us, imagine how hard it is for them. Anna was tending to their emotional needs, and now they find out she was the fragile one. It makes them wonder if they can count on us. If adults are strong enough to stand by them.”

“Which is why we can’t look weak. Not now.” The gruff words came from a shadowy corner of the room. It was Roman the forester, the only one who was not indulging in a comforting glass of brandy. “We have to go about our business as we always do.”

“That would be unnatural,” said Karla. “We all need time to process this.”

“Process? Just a fancy word for moping and wailing. The lady killed herself, there’s nothing to be done but just move on.” With a grunt he rose and walked out of the room, trailing the scent of pine and tobacco.

“There’s the milk of human kindness for you,” Karla said under her breath. “With Roman setting the example, no wonder we’ve got students killing chickens.”

Gottfried said, “But Mr. Roman does bring up a valid point, about the importance of maintaining routine. The students need that. They need time to mourn, of course, but they also need to know that life goes on.” He looked at Lily. “We are going ahead with the field trip to Quebec?”

“I haven’t canceled anything,” she said. “The hotel rooms are booked, and the children have been talking about it for weeks.”

“Then you should take them as promised.”

“They’re not all going, are they?” said Maura. “Given Teddy’s situation, I think it’s too dangerous for him to be out in public and exposed.”

“Detective Rizzoli made that perfectly clear,” said Lily. “He’ll stay here, where we know he’s safe. Will and Claire will stay behind as well. And of course, Julian.” Lily smiled. “He told me he wants more time alone with you. Which is quite the compliment, Dr. Isles, coming from a teenager.”

“This still feels wrong, somehow,” said Karla. “To take them on a fun field trip when Anna’s just died. We should stay here, to honor her. To figure out what drove her to this.”

“Grief,” said Lily quietly. “Sometimes it catches up with you. Even years later.”

Pasquantonio harrumphed. “That happened, what? Twenty-two years ago?”

“You’re talking about the murder of Anna’s husband?” asked Maura.

Pasquantonio nodded and reached for the brandy bottle to refill his glass. “She told me all about it. How Frank was snatched from his car. How his company paid the ransom, but Frank was executed anyway, and his body was dumped days later. No arrest was ever made.”

“That must have enraged her,” said Maura. “And anger turned inward results in depression. If she carried that rage all these years …”

“We all do,” said Pasquantonio. “It’s why we’re here. Why we choose this work. Rage is the fuel that keeps us going.”

“Fuel can also be dangerous. It explodes.” Maura looked around the room, at people who had all been scarred by violence. “Are you certain you can handle it? Can your students? I saw what was hanging from that willow tree. Someone here has already proven he—or she—is capable of killing.”

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence as the teachers looked at one another.

Gottfried said, “It is something that concerns us. Something that Anna and I discussed yesterday. That one of our students may be deeply disturbed, perhaps even—”

“A psychopath,” said Lily.