Last to Die

“What did the boy see? Do you know?”

Moore shook his head. “I just hope he didn’t see what’s in this room.”

That warning was enough to make Jane’s fingers feel chilled inside the latex gloves. Moore was a tall man, and his shoulders blocked her view into the bedroom, as if he was trying to protect her from the sight that awaited her. In silence, he stepped aside to let her pass.

Two crime scene techs were crouched in a corner, and they looked up as Jane walked in. Both were young women, part of the new wave of female criminalists who now dominated the field. Neither one looked old enough to have children, to know what it was like to press worried kisses to a feverish cheek or to panic at the sight of an open window, an empty crib. With motherhood came a whole host of nightmares. In this room, one of those nightmares had come true.

“We believe these victims are the Ackermans’ daughters Cassandra, age ten, and Sarah, age nine. Both adopted,” said Maura. “Since they’re out of their beds, something must have awakened them.”

“Gunshots?” said Jane softly.

“There were no reports of gunfire heard in the neighborhood,” said Moore. “A suppressor must have been used.”

“But something alarmed these girls,” said Maura. “Something that made them climb out of bed.”

Jane had not moved from her spot near the door. For a moment no one spoke, and she realized that they were all waiting for her to approach the bodies, to do her cop thing. Exactly what she had no wish to do. She forced herself to move toward the huddled bodies and knelt down. They died holding each other.

“Judging by their positions,” said Maura, “it appears that Cassandra tried to shield her younger sister. Two of the bullets passed through Cassandra’s body first, before they penetrated Sarah’s. Single coup de grace shots were fired into the heads of each girl. Their clothing doesn’t appear disturbed, so I see no obvious evidence of sexual assault, but I’ll need to confirm that at autopsy. That will be later this afternoon, if you’d like to observe, Jane.”

“No. I would not like to observe. I’m not even supposed to be here today.” Abruptly she turned and walked out of the room, paper shoes crackling as she fled the sight of the two girls coiled together in death. But as she moved toward the stairwell, she again saw the body of the youngest child. Kimmie, eight years old. Everywhere I look in this house, she thought, there’s heartbreak.

“Jane, are you all right?” said Maura.

“Aside from wanting to rip this bastard limb from limb?”

“I feel exactly the same way.”

Then you do a better job of hiding it. Jane stared down at the draped body. “I look at this kid,” she said softly, “and I can’t help seeing my own.”

“You’re a mom, so it’s only natural. Look, Crowe and Moore will attend the autopsy. There’s no need for you to be there.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s going to be a long day. And I haven’t even packed yet.”

“Is this the week you’re visiting Julian’s school?”

“Come hell or high water, tomorrow I leave for Maine. Two weeks with a teenage boy and his dog. I have no idea what to expect.”

Maura had no children of her own, so how could she possibly know? She and sixteen-year-old Julian Perkins had nothing in common beyond their shared ordeal last winter, fighting to survive in the Wyoming wilderness. She owed her life to the boy, and now she was determined to be the mother he had lost.

“Let’s see, what can I tell you about teenage boys?” said Jane, trying to be helpful. “My brothers had stinky shoes. They slept till noon. And they ate about twelve times a day.”

“Male pubertal metabolism. They can’t help it.”

“Wow. You’ve really turned into a mom.”

Maura smiled. “It’s a good feeling, actually.”

But motherhood comes with nightmares, Jane reminded herself as she turned away from Kimmie’s body. She was glad to retreat down the staircase, glad to escape this house of horrors. When at last she stepped outside again, she breathed in deeply, as though to wash the scent of death from her lungs. The media horde had grown even thicker, TV cameras lined up like battering rams around the crime scene perimeter. Crowe stood front and center, Detective Hollywood playing to his audience. No one noticed Jane as she slipped past and walked to the house next door.

A patrolman stood guard on the front porch, grinning as he watched Crowe perform for the cameras. “So who do you think’s gonna play him in the movie?” he asked. “Is Brad Pitt pretty enough?”

“No one’s pretty enough to play Crowe,” she snorted. “I need to talk to the boy. He’s inside?”

“With Officer Vasquez.”

“We’re waiting for the shrink, too. So if Dr. Zucker shows up, send him in.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Jane suddenly realized she was still wearing gloves and shoe covers from the crime scene. She peeled them off, stuffed them into her pocket, and rang the bell. A moment later a handsome silver-haired woman appeared at the door.

“Mrs. Lyman?” said Jane. “I’m Detective Rizzoli.”

The woman nodded and waved her inside. “Hurry. I don’t want those awful TV cameras to see us. It’s such an invasion of privacy.”

Jane stepped into the house, and the woman quickly closed the door.

“They told me to expect you. Although I’m not sure how you’ll be able to do much better with Teddy. That nice Detective Moore was so patient with him.”

“Where is Teddy?”

“He’s in the garden conservatory. Poor boy’s hardly said a word to me. Just showed up at my front door this morning still wearing his PJs. I took one look at him and knew something awful had happened.” She turned. “It’s this way.”

Jane followed Mrs. Lyman into the entrance hall and looked up at a staircase that was the mirror image of the Ackermans’ residence. And like the Ackermans’, this house featured exquisite—and expensive-looking— artwork.

“What did he say to you?” asked Jane.

“He said, ‘They’re dead. They’re all dead.’ And that was about all he could get out. I saw blood on his bare feet, and I immediately called the police.” She stopped outside the door to the conservatory. “They were good people, Cecilia and Bernard. And she was so happy because she finally had what she wanted, a house full of children. They were already in the process of adopting Teddy. Now he’s all alone again.” She paused. “You know, I don’t mind keeping him here. He’s familiar with me, and he knows this house. It’s what Cecilia would have wanted.”

“That’s a generous offer, Mrs. Lyman. But Social Services has foster families who are specially trained to deal with traumatized children.”

“Oh. Well, it was just a thought. Since I already know him.”

“Then you can tell me more about him. Is there anything that might help me connect with Teddy? What are his interests?”

“He’s very quiet. Loves his books. Whenever I visited next door, Teddy was always in Bernard’s library, surrounded by books about Roman history. You might try breaking the ice by talking about that subject.”

Roman history. Yeah, my specialty. “What else is he interested in?”

“Horticulture. He loves the exotic plants in my conservatory.”

“What about sports? Could we talk about the Bruins? The Patriots?”

“Oh, he has no interest in that. He’s too refined.”

Which would make me a troglodyte.

Mrs. Lyman was about to open the conservatory door when Jane said, “What about his birth family? How did he end up with the Ackermans?”

Mrs. Lyman turned back to Jane. “You don’t know about that?”

“I’m told he’s an orphan, with no living relatives.”

“That’s why this is such a shock, especially for Teddy. Cecilia wanted so badly to give him a fresh start, with