The Silent Girl

“I’d be a lot more leery of whoever did this.” Jane turned to the door. “Let’s have a talk with Mrs. Fang.”

Downstairs she found Iris seated on the faded brown sofa, looking far too calm for a woman whose home had just been violated. Detective Tam was pacing nearby, cell phone pressed to his ear. He glanced up at Jane with a look of I don’t know what’s going on here, either.

Jane sat down across from Iris and just studied her for a moment without saying a word. The woman stared straight back at her, as though understanding that this was a test, and she had already girded herself for the challenge. It was not the gaze of a victim.

“What do you think is going on, Mrs. Fang?” Jane said.

“I don’t know.”

“Has your home been broken into before?”

“No.”

“How long have you lived in this building?”

“Almost thirty-five years. Since my husband and I immigrated to this country.”

“Is there anyone you know who’d do this? Maybe some man you’ve been dating, someone who’s angry that you rejected him?”

“No.” She hadn’t paused to even think about it. As if that answer was the only one she was prepared to give. “There is no man. And there’s no need for the police to be involved.”

“Someone breaks into your home. Someone stabs a butcher knife through your photo and leaves it on your pillow. The message couldn’t be clearer. Who’s threatening you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yet you don’t want us to look into it.”

The woman stared back, displaying no fear. It was like looking into pools of black water, revealing nothing at all. Jane leaned back and let a moment pass. She saw Tam and Frost standing on the periphery, intently following their conversation. Three sets of eyes were focused on Iris, and the silence stretched on, yet the woman’s composure did not crack.

Time for a new approach.

“I had an interesting conversation today,” said Jane. “With Patrick Dion, the ex-husband of one of the Red Phoenix victims. He tells me that every year in March, you’ve mailed notes to him and the other families.”

“I’ve sent no one any notes.”

“For the past seven years, they’ve been getting them. Always on the anniversary of the Red Phoenix massacre. The families believe you’re doing it. Sending them copies of their loved ones’ obituaries. Trying to bring back the bad memories.”

“Bring back the memories?” Iris stiffened. “What kind of families are these, needing to be reminded?” For the first time, agitation shook her voice, made her hands tremble. “I live with my memories. They never leave me, not even when I sleep.”

“Have you received any notes?”

“No. But then, no one needs to remind me. Of all the families, it seems I’m the only one who’s asked questions. Demanded answers.”

“If you aren’t sending them, do you know who might be?”

“Maybe it’s someone who believes the truth has been suppressed.”

“Like you.”

“But I’m not afraid to say it.”

“And in a very public way. We know you placed the ad in the Globe last month.”

“If your husband were murdered, and you knew the killer was never punished, would you do any less? No matter how many years went by?”

A moment passed, the two women staring at each other. Jane imagined herself waking up every morning in this shabby home, imagined living with unspeakable grief, obsessing over happiness lost. Searching for reasons, for any explanation for her ruined life. Sitting in this room, on this threadbare armchair, she felt despair settle on her shoulders, dragging her down, smothering all joy. This is not even my world, she thought. I can go home and kiss my husband. I can hug my daughter and tuck her into bed. But Iris will still be trapped here.

“It’s been nineteen years, Mrs. Fang,” said Jane. “I understand it’s not easy to move on. But the other families want to. Patrick Dion, Mark Mallory-they have no doubt that Wu Weimin was the killer. Maybe it’s time for you to accept what they accepted long ago.”

Iris’s chin lifted and her eyes were hard as flint. “I won’t accept anything less than the truth.”

“How do you know it’s not true? According to the police report, the evidence against Wu Weimin was overwhelming.”

“The police did not know him.”

“Can you be sure you did?”

“Yes, completely. And this is my final chance to make things right.”

Jane frowned at her. “What do you mean, your final chance?”

Iris drew a breath and lifted her head. The look she gave Jane was both dignified and calm. “I am sick.”

The room went silent. That simple statement had stunned them all. Iris sat perfectly composed, staring back at Jane as if daring her to offer any pity.

“I have a chronic form of leukemia,” said Iris. “The doctor tells me I could live another ten years. Or perhaps even twenty years. Some days I feel perfectly well. Other days, I’m so tired I can scarcely lift my head off the pillow. One day, this illness will probably kill me, but I’m not afraid. I merely refuse to die without knowing the truth. Without seeing justice done.” She paused, and the first note of fear slipped into her voice. “I feel time running through my fingers.”

Frost moved behind Iris and placed his hand on her shoulder. It was simply a gesture of sympathy, something anyone might do, but Jane was troubled by that touch, and by the stricken look she saw in his eyes.

“She can’t stay here alone tonight,” Frost said. “It’s not safe.”

Tam said, “I just got off the phone with Bella Li. Mrs. Fang can spend the night with her while CSU processes the scene.”

Frost said, “I’ll drive her there.”

“No,” Jane said. “Tam will take her. Mrs. Fang, why don’t you pack a bag?” She rose from the chair. “Detective Frost, can you step outside with me? We need to check the perimeter.”

“But-”

“Frost.”

He glanced back and forth between Iris and Jane, and finally followed Jane out the front door, into a night that was filmy with mist.

The instant the door swung shut, she said: “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I wish I could. Obviously someone’s trying to scare her. Trying to stop her from asking questions.”

“No, I’m talking about you. How you ended up taking her to dinner. Turning into her white knight.”

“I came to ask about what happened to her daughter. You know that.”

“How did an interview turn into dinner?”

“We were hungry. It just happened.”

“Accidents just happen. But going out to dinner with a subject you’re questioning? That’s something else entirely.”

“She’s not a suspect.”

“We don’t know that.”

“For God’s sake, Rizzoli, she’s a victim. She lost her husband in a shooting and now all she wants is justice.”

“We don’t know what she really wants. Frankly, I can’t figure out what you want, either.”

The glow of the yellow porch light, diffused by mist, framed his head like a spectral halo. Saint Barry, the Boy Scout, she thought. The cop you could always count on to do the right thing. Now he stood before her, avoiding her gaze, looking as guilty as a man could look.

“I feel sorry for her,” he said.

“Is that all you feel?”