The Silent Girl

“Why did he? I was surprised to hear he’d dropped that on you.”

“He wanted an unbiased opinion. I don’t think he believes that the cook was a suicide.”

“What do you think?”

“I’ve been too busy to look at the files. Rat’s visiting this week, so I’m spending time with him.” Maura turned to leave. “I’ll do the autopsies first thing in the morning. If you want to be there.”

“You’re going to do both of them?”

That struck Maura as an odd question and she looked back. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Ingersoll was a cop. I’m just thinking it’s kind of a delicate time right now. With you and the Graff trial.”

Maura heard the discomfort in Jane’s voice and knew the reason for it. “Am I no longer allowed to autopsy cops?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Trust me, you don’t have to. I’m fully aware of what’s being said. I’m aware of it every time a cop looks at me, or refuses to look at me. They consider me the enemy.”

“It’ll pass, Maura. It just takes time.”

Until I testify against the next cop. “I wouldn’t want to be politically incorrect,” said Maura. “I’ll ask Dr. Bristol to do the postmortem on Ingersoll.” She ducked under the crime scene tape and walked away, past the CSU team. Felt the knot in her neck gradually ease only after she’d left the alley a block behind her. It’ll pass, Maura, Jane had said, but would it? Cops had long memories. They recalled the details of cases that were decades old, and they held grudges, never forgetting who was with them or against them. I am always going to be placed in the second category, she thought. Twenty years from now, they’re still going to remember that I helped send a cop to jail.

By the time she was back at Ingersoll’s residence, more official vehicles had arrived. She paused, dazzled by the flashing lights and the carnival atmosphere of confusion. Suddenly a woman’s sobs pierced the chatter of police radios.

“Let me see him! I need to see my father!”

“Ma’am, please. You can’t go in there,” a patrolman said, holding her back. “Someone will be out to talk to you as soon as they can.”

“But he’s my dad. I have a right to know what happened to him!”

“Father Brophy,” the cop called out. “Can you help this lady, please?”

A tall man wearing a priest’s collar quietly made his way through the crowd. As the clergyman for Boston PD, Daniel Brophy was frequently called to scenes of tragedy, so Maura was not surprised to see him here, but the sight of him stunned her nonetheless. She watched with hungry eyes as Daniel led Ingersoll’s daughter away from the crime scene tape. Did he look thinner? Was his face haunted, his hair more gray? Do you miss me the way I miss you?

He guided the sobbing woman toward a patrol car, then suddenly he saw Maura and their gazes locked. For a moment the world dropped away and she saw only Daniel. Felt the drumming of her own heart, as frantic as the wings of a dying bird.

She was still staring as he walked away, cradling the sobbing woman against his shoulder.

NINETEEN

JANE STOOD BEFORE THE MORGUE’S LIGHT BOX, STUDYING THE dead man’s X-rays. His bony structures appeared normal in every way, except for one glaring detail: His cranium had been separated from his body, severed cleanly between the third and fourth cervical vertebrae. Although Tam and Frost were already standing at the autopsy table, waiting for the postmortem to begin, Jane stayed rooted where she was, not yet ready to face what was lying beneath the drape. X-rays were abstract things, cartoon anatomy in black and white. They did not look or smell like flesh; they did not have a face. And so she lingered longer than she needed to, focused on the shadow of lungs and heart, the same heart that had sent blood spurting across her clothes last night. If not for my nameless savior, my X-rays would be hanging here, she thought. My body would be lying on the table.

“Jane?” said Maura.

“It’s hard to imagine a blade sharp enough to do this with one stroke,” Jane said, her gaze still fixed on the X- ray.

“It’s a matter of anatomy,” said Maura. “The angle at which the blade hits the joint. In medieval times, a skilled executioner could behead a prisoner with one stroke. If he had to keep hacking away, that was a sure sign he was incompetent. Or drunk.”

“Pleasant image to start off the morning,” said Tam.

Maura whisked off the drape. “We haven’t undressed him yet. I assumed you all wanted to be here when we did.”

No, I don’t want to be here, thought Jane. I don’t want to see this. But she forced herself to turn to the table. Although what lay there was no surprise, she still sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of the severed head. She knew nothing yet about this man, neither his name nor his origins. The only clues they had so far came from the items removed from his pockets last night: an ammunition clip, a roll of cash, and keys to a stolen Ford van, which had been parked two blocks from Ingersoll’s residence. He carried no ID of any kind.

Tam bent over the table, his expression unruffled as he took a closer look at the severed head. He didn’t flinch when Maura peeled off the victim’s stocking cap, revealing neatly clipped brown hair. The dead man’s face was unremarkable, with an utterly average nose, average mouth, average chin. A man you’d forget a moment after you’d passed him on the street.

The hands had already been swabbed and his fingerprints collected last night upon arrival. Purple ink still stained the fingers. Maura and Yoshima worked together to remove the clothing, peeling off the sweatshirt and trousers, briefs and socks. The headless body was stocky and well muscled. A healed scar ran diagonally across the right knee-a souvenir of old surgery. Jane stared at the scar and thought: Now I know why I was able to run him down so easily last night.

Under the magnifier, Maura examined the incised soft tissues, searching for irregularities and bruising. “I don’t see any serration marks,” she said. “The wound is uniform, without secondary cuts. This was a single slice.”

“That’s what I told you,” said Jane. “It was a sword. One slash.”

Maura glanced up. “No matter how reliable I consider a witness, I always need to confirm.” She refocused on the incision. “This cut was delivered at an odd angle. Which hand was holding the sword, right or left?”

Jane hesitated. “I didn’t see the actual slash. But as he was walking away, it was… it was in his right hand.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because this cut starts lower on the right, and angles upward as it exits the left side of the neck.”

“So?”

“This victim is about five foot ten, five eleven. If the killer attacked from behind, slashing right to left, he was probably shorter.” Maura looked at Jane. “Would you agree?”

“I was lying on my back. At that angle, everyone looks tall, especially someone with a big honking sword.” She let out a breath, suddenly aware that Maura was looking at her with the analytical gaze that so irritated her. A look that invaded her privacy, made her feel like a specimen floating in formalin.

Abruptly Jane turned from the table. “I don’t think I need to see any more of this. What’s this autopsy going to tell us? Surprise, someone whacked off his head?” She tossed the gown in the contaminated linen bin. “You guys finish up here. I’m going to check with the crime lab, find out if Ingersoll’s cell phone turned up anything.”

The anteroom door suddenly swung open, and Jane was startled to see her husband walk in. “What are you doing here?”

Special Agent Gabriel Dean was no stranger to autopsy rooms. It had been a serial murder case that introduced Jane to her husband, and over the course of that investigation they had spent more than a few