“We’ve already gone through this.”
“Yeah, I just wanted you to know we can turn back.”
“Would you, Jane? After a lifetime of wondering who your mother is, what she looks like, would you leave it at that? When you’re so close to having every question you ever asked finally answered?”
Rizzoli turned to look at her. Rizzoli, who seemed always to be in motion, always at the eye of one storm or another, now regarded Maura with quiet understanding. “No,” she said. “I wouldn’t.”
In the administrative wing of the Betty Cole Smith Building, they both presented their IDs and signed in. A few minutes later, Superintendent Barbara Gurley came down to meet them at the front desk. Maura had expected an imposing prison commandant, but the woman she saw looked like a librarian, her short hair more gray than brown, her slim figure clad in a tan skirt and pink cotton blouse.
“Good to meet you, Detective Rizzoli,” said Gurley. She turned to Maura. “And you’re Dr. Isles?”
“Yes. Thank you for seeing me.” Maura, too, reached out to shake hands. Found the other woman’s grasp cool and reserved. She knows who I am, thought Maura. She knows why I’m here.
“Let’s go up to my office. I’ve pulled her file for you.”
Gurley led the way, moving with crisp efficiency. No wasted motion, no backward glance to see if the visitors were keeping up. They stepped into an elevator.
“This is a level four facility?” asked Rizzoli.
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that just medium security?” said Maura.
“We’re developing a level six trial unit. This is the only women’s correctional unit in the state of Massachusetts, so for the moment, we’re it. We have to deal with the whole spectrum of offenders.”
“Even mass murderers?” asked Rizzoli.
“If they’re female, and they’re convicted of a crime, they come here. We don’t have quite the same security issues that the men’s facilities have to deal with. Also, our approach is a little different. We emphasize treatment and rehabilitation. A number of our inmates have mental health and substance abuse problems. Plus, there’s the complicating fact that many of them are mothers, so we have to deal with all the emotional issues of maternal separation as well. There are a lot of children left crying when visiting hours end.”
“What about Amalthea Lank? You have any special issues with her?”
“We have…” Gurley hesitated, her gaze fixed straight ahead. “A few.”
“Like what?”
The elevator door opened and Gurley stepped out. “This is my office.”
They passed through an anteroom. The two secretaries stared at Maura, then quickly dropped their gazes back to their computer screens. Everyone’s trying to avoid meeting my eyes, she thought. What are they afraid I’ll see?
Gurley led the visitors into her office and closed the door. “Please, sit down.”
The room was a surprise. Maura had thought it would reflect Gurley herself, efficient and unadorned. But everywhere, there were photographs of smiling faces. Women holding babies, children posed with neatly parted hair and pressed shirts. A new bride and groom, surrounded by a flock of children. His, hers, ours.
“My girls,” said Gurley, smiling at the wall of photos. “These are the ones who made the transition back to society. The ones who made the right choices and moved on with their lives. Unfortunately,” she said, her smile fading, “Amalthea Lank will never be on this wall.” She sat down behind her desk and focused on Maura. “I’m not sure your visit here is such a good idea, Dr. Isles.”
“I’ve never met my birth mother.”
“That’s what concerns me.” Gurley leaned back in her chair and studied Maura for a moment. “We all want to love our mothers. We want them to be special women because it makes
“I don’t expect to love her.”
“What do you expect, then?”
That question made Maura pause. She thought of the imaginary mother she’d conjured up as a child, ever since her cousin had cruelly blurted out the truth: that Maura was adopted. That this was the reason why, in a family of blondes and towheads, she alone had black hair. She’d built a fairy-tale mother based on the darkness of her hair. An Italian heiress, forced to give up a daughter conceived in scandal. Or a Spanish beauty abandoned by her lover, tragically dead of a broken heart. Always, as Gurley had said, she’d imagined someone special, even extraordinary. Now she was about to confront not the fantasy but the real woman, and the prospect made her mouth go dry.
Rizzoli said to Gurley: “Why don’t you think she should see her?”
“I’m only asking her to approach this visit with caution.”
“Why? Is the inmate dangerous?”
“Not in the sense that she’ll spring up and physically attack anyone. In fact, she’s quite docile on the surface.”
“And beneath the surface?”
“Think of what she did, Detective. How much rage it must take to swing a crowbar with such force that you shatter a woman’s skull? Now
“She and I may share the same DNA,” said Maura. “But I have no emotional attachment to this woman.”
“So you’re just curious.”
“I need to put this to rest. I need to move on.”
“That’s probably what your sister thought, too. You do know she came to visit Amalthea?”
“Yes, I’ve heard.”
“I don’t think it gave her any peace of mind. I think it only upset her.”
“Why?”
Gurley slid a file across the desk toward Maura. “Those are Amalthea’s psychiatric records. Everything you need to know about her is in there. Why don’t you just read that instead? Read it, walk away, and forget about her.”
Maura didn’t touch the file. It was Rizzoli who picked up the folder and said: “She’s under a psychiatrist’s care?”
“Yes,” said Gurley.
“Why?”
“Because Amalthea is a schizophrenic.”
Maura stared at the superintendent. “Then why was she convicted of murder? If she’s schizophrenic, she shouldn’t be in prison. She should be in a hospital. ”
“So should a number of our inmates. Tell it to the courts, Dr. Isles, because I’ve tried to. The system itself is insane. Even if you’re flat-out psychotic when you commit murder, the insanity defense seldom sways a jury.”
Rizzoli asked, softly: “Are you sure she
Maura turned to Rizzoli. Saw that she was staring down at the inmate’s psychiatric file. “Is there a question about her diagnosis?”
“I know this psychiatrist who’s been seeing her. Dr. Joyce O’Donnell. She doesn’t normally waste her time treating run-of-the-mill schizophrenics.” She looked at Gurley. “Why is she involved in this case?”
“You sound disturbed about it,” said Gurley.
“If you knew Dr. O’Donnell, you’d be disturbed too.” Rizzoli clapped the folder shut. Took a deep breath. “Is there anything else Dr. Isles needs to know before she sees the prisoner?”
Gurley looked at Maura. “I guess I haven’t talked you out of it, have I?”
“No. I’m ready to see her.”
“Then I’ll walk you down to visitor intake.”
SIXTEEN
