Body Double

DR. JOYCE O’DONNELL’S HOUSE in Cambridge was a large white colonial in a neighborhood of distinguished homes on Brattle Street. A wrought-iron fence enclosed a front yard with a perfect lawn and bark-mulched flower beds where landscape roses obediently bloomed. This was a disciplined garden, no disorder allowed, and as Maura walked up the path of granite pavers to the front door, she could already envision the house’s occupant. Well groomed, neatly dressed. A mind as organized as her garden.

The woman who answered the door was just as Maura had imagined.

Dr. O’Donnell was an ash blonde with pale, flawless skin. Her blue Oxford shirt, tucked into pressed white slacks, was tailored to emphasize a trim waist. She regarded Maura with little warmth. Rather, what Maura saw in the other woman’s eyes was the hard-edged gleam of curiosity. The gaze of a scientist regarding some new specimen.

“Dr. O’Donnell? I’m Maura Isles.”

O’Donnell responded with a crisp handshake. “Come in.”

Maura stepped into a house as coolly elegant as its owner. The only touches of warmth were the Oriental carpets covering dark teak floors. O’Donnell led the way from the foyer, into a formal sitting room where Maura settled uneasily on a couch upholstered in white silk. O’Donnell chose the armchair facing her. On the rosewood coffee table between them was a stack of files and a digital recorder. Though not turned on, the threat of that recorder was yet another detail that added to Maura’s unease.

“Thank you for seeing me,” said Maura.

“I was curious. I wondered what Amalthea’s daughter might be like. I do know of you, Dr. Isles, but only what I read in the newspapers.” She leaned back in the easy chair, looking perfectly comfortable. Home advantage. She was the one with the favors to grant; Maura was merely a supplicant. “I know nothing about you personally. But I’d like to.”

“Why?”

“I’m well acquainted with Amalthea. I can’t help wondering if…”

“Like mother, like daughter?”

O’Donnell lifted one elegant eyebrow. “You said it, I didn’t.”

“That’s the reason for your curiosity about me. Isn’t it?”

“And what’s the reason for yours? Why are you here?”

Maura’s gaze shifted to a painting over the fireplace. A starkly modern oil streaked with black and red. She said: “I want to know who that woman really is.”

“You know who she is. You just don’t want to believe it. Your sister didn’t, either.”

Maura frowned. “You met Anna?”

“No, actually, I never did. But I got a call about four months ago, from a woman identifying herself as Amalthea’s daughter. I was about to leave for a two-week trial in Oklahoma, so I couldn’t meet with her. We simply talked on the phone. She’d been to visit her mother at MCI-Framingham, so she knew I was Amalthea’s psychiatrist. She wanted to know more about her. Amalthea’s childhood, her family.”

“And you know all that?”

“Some of it is from her school records. Some from what she could tell me, when she was lucid. I know she was born in Lowell. When she was about nine, her mother died, and she went to live with her uncle and a cousin, in Maine.”

Maura glanced up. “Maine?”

“Yes. She graduated from high school in a town called Fox Harbor.”

Now I understand why Anna chose that town. I was following in Anna’s footsteps; she was following our mother’s.

“After high school, the records peter out,” said O’Donnell. “We don’t know where she moved from there, or how she supported herself. That’s most likely when the schizophrenia set in. It usually manifests itself in early adulthood. She probably drifted around for years, and ended up the way you see her today. Burned out and delusional.” O’Donnell looked at Maura. “It’s a pretty grim picture. Your sister had a hard time accepting that was really her mother.”

“I look at her and I see nothing familiar. Nothing of myself.”

“But I see the resemblance. I see the same hair color. The same jaw.”

“We look nothing alike.”

“You really don’t see it?” O’Donnell leaned forward, her gaze intent on Maura. “Tell me something, Dr. Isles. Why did you choose pathology?”

Perplexed by the question, Maura only stared at her.

“You could have gone into any field of medicine. Obstetrics, pediatrics. You could be working with live patients, but you chose pathology. Specifically, forensic pathology.”

“What’s the point of your question?”

“The point is, you’re somehow attracted to the dead.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Then why did you choose your field?”

“Because I like definitive answers. I don’t like guessing games. I like to see the diagnosis under my microscope lens.”

“You don’t like uncertainty.”

“Does anyone?”

“Then you could have chosen mathematics or engineering. So many other fields involve precision. Definitive answers. But there you are in the M.E.’s office, communing with corpses.” O’Donnell paused. Asked, quietly: “Do you ever enjoy it?”

Maura met her gaze head-on. “No.”

“You chose an occupation you don’t enjoy?”

“I chose the challenge. There’s satisfaction in that. Even if the task itself isn’t pleasant.”

“But don’t you see what I’m getting at? You tell me you don’t see anything familiar about Amalthea Lank. You look at her, and probably see someone horrifying. Or at least a woman who committed horrifying acts. There are people who look at you, Dr. Isles, and probably think the same thing.”

“You can’t possibly compare us.”

“Do you know what your mother was convicted of?”

“Yes, I’ve been told.”

“But have you seen the autopsy reports?”

“Not yet.”

“I have. During the trial, the defense team asked me to consult on your mother’s mental status. I’ve seen the photos, reviewed the evidence. You do know that the victims were two sisters? Young women stranded at the side of the road.”

“Yes.”

“And the younger one was nine months pregnant.”

“I know all this.”

“So you know that your mother picked up those two women on the highway. She drives them thirty miles away, to a shed in the woods. Crushes their skulls with a tire iron. And then she does something surprisingly- weirdly-logical. She drives to a service station and fills a can with gas. Returns to the shed and sets it on fire, with the two bodies inside.” O’Donnell cocked her head. “Don’t you find that interesting?”

“I find it sickening.”

“Yes, but on some level, maybe you’re feeling something else, something you don’t even want to acknowledge. That you’re intrigued by these actions, not just as an intellectual puzzle. There’s something about it that fascinates you, even excites you.”

“The way it obviously excites you?”

O’Donnell took no offense at that retort. Instead she smiled, easily acknowledging Maura’s remark. “My interest is professional. It’s my job to study acts of murder. I’m just wondering about the reasons for your interest in Amalthea Lank.”

“Two days ago, I didn’t know who my mother was. Now I’m trying to come to grips with the truth. I’m trying to understand-”