The Sinner (11 page)

“It’s an inflammatory disorder, so it responds to
steroid
creams. Ultraviolet light therapy helps, too. But look at her dentition. This
woman
didn’t have the money to pay for expensive creams or doctors’ bills.
If
it’s psoriasis, she probably went untreated for years.”

What a cruel affliction such a skin condition would have been,
thought
Maura, especially in the summertime. Even on the hottest days, she would have
wanted
to wear pants and long-sleeved shirts to conceal the lesions.

“Not only does our perp choose a victim who’s got no
teeth,”
said Crowe, “he whacks off a face with skin like this.”

“Psoriasis does tend to spare the face.”

“You think that’s significant? Maybe he only sliced off
the
parts where the skin was okay.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t begin
to
understand why anyone would do something like this.”

She turned her attention to the right wrist stump. White bone
gleamed
through raw flesh. Hungry rodents’ teeth had gnawed the open wound,
destroying
the cut marks left by the knife, but scanning electron microscopy of the cut
surface
of bone might reveal the blade’s characteristics. She lifted the forearm
from
the table, to examine the underside of the wound, and a fleck of yellow caught
her
eye.

“Yoshima, can you hand me the tweezers?” she said.

“What is it?” asked Crowe.

“There’s some kind of fiber adhering to the wound
edge.”

Yoshima moved so silently, the tweezers seemed to magically appear
in her hand. She swung the magnifying lens over the wrist stump. With the
tweezers,
she plucked the fragment from its crust of blood and dried flesh and laid it on
a
tray.

Through the magnifying lens, she saw a thick coil of thread, dyed
a
startling shade of canary yellow.

“From her clothes?” asked Crowe.

“It looks awfully coarse for a clothing fiber.”

“Carpet, maybe?”

“Yellow carpet? I can’t imagine.” She slipped the
strand
into an evidence bag that Yoshima was already holding open, and asked: “Was
there anything at the death scene that would match this?”

“Nothing yellow,” said Crowe.

“Yellow rope?” said Maura. “He may have bound her
wrists.”

“And then took the cut ropes away?” Sleeper shook his
head.
“Weird, how this guy’s so neat.”

Maura looked down at the corpse, small as a child. “He hardly
needed to bind her wrists. She would have been easy to control.”

How simple it would have been, to take her life. Arms this thin
could
not have struggled long against an attacker’s grip; legs this short could
not
have outrun him.

You have already been so violated, she thought. And now my scalpel
will make its mark on your flesh as well.

She worked with quiet efficiency, her knife slicing through skin
and
muscle. The cause of death was as obvious as the bits of shrapnel glowing on the
X-ray box, and when at last the torso gaped open, and she saw the taut
pericardial
sac and the pockets of hemorrhage throughout the lungs, she was not surprised.

The Glaser bullet had punctured the thorax and then exploded,
sending
its deadly shrapnel throughout the chest. Metal had ripped through arteries and
veins,
punctured heart and lungs. And blood had poured into the sac that surrounded the
heart, compressing it so that it could not expand, could not pump. A pericardial
tamponade.

Death had been relatively swift.

The intercom buzzed. “Dr. Isles?”

Maura turned toward the speaker. “Yes, Louise?”

“Detective Rizzoli is on line one. Can you answer?”

Maura stripped off her gloves and crossed to the phone.
“Rizzoli?”
she said.

“Hey, Doc. It looks like we need you here.”

“What is it?”

“We’re at the pond. It took us a while to scoop off all
the
ice.”

“You’ve finished dragging it?”

“Yeah. We found something.”

N
INE

W
IND SLICED ACROSS THE OPEN FIELD
, whipping
Maura’s
coat and wool scarf as she walked out the rear cloister gate and started toward
the
somber gathering of cops who waited for her at the pond’s edge. A layer of
ice
had formed over the fallen snow, and it cracked beneath her boots like a sugar
crust.
She felt everyone’s gaze marking her progress across the field, the nuns
watching
from the gate behind her, and the police awaiting her approach. She was the lone
figure moving across that white world, and in the stillness of that afternoon,
every
sound seemed magnified, from the crunch of her boots, to the rush of her own
breath.

Rizzoli emerged from the knot of personnel and came forward to
greet
her. “Thanks for getting here so quick.”

“So Noni was right about the duck pond.”

“Yeah. Since Camille spent a lot of time out here, it’s
not
too surprising she thought of using the pond. The ice was still pretty thin.
Probably
froze over only in the last day or two.” Rizzoli looked at the water.
“We
snagged it on the third pass.”

It was a small pond, a flat black oval that in the summertime
would
reflect clouds and blue sky and the passage of birds. At one end, cattails
protruded,
like ice-encrusted stalagmites. All around the perimeter, the snow was
thoroughly
trampled, its whiteness churned with mud.

At the water’s edge, a small form lay covered by a disposable
sheet. Maura crouched down beside it, and a grim-faced Detective Frost peeled
back
the sheet to reveal the swaddling, caked in wet mud.

“It felt like it was weighed down with rocks,” said
Frost.
“That’s why it’s been sitting on the bottom. We haven’t
unwrapped
it yet. Thought we’d wait for you.”

Maura pulled off her wool gloves and pulled on latex ones. They
offered
no protection against the cold, and her fingers quickly chilled as she peeled
back
the outer layer of muslin. Two fist-sized stones dropped out. The next layer was
equally soaked, but not muddy. It was a woolen blanket of powder blue. A color
one
would swaddle an infant in, she thought. A blanket to keep him safe and warm.

By now her fingers were numb and clumsy. She peeled back a corner
of
the blanket, just enough to catch a glimpse of a foot. Tiny, almost doll-like,
the
skin a dusky and marbled blue.

That was all she needed to see.

She covered it again, with the sheet. Rising to her feet, she
looked
at Rizzoli. “Let’s move it directly to the morgue. We’ll finish
unwrapping
it there.”

Rizzoli merely nodded, and gazed down in silence at the tiny
bundle.
The wet wrappings were already starting to crust over in the icy wind.

It was Frost who spoke. “How could she do it? Just toss her
baby
in the water like that?”

Maura stripped off the latex gloves and thrust numb fingers into
the
woolen ones. She thought of the light blue blanket wrapped around the infant.
Warm
wool, like her gloves. Camille could have wrapped the baby in
anything—newspapers,
old sheets, rags—but she had chosen to wrap it in a blanket, as though to
protect
it, to insulate it from the frigid water of the pond.

“I mean, drowning her own kid,” said Frost.
“She’d
have to be out of her mind.”

“The infant may already have been dead.”

“Okay, so she killed it first. She’d still have to be
crazy.”

“We can’t assume anything. Not until the autopsy.”
Maura
glanced toward the abbey. Three nuns stood like dark-robed wraiths beneath the
archway,
watching them. She said to Rizzoli: “Have you told Mary Clement yet?”

Rizzoli didn’t answer. Her gaze was still fixed on what the
pond
had yielded up to them. It took only one pair of hands to slip the bundle into
the
oversize body bag, to seal it with an efficient tug of the zipper. She winced at
the sound.

Maura asked, “Do the sisters know?”

At last Rizzoli looked at her. “They’ve been told what
we
found.”

“They must have an idea who the father is.”

“They deny it’s even possible she was pregnant.”

“But the evidence is right here.”

Rizzoli gave a snort. “Faith is stronger than evidence.”

Faith in what? Maura wondered. A young woman’s virtue? Was
there
any house of cards more rickety than the belief in human chastity?

They fell silent as the body bag was carried away. There was no
need
to bring a stretcher through the snow; the attendant had scooped the bag into
his
arms as tenderly as though he was lifting his own child, and now he walked with
grim
purpose across the windy field, toward the abbey.

Maura’s cell phone rang, violating the mournful silence. She
flipped
it open and answered quietly: “Dr. Isles.”

“I’m sorry I had to leave without saying goodbye this
morning.”

She felt her face flush and her heartbeat go into double time.
“Victor.”

“I had to get to my meeting in Cambridge. I didn’t want
to
wake you. I hope you didn’t think I was running out on you.”

“Actually, I did.”

“Can we meet later, for dinner?”

She paused, suddenly aware that Rizzoli was watching her. Aware,
too,
of her own physical reaction to Victor’s voice. The quickened pulse, the
happy
anticipation. Already he’s worked his way back into my life, she thought.
Already,
I’m thinking of the possibilities.

She turned from Rizzoli’s gaze, and her voice dropped to a
murmur.
“I don’t know when I’ll be free. There’s so much going on
right
now.”

“You can tell me all about your day over dinner.”

“It’s already turning into a doozy.”

“You have to eat sometime, Maura. Can I take you out? Your
favorite
restaurant?”

She answered too quickly, too eagerly. “No, I’ll meet
you
at my house. I’ll try to be home by seven.”

“I don’t expect you to cook for me.”

“Then I’ll let you do the cooking.”

He laughed. “Brave woman.”

“If I’m late, you can get in through the side door to
the
garage. You probably know where the key is.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still hiding it in that old
shoe.”

“No one’s found it yet. I’ll see you tonight.”

She hung up, and turned to find that now both Rizzoli and Frost
were
watching her.

“Hot date?” asked Rizzoli.

“At my age, I’m lucky to have any date,” she said,
and
slipped the phone in her purse. “I’ll see you both in the
morgue.”

As she tramped back across the field, following the trail of
broken
snow, she felt their gazes on her back. It was a relief to finally push through
the
rear gate and retreat behind abbey walls. But only a few steps into the
courtyard,
she heard her name called.

She turned to see Father Brophy emerge from a doorway. He walked
toward
her, a solemn figure in black. Against the gray and dreary sky, his eyes were a
startling
shade of blue.

“Mother Mary Clement would like to speak to you,” he
said.

“Detective Rizzoli is the person she should probably talk
to.”

“She’d prefer to speak to you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not a policeman. At least you seem
willing
to listen to her concerns. To understand.”

“Understand what, Father?”

He paused. The wind flapped their coats and stung their faces.

“That faith isn’t something to be ridiculed,” he
said.

And that was why Mary Clement did not want to talk to Rizzoli, who
could not hide her skepticism, her disdain toward the church. Something as
deeply
personal as faith should not be subjected to another person’s contempt.

“This is important to her,” said Father Brophy.
“Please.”

She followed him into the building, down the dim and drafty
hallway,
to the Abbess’s office. Mary Clement was seated behind her desk. She looked
up as they walked in, and the eyes staring through those thick lenses were
clearly
angry.

“Sit down, Dr. Isles.”

Although Holy Innocents Academy was years behind Maura, the sight
of
an irate nun could still rattle her, and she quietly complied, sinking into the
chair
like a guilty schoolgirl. Father Brophy stood off to the side, a silent observer
of this coming ordeal.

“We were never told the reason for this search,” said
Mary
Clement. “You’ve disrupted our lives. Violated our privacy. From the
beginning,
we’ve cooperated in every way, yet you’ve treated us as though
we’re
the enemy. You owed us the courtesy of at least telling us what you were
searching
for.”

“I do think that Detective Rizzoli is the one you should
speak
to about this.”

“But you’re the one who initiated the search.”

“I only told them what I found on autopsy. That Sister
Camille
recently gave birth. It was Detective Rizzoli’s decision to search the
abbey.”

“Without telling us why.”

“Police investigations are usually played close to the
vest.”

“It’s because you didn’t trust us. Isn’t that
right?”

Maura looked into Mary Clement’s accusing gaze and found she
could
not respond with anything but the truth. “We had no choice but to proceed
with
caution.”

Rather than make her angrier, that honest answer seemed to defuse
the
Abbess’s outrage. Looking suddenly drained, she leaned back in her chair,
transforming
into the frail and elderly woman she really was. “What a world it is, when
even
we cannot be trusted.”

“Like everyone else, Reverend Mother.”

“But that’s just it, Dr. Isles. We are not like everyone
else.” She said this without any note of superiority. Rather, it was
sadness
that Maura heard in her voice, and bewilderment. “We would have helped you.
We would have cooperated, if we’d known what you were looking for.”

“You really had no idea that Camille was pregnant?”

“How could we? When Detective Rizzoli told me this morning, I
didn’t believe it. I still can’t believe it.”

“I’m afraid the proof was in the pond.”

The Abbess seemed to shrink even smaller into her chair. Her gaze
fell
on her arthritis-gnarled hands. She was silent, staring at those hands as though
they did not belong to her. Softly she said: “How could we not have
known?”

“Pregnancies can be concealed. Teenage girls have been known
to
hide their condition from their own mothers. Some women deny it even to
themselves,
until the moment they give birth. Camille herself may have been in denial. I
have
to admit, I was completely taken aback at autopsy. It wasn’t at all what I
expected
to find in . . .”

“A nun,” Mary Clement said. She looked straight at
Maura.

“That’s not to say nuns aren’t human.”

A faint smile. “Thank for you acknowledging that.”

“And she was so young—”

“Do you think only the young struggle with temptation?”

Maura thought of her restless night. Of Victor, sleeping right
down
the hall.

“All our lives,” said Mary Clement, “we’re
enticed
by one thing or another. The temptations change, of course. When you’re
young,
it’s a handsome boy. Then it’s sweets or food. Or, when you get old
and
tired, just the chance to sleep an extra hour in the morning. So many petty
desires,
and we’re just as vulnerable to them as everyone else, only we’re not
allowed
to admit it. Our vows set us apart. Wearing the veil may be a joy, Dr. Isles.
But
perfection is a burden that none of us can live up to.”

“Least of all, such a young woman.”

“It gets no easier with age.”

“Camille was only twenty. She must have had some doubts about
taking her final vows.”

Mary Clement did not answer at first. She stared out the window,
which
faced only a barren wall. A view that would remind her, every time she glanced
out,
that her world was enclosed by stone. She said, “I was twenty-one when I
took
my final vows.”

“And did you have doubts?”

“Not a single one.” She looked at Maura. “I
knew.”

“How?”

“Because God spoke to me.”

Maura said nothing.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Mary Clement said.
“That
only psychotics hear voices. Only psychotics hear the angels speak to them.
You’re
a doctor, and you probably see everything with a scientist’s eye.
You’ll
tell me it was just a dream. Or a chemical imbalance. A temporary bout of
schizophrenia.
I know all the theories. I know what they say about Joan of Arc—that they
burned
a madwoman at the stake. It’s what you’re thinking, isn’t
it?”

“I’m afraid I’m not religious.”

“But you were, once?”

“I was raised Catholic. It’s what my adoptive parents
believed.”

“Then you’re familiar with the lives of the saints. Many
of them heard God’s voice. How do you explain that?”

Maura hesitated, knowing that what she said next would likely
offend
the Abbess. “Auditory hallucinations are often interpreted as religious
experiences.”

Mary Clement did not seem to take offense, as Maura had expected.
She
simply gazed back, her eyes steady. “Do I seem insane to you?”

“Not at all.”

“Yet here I am, telling you that I once heard the voice of
God.”
Her gaze wandered, once again, to the window. To the gray wall, its stones
glistening
with ice. “You’re only the second person I’ve told this to,
because
I know what people think. I would not have believed it myself, if it hadn’t
happened to me. When you’re only eighteen years old, and He calls you, what
choice do you have, but to listen?”

She leaned back in her chair. Said, softly: “I had a
sweetheart,
you know. A man who wanted to marry me.”

“Yes,” said Maura. “You told me.”

“He didn’t understand. No one understood why a young
woman
would want to hide from life. That’s what he called it. Hiding, like a
coward.
Surrendering my will to God. Of course, he tried to change my mind. So did my
mother.
But I knew what I was doing. I knew it from the moment I was called. Standing in
my backyard, listening to the crickets. I heard His voice, clear as a bell. And
I
knew.” She looked at Maura, who was shifting in her chair, anxious to break
off this conversation. Uncomfortable with this talk of divine voices.