Maura looked at her watch. “Reverend Mother, I’m afraid
I
have to leave.”
“You wonder why I’m telling you this.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’ve told this to only one other person. Do you know
who
that was?”
“No.”
“Sister Camille.”
Maura looked into the Abbess’s distorted blue eyes. “Why
Camille?”
“Because she heard the voice, too. That’s why she came
to
us. She was raised in an extremely wealthy family. Grew up in a mansion in
Hyannisport,
not far from the Kennedys. But she was called to this life, just as I was. When
you’re
called, Dr. Isles, you know you’ve been blessed, and you answer with joy in
your heart. She had no doubts about taking her vows. She was fully committed to
this
order.”
“Then how do we explain the pregnancy? How did that
happen?”
“Detective Rizzoli has already asked that question. But all
she
wanted to know was names and dates. Which repairmen came to the compound? Which
month
did Camille leave to visit her family? The police care only about concrete
details,
not about spiritual matters. Not about Camille’s calling.”
“She did become pregnant. Either it was a moment of
temptation,
or it was rape.”
The Abbess was silent for a moment, her gaze dropping to her
hands.
She said, quietly: “There is a third explanation, Dr. Isles.”
Maura frowned. “What would that be?”
“You’ll scoff at this, I know. You’re a doctor. You
probably rely on your laboratory tests, on what you can see under the
microscope.
But haven’t there been times when you’ve seen the inexplicable? When a
patient who should be dead suddenly revives? Haven’t you witnessed
miracles?”
“Every physician has been surprised at least a few times in
his
career.”
“Not just surprised. I’m talking about something that
astounds
you. Something that science can’t explain.”
Maura thought back to her years as an intern at San Francisco
General.
“There was a woman, with pancreatic cancer.”
“That’s incurable, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s almost as good as a death sentence. She
shouldn’t
have lived. When I first saw her, she was considered terminal. Already confused
and
jaundiced. The doctors had decided to stop feeding her, because she was so close
to death. I remember the orders on the chart, to simply keep her comfortable.
That’s
all you can do, at the end, is dull their pain. I thought her death was a matter
of days.”
“But she surprised you.”
“She woke up one morning and told the nurse she was hungry.
Four
weeks later, she went home.”
The Abbess nodded. “A miracle.”
“No, Reverend Mother.” Maura met her gaze.
“Spontaneous
remission.”
“That’s just a way of saying you don’t know what
happened.”
“Remissions do occur. Cancers shrink on their own. Or the
diagnosis
was wrong to begin with.”
“Or it was something else. Something science can’t
explain.”
“You want me to say it was a miracle?”
“I want you to consider other possibilities. So many people
who’ve
recovered from near death report they saw a bright light. Or they saw their
loved
ones, telling them it’s not their time. How do you explain such universal
visions?”
“The hallucinations of an oxygen-deprived brain.”
“Or evidence of the divine.”
“I would love to find such evidence. It would be a comfort to
know there’s something beyond this physical life. But I can’t accept
it
on faith alone. That’s what you’re getting at, isn’t it? That
Camille’s
pregnancy was some sort of miracle? Another example of the divine.”
“You say you don’t believe in miracles, but you
can’t
explain why your patient with pancreatic cancer lived.”
“There’s not always an easy explanation.”
“Because medical science doesn’t completely understand
death.
Isn’t that true?”
“But we do understand conception. We know it requires a sperm
and an egg. That’s simple biology, Reverend Mother. I don’t believe in
immaculate conception. What I do believe is that Camille had a sexual encounter.
It may have been forced, or it may have been consensual. But her child was
conceived
in the usual way. And the father’s identity could well have a bearing on
her
murder.”
“What if no father is ever found?”
“We’ll have the child’s DNA. We only need the
father’s
name.”
“You have such confidence in your science, Dr. Isles.
It’s
the answer to everything!”
Maura rose from her chair. “But at least those answers, I can
believe in.”
Father Brophy escorted Maura from the office, and walked with
her,
back up the dim corridor, their steps creaking on well-worn floorboards.
He said, “We might as well bring up the subject now, Dr.
Isles.”
“Which subject is that?”
He stopped and looked at her. “Whether the child is
mine.”
He met her gaze without flinching; she was the one who wanted to turn away, to
retreat
from the intensity of his gaze.
“It’s what you’re wondering, isn’t it?”
he
said.
“You can understand why.”
“Yes. As you said just a moment ago, the unavoidable laws of
biology
require a sperm and an egg.”
“You’re the one man who has regular access to this
abbey.
You say Mass. You hear confession.”
“Yes.”
“You know their most intimate secrets.”
“Only what they choose to tell me.”
“You’re a symbol of authority.”
“Some view priests that way.”
“To a young novice, you certainly would be.”
“And that makes me automatically suspect?”
“You wouldn’t be the first priest to break your
vows.”
He sighed, and for the first time his gaze dropped from hers. Not
in
avoidance, but a sad nod of acknowledgment. “It’s not easy, these
days.
The looks people give us, the jokes behind our backs. When I say Mass, I look at
the faces in my church, and I know what they’re thinking. They wonder
whether
I touch little boys, or covet young girls. They’re all wondering, just as
you
are. And you assume the worst.”
“Is the child yours, Father Brophy?”
The blue eyes were once more focused on her. His gaze was
absolutely
steady. “No, it’s not. I have never broken my vows.”
“You understand, don’t you, that we can’t just take
your word for it?”
“No, I could be lying, couldn’t I?” Though he
didn’t
raise his voice, she heard the note of anger. He drew closer, and she stood very
still, resisting the urge to retreat. “I could be compounding one sin with
another,
and yet another. Where do you see that spiral, that chain of sins, leading to?
Lying.
Abuse of a nun. Murder?”
“The police have to look at all motives. Even yours.”
“And you’ll want my DNA, I suppose.”
“It would eliminate you as the baby’s father.”
“Or it would point to me as a prime murder suspect.”
“It could work either way, depending on the results.”
“What do
you
think it will show?”
“I have no idea.”
“But you must have a hunch. You’re standing here,
looking
at me. Do you see a murderer?”
“I trust only the evidence.”
“Numbers and facts. That’s all you believe in.”
“Yes.”
“And if I told you that I’m perfectly willing to submit
my
DNA? That I’ll give you a blood sample right here and now, if you’re
ready
to take it?”
“It doesn’t require a blood sample. Just a swab from the
mouth.”
“A swab, then. I just want to be clear that I’m
volunteering
for this.”
“I’ll tell Detective Rizzoli. She’ll collect
it.”
“Will that change your mind? About whether I’m
guilty?”
“As I said, I’ll know when I see the results.” She
opened
the door and walked out.
He followed her into the courtyard. He was not wearing a coat, yet
he seemed impervious to the cold, his attention focused only on her.
“You said you were raised Catholic,” he said.
“I went to a Catholic high school. Holy Innocents, in San
Francisco.”
“Yet you believe only in your blood tests. In your
science.”
“What should I rely on instead?”
“Instincts? Faith?”
“In you? Just because you’re a priest?”
“
Just
because?” He shook his head and gave a sad
laugh,
his breath white in the chill air. “I guess that answers my question.”
“I don’t make guesses. I don’t assume anything
about
other human beings, because too often, they surprise you.”
They reached the front gate. He opened it for her, and she stepped
out. The gate swung shut between them, suddenly separating his world from hers.
“You know that man who collapsed on the sidewalk?” he
said.
“The one we did CPR on?”
“Yes.”
“He’s alive. I went to visit him this morning. He’s
awake and talking.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“You didn’t think he’d make it.”
“The odds were against him.”
“So you see? Sometimes the numbers, the statistics, are
wrong.”
She turned to leave.
“Dr. Isles!” he called. “You grew up in the church.
Isn’t there anything left of your faith?”
She looked back at him. “Faith requires no proof,” she
said.
“But I do.”
The autopsy of a child was a task every pathologist dreaded. As
Maura
pulled on gloves and readied her instruments, she avoided looking at the tiny
bundle
on the table, trying to distance herself, as long as possible, from the sad
reality
of what she was about to confront. Except for the clang of instruments, the room
was silent. None of the participants standing around the table felt like saying
a
word.
Maura had always set a respectful tone in her lab. As a medical
student,
she’d observed the autopsies of patients who had died under her care, and
although
the pathologists performing those postmortems regarded the subjects as anonymous
strangers, she had known those patients while they were alive, and could not
look
at them, laid out on the table, without hearing their voices or remembering how
awareness
had lit up their eyes. The autopsy lab was not the place to crack jokes or
discuss
last night’s date, and she didn’t tolerate such behavior. One stern
look
from her could subdue even the most disrespectful cop. She knew that they were
not
heartless, that humor was how they coped with the darkness of their jobs, but
she
expected them to check their humor at the door, or they could count on sharp
words
from her.
Such words were never needed when a child lay on the table.
She looked across at the two detectives. Barry Frost, as usual,
had
a sickly pallor to his face, and he stood slightly back from the table, as
though
poised to make an escape. Today, it was not foul smells that would make this
postmortem
difficult; it was the age of the victim. Rizzoli stood beside him, her
expression
resolute, her petite frame almost lost in a surgical gown that was several sizes
too large. She stood right up against the table, a position that announced:
I’m
ready. I can deal with anything. The same attitude Maura had seen among women
surgical
residents. Men might call them bitches, but she recognized them for what they
were:
embattled women who’d worked so hard to prove themselves in a man’s
profession
that they actually take on a masculine swagger. Rizzoli had the swagger down
pat,
but her face did not quite match the fearless posture. It was white and tense,
the
skin beneath her eyes smudged with fatigue.
Yoshima had angled the light onto the bundle, and stood waiting by
the instrument tray.
The blanket was soaked, and icy pond water trickled off as she
gently
peeled it away, revealing another layer of wrapping. The tiny foot that
she’d
seen earlier now lay exposed, poking out from beneath wet linen. Clinging to the
infant’s form like a shroud was a white pillowcase, closed with safety
pins.
Flecks of pink adhered to the fabric.
Maura reached for the tweezers, picked off the bits of pink, and
dropped
them onto a small tray.
“What is that stuff?” asked Frost.
“It looks like confetti,” said Rizzoli.
Maura slipped the tweezers deep into a wet fold and came up with a
twig. “It’s not confetti,” she said. “These are dried
flowers.”
The significance of this finding brought another silence to the
room.
A symbol of love, she thought. Of mourning. She remembered how moved she had
been,
years ago, when she’d learned that Neanderthals buried their dead with
flowers.
It was evidence of their grief, and therefore, their humanity. This child, she
thought,
was mourned. Wrapped in linen, sprinkled with dried flower petals, and swaddled
in
a wool blanket. Not a disposal, but a burial. A farewell.
She focused on the foot, poking out doll-like from its shroud. The
skin of the sole was wrinkled from immersion in fresh water, but there was no
obvious
decomposition, no marbling of veins. The pond had been near freezing
temperatures,
and the body could have remained in a state of near-preservation for weeks. Time
of death, she thought, would be difficult, if not impossible, to determine.
She set aside the tweezers and removed the four safety pins
closing
the bottom of the pillowcase. They made soft musical ticks as she dropped them
onto
a tray. Lifting the fabric, she gently peeled it upwards, and both legs
appeared,
knees bent, thighs apart like a small frog.
The size was consistent with a full-term fetus.
She exposed the genitals, and then a swollen length of umbilical
cord,
tied off with red satin ribbon. She suddenly remembered the nuns sitting at the
dining
table, their gnarled hands reaching for dried flowers and ribbons to make into
sachets.
A sachet-baby, she thought. Sprinkled with flowers and tied with ribbon.