I Know a Secret

Eighteen

Jane set a stack of papers on Maura’s rosewood desk, which was freakishly tidy as usual. Jane’s desk at the homicide unit looked like a place where work was actually being done, every square inch covered in files and Post-it notes. Maura’s was a Stepford desk, too perfect to be real, with not a stray paper clip or a speck of dust to be seen. On that pristine surface, Jane’s papers sat in an unruly pile, crying out to be straightened.

“We’re working on your theory, believe me, Maura,” said Jane. “Frost and I have been reading up on martyred saints, and, man, we are talking hardcore blood and guts.” She pointed to the papers she’d brought Maura. “It’s actually pretty disturbing stuff. I should’ve been paying more attention in catechism class.”

Maura picked up the top page. “Saint Apollonia, virgin and martyr,” she read. “Patron saint of dentists and people with toothaches?”

“Oh, yeah, now that was a horrible death. They broke all her teeth, and in paintings she’s usually depicted holding dental pincers.” Jane nodded at the other pages in the stack. “In there you’ll find beheadings, stabbings, stonings, crucifixions, drowning, burning, and clubbing. Oh, and my favorite: having your intestines pulled out with a windlass. If you can think of a horrible way to kill someone, it was probably done to some saint somewhere. And that’s our problem.”

“Problem?” Maura looked up from the page about Saint Apollonia.

“Maybe this perp’s killed before, but we have no idea what method of mutilation he chose. We can’t narrow down the victims by gender, since he’s killing both men and women. We could waste a lot of time reviewing every unsolved beating, stabbing, and beheading.”

“We know something far more specific than that, Jane. We know he uses ketamine to subdue his victims and suffocation to kill them. We know the mutilations are postmortem.”

“Right, and those were the first things we searched for on the ViCAP database. Any victims with ketamine on board who were mutilated postmortem.” Jane shook her head.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Maura leaned back in her leather chair and tapped her silver pen on the desk. On the wall behind her hung a grotesque African mask, which seemed to mirror her look of frustration. Jane once asked Maura why she displayed so many creepy artifacts in her office and had received a lecture about the beauty and symbolism of ceremonial masks from Mali. But all Jane saw, when she looked up at that mask, was a monster ready to pounce.

“Then maybe he hasn’t killed before,” said Maura. “Or maybe the details we’re searching for were missed on autopsy. Not every victim gets a comprehensive tox screen. And death by suffocation is sometimes impossible to determine. Even I missed it the first time, with Cassandra Coyle. I could kick myself for that.”

“Actually, that’s kind of a relief to hear,” said Jane.

“A relief?”

“It’s nice to know you’re not perfect.”

“I never said I was.” Maura leaned forward in her chair and frowned at the stack of papers that Jane had brought, dozens of pages filled with some of the most gruesome episodes in Church history. “Our two victims, did they have any religious connection?”

“We chased that down too. Both Cassandra and Timothy were raised in Catholic households, but neither was observant. Timothy’s younger sister said she can’t remember the last time her brother attended church. And Cassandra’s colleagues at her film studio said she despised organized religion, which goes along with her Goth vibe. I doubt either one of these victims met their killer in church.”

“Still, there’s something here, Jane. Something to do with saints and martyrs.”

“Maybe you’re seeing symbolism that doesn’t actually exist. Maybe this has nothing to do with the Church and it’s just some sicko who likes to randomly mutilate bodies.”

“No, I feel certain about this. And I’m not the only one.”

Jane studied Maura’s flushed face and saw a brightness in her eyes, a new and feverish intensity. “I take it Daniel agrees with you?”

“He recognized it immediately. He’s well versed in religious symbolism, and he can help us get into this killer’s mind.”

“Is that really why you went to him? Or was there some other reason to pull him into this?”

“Do you think I’m looking for an excuse to get involved with him again?” said Maura.

“You could’ve consulted an art history professor at Harvard. You could have asked a random nun or looked it up on Wikipedia. But, no, you called Daniel Brophy.”

“He’s worked with Boston PD for years. He’s discreet and you know we can trust him.”

“With this investigation, sure. But can he be trusted with you?”

“We’ve moved beyond that. We’re keeping this purely professional.”

“If you say so. But how was it for you?” Jane asked quietly. “Seeing him again?”

Maura’s response was to turn away from Jane’s gaze. Yes, that was typical Maura — avoiding conflict, as usual; shying away from any conversation that might stir up uncomfortable emotions. They had been friends and colleagues for years, had even faced death together, yet Maura had never really allowed Jane to see her deepest vulnerabilities. The woman’s shields were always up, always shutting her out.

“Seeing him again was painful,” Maura finally admitted. “All these months, I’ve struggled to not pick up the phone and call him.” She gave an ironic laugh. “Then today I found out he hasn’t even been in Boston for months. He’s been in Canada on a retreat.”

“Yeah, I guess I should have told you that.”

Maura frowned at her. “You knew he left town?”

“He asked me not to tell you. He was going into seclusion, so you weren’t supposed to contact him anyway. I thought he made a wise decision, going away. And to be honest, I was hoping you’d move on. That you’d find someone else, someone who can make you happy.” Jane paused. “But it’s not over between you two, is it?”

Maura looked down at the pages. “It’s over. It is over,” she repeated, as if trying to convince herself.

No, it’s not, thought Jane, seeing the struggle on Maura’s face. It’s not over for either one of you.

Jane glanced down as her cell phone played a familiar ring tone: “Frosty the Snowman.” “Hey,” she answered. “I’m still with Maura. What’s up?”

“Sometimes a guy just gets lucky,” Frost said.

Jane snorted. “Okay, what’s her name?”

“I don’t know. But I’m starting to think our killer may not be a man.”

“I wasn’t even looking for a woman. That’s how I missed spotting her the first time I watched these surveillance videos,” said Frost. “At the time, we had no idea the two cases might be linked, so I never thought to watch these in succession. But after Maura came up with her theory, I went back to these videos again. To see if there was anyone who attended both Cassandra’s and Timothy’s memorial services.” He swiveled his laptop on his desk to face Jane. “And look what I found.”

She leaned closer to study the image caught in freeze-frame on Frost’s computer. It showed half a dozen people filing toward the camera, all of them somber-faced and dressed in wintry black.

“This is the video of Cassandra Coyle’s memorial service,” said Frost. “The camera was mounted right over the church entrance, so it captured everyone who walked in the door.” He pointed to the laptop screen. “You remember those two women, right?”

“How could I forget? Team Elaine. They were sitting right behind me, making nasty remarks about Priscilla Coyle all through the service.”

“And those three.” Frost pointed at a familiar trio walking right behind the two older women. “Cassandra’s colleagues from the film studio.”

“Can’t mistake ’em. No one else in that crowd had violet hair.”

“Now look at this young woman here, just to the left of the filmmakers. Do you remember seeing her at the service?”

Jane leaned in to study the woman’s face. She appeared to be about the same age as Cassandra, perhaps in her mid-twenties, a slim, attractive brunette with dark bangs cut in a blunt fringe. “Only vaguely. I may have seen her in the crowd, but there were two hundred people in that church. Why are you focusing on her?”

“The thing is, I didn’t. Not the first time. When I went through this video and the video from Timothy McDougal’s funeral, I was focusing on the men. I didn’t pay much attention to the women. Then I happened to freeze the frame right at this point. This is the only clear view you get of the woman’s face, peeking over Travis Chang’s shoulder. You can’t really see her again, because she ducks her head down after this shot. Keep her face in mind.” Frost minimized the image and brought up a different image. It was another freeze-frame, showing a dozen people, again dressed in dark clothes. Again with somber faces.

“Different church,” said Jane.

“Right. It’s the video from Timothy McDougal’s service. Now watch as these people walk into the church.” Frost forwarded the video frame by frame and stopped. “Look who pops up at this service too.”

Jane stared at the woman’s dark hair, the heart-shaped face. “Are you sure it’s the same woman?”

“It sure as hell looks like her. Same haircut, same face. And look closely at the plaid scarf she’s wearing. Same colors, same pattern. That’s her, all right. But it seems like she brought someone with her this time.” Frost pointed to a sandy-haired man who stood at the woman’s shoulder. They were holding hands.

“Did you see this man anywhere in the Cassandra Coyle video?”

“No. He’s only at Timothy’s funeral.”

“So we finally have a link between these two murders,” said Jane softly. She turned in astonishment to Frost. “And it’s a woman.”