John Doe

CHAPTER THREE

Harry O’Brien was sixty-two years old, but the man who gazed at them from the doorway appeared far older, his eyes hollow, his shoulders drooping as though under the weight of grief. “I knew the police would want to talk to me someday,” he said. “So Scanlon did it again. Didn’t he?”

“We believe so,” said Jane.

“A monster like that, he doesn’t just call it quits one day. He keeps going and going, cutting down lives.” Harry stepped aside to let them enter. “Come in, Detectives. Tell me how I can help you take the bastard down.”

It was an older home, and Jane could smell its age as she walked into the living room, the accumulated odors of dust and mildew and worn carpets. The first thing that caught her eye was the array of photographs on the wall, images of what looked like the same dark-haired girl through the years. As a child, sitting in a swing. As a teenager in her graduation cap and gown. As a young woman hugging a smiling man. Jane was startled to recognize Harry O’Brien in the face of that man in the photo-a younger, happier version of the bitter man now standing in the room with them.

“Kitty had so much to give to the world,” he said, staring at his daughter’s photo. “Not just her big heart and her big laugh. She was brilliant, the first in my family to go to college. Worked nights, went to school during the day. She’d just earned her PhD in history. She went out to celebrate that night. Ended up at a bar and drank a little too much. That’s when he…” O’Brien swallowed and looked out the window. “She couldn’t admit what happened to her, until a week later. By the time she reported it, too much evidence was lost. She never stopped blaming herself. Such a smart girl, yet she felt so stupid.”

“She was hardly responsible for what happened,” said Frost.

“You think I didn’t tell her that a thousand times?” O’Brien shot back. His anger suddenly collapsed and he dropped his head. “She used my gun. So I blame myself, too. I could see how depressed she was and I should have gotten rid of it. I just didn’t think she’d ever…” He shook his head and sighed. “There’s plenty of guilt to go around. But Scanlon’s the one I blame. The one who destroyed my beautiful girl. My only child.”

“Christopher Scanlon is dead,” said Jane.

O’Brien’s head snapped up. “What?”

“His body was found in Olmsted Park.”

“Was it murder?”

“Yes. It was. It happened last night.”

O’Brien was silent for a moment, the news sinking in. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad someone got him, while I’m still alive.” He paused. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“You’ve threatened Mr. Scanlon in the past.”

“I sure as hell did. I just wish I’d killed him myself, but I didn’t have the guts.” He sounded disgusted with himself. “I couldn’t go through with it.”

“You probably know my next question,” said Jane.

“I assume it’s Where were you last night? ”

“You want to answer that?”

“Yeah. I was visiting a woman friend up in Swampscott. Had dinner at her house, watched a few DVDs, drank a little too much. I got home sometime after midnight, I guess.”

Jane studied O’Brien’s wasted face and sunken eyes, and could not imagine him staying up late, partying with a woman. “What’s this friend’s name?” she asked.

“Monica Vargas. Her mother was there, too. Monica’s in the phone book, so you can call her and confirm it.”

“We will.”

Christopher Scanlon’s second known victim, Sarah Shapiro, was less willing to speak to them. She peered suspiciously through her barely open door, the chain still in place. “I don’t really want to talk about it,” she said.

“This is a homicide investigation, Ms. Shapiro,” said Jane.

“If Scanlon’s dead, then I plan to celebrate. That’s all I’m going to say.”

“You had every reason to want him dead.”

“Damn right.”

“Which means we have every reason to be here. I know it’s not easy to talk about what he did to you. But you do understand that we have to.”

With a sigh, Sarah at last unchained the door and swung it open. “Let’s get this over with. Then I can crack open a bottle of champagne.”

Her apartment was stunning, with floor-to-ceiling windows that faced Commonwealth Avenue. The furniture and artwork had been chosen with an eye for style, and the ebony shelves were filled with expensive-looking art books.

Noticing Jane’s obvious curiosity over her book collection, Sarah asked: “Are you interested in art, Detective?”

“I know what I like.”

“That’s more than a lot of people can say.”

“You own an art gallery, is that right?”

“On Newbury Street. But I’m sure you already knew that.” Sarah stared off into space. “That’s how he found me,” she said softly. “At a friend’s gallery reception. Out of all those people, he chose me. Like a lion selecting a lamb.”

“We’re sorry to bring back such a painful memory,” Frost said.

“Bring back?” Sarah shook her head. “It’s never left me. How charming he seemed. How eager to fetch me a glass of wine. When I woke up the next morning, I knew what had happened, even though I couldn’t remember it. Oh, I was going to take this all the way to the end. I did everything right, everything a rape victim is supposed to do. I didn’t shower, but went straight to the ER and gave a statement to the police. One of the other guests at the reception had seen me wobbling to Scanlon’s car, and she had the presence of mind to take down his license number. When I saw his photo, I recognized him at once. I swore to the police that Christopher Scanlon was the man who drugged me.”

“But he wasn’t the man who raped you,” said Jane.

Sarah’s face tightened. “I kept telling them there had to be a mistake. The crime lab switched their DNA samples. Or the specimen was contaminated. But no, it was all blamed on me. The unreliable witness. The woman who accused the wrong man of assaulting her.”

“You don’t remember a second man that night?”

“I don’t remember a lot of things. Sometimes, there’s a spark of a memory. A man’s face. I’m not sure it’s a real memory, or something I’ve fabricated.” She gave a harsh laugh. “The way I supposedly fabricated my accusation. There was no way any prosecutor would touch the case. Not after the DNA came back.”

“Yet you’re certain it was Christopher Scanlon you met at the reception.”

“Absolutely. I found out later that I wasn’t his only victim. There was another woman, Kitty O’Brien. She’d just gotten her PhD, and was out celebrating when he picked her up at a bar. I read about Kitty after she committed suicide, and I realized Scanlon targeted a certain type of woman. Confident. Accomplished.”

And attractive, thought Jane, looking at Sarah Shapiro. Those were the same words she might use to describe Maura. It sent a chill through her, imagining a predator spotting Maura among the crowd. Circling in on his prey. Somehow, Maura had escaped the fate of Sarah and Kitty: She had not been sexually assaulted.

Instead it was Scanlon who’d ended up a victim.

“So who did it?” asked Sarah. “Who killed him?”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” said Jane.

“And I have a motive.”

“A perfectly understandable one.”

“Fortunately, I also have an alibi. You said he was killed Saturday night.”

“That’s right.”

“On Saturday night, I had a friend visiting. She stayed here, and we ate in. Talked a lot. Went to bed around midnight.”

“Your friend’s name?” asked Frost, pulling out his notebook.

“Julia Chan.” Sarah picked up a personal address book and flipped to the C’s. “I’ll give you her phone number. Since I’m sure you’ll want to talk to her.”

“We’ve confirmed their alibis,” said Frost. “Julia Chan said she spent the evening with Sarah Shapiro. And Monica Vargas said Harry O’Brien was at her house in Swampscott. Both these suspects now seem to be off the table.”

It was their morning team meeting at Boston PD, and seated in the conference room were Jane and Frost, Detectives Moore and Crowe, and their unit commander, Lieutenant Marquette. More than forty-eight hours had passed since the discovery of Scanlon’s body. The murder weapon was still missing; the autopsy confirmed that the cause of death was multiple stab wounds to the back and chest, a frenzied attack indicating uncontrolled rage.

“So we’re back to Dr. Isles,” said Lieutenant Marquette.

“Where I’ve always said we should focus,” said Crowe. He’d never tried to hide his dislike of Maura; her authority annoyed him. Or was it her intelligence that threatened him? “Her shoe and her fingerprints were in the victim’s vehicle. The museum surveillance cameras show them walking out together-”

“Maura wasn’t walking,” said Jane. “She was staggering.”

“And his car ends up parked right outside her house. If you ask me, it looks like they left the reception together, she stabbed him in Olmsted Park, and then she drove home in his car.”

“In a semiconscious state?”

“The amnesia story is a little too convenient, don’t you think? Plus, there was no evidence of sexual assault, no presence of semen. If Scanlon went to all the trouble of drugging her and getting her home, why didn’t he collect his prize?”

It enraged Jane to hear him so casually toss around the intimate details of Maura’s ordeal. This was not just a victim they were discussing; this was her friend, and she rocked forward in her chair, planting fists on the table. “Then where’s the blood on her dress? Tell me that. You don’t stab a guy fifteen times and walk away spotless.”

“She changed clothes.”

“She was wearing that dress in the museum surveillance video.”

“If he was killed by someone else after he brought her home, how did he get to Olmsted Park?” said Crowe. “His car was still parked at her house.”

“Obviously there was another vehicle,” said Jane. “Someone else was involved. Someone who drove Scanlon to Olmsted Park and killed him there.”

“Right. This mysterious second man you keep talking about.”

“Unknown male DNA was found inside Sarah Shapiro. There is a second man.”

“Or Sarah Shapiro’s a flake. Lied about when she last had sex with a boyfriend, and then accused the wrong guy.”

Frost said, “Sarah didn’t strike me as a flake at all. She’s a serious professional with a good head on her shoulders.”

Crowe looked at Frost and laughed. “So says our resident expert on women.”

It was a particularly cruel barb to direct at Frost, whose wife had walked out on him, and who still mourned the breakup of his marriage. Though Frost stiffened, he didn’t return the cruelty; he never did.

“You’re so fixated on Maura,” Jane said to Crowe, “you’re trying to make the evidence fit your theory.”

“You’re the one calling her Maura,” Crowe pointed out. “Which makes it obvious you’ve got a problem being objective.” He turned to Marquette. “It’s hard to conduct an investigation when your friend’s the prime suspect.”

“ She’s the victim here,” said Jane.

“That’s exactly what she wants us to believe,” said Crowe. “Look, I’m not saying that Scanlon didn’t have it coming. Whoever killed him did us all a favor. Maybe he tried to assault her. Dr. Isles flew into a rage and delivered a little justice. After all, she does cut up people for a living. And she’s brilliant enough to come up with a good cover story.”

Jane looked around the table. “You cannot be seriously considering this.”

“We have to consider every possibility, Rizzoli,” said Marquette. “What else do we have?” He turned to Detective Moore. “Anything more on Scanlon’s vehicle?”

Moore, ever the calm voice of the unit, said: “CSU is still working on the cell phone they found under the front seat. It’s a TracFone, password-protected, so we haven’t been able to get into it yet. The fact it was tucked way up under the seat makes me think it’s a phone he used only occasionally.”

“To call his partner,” said Jane.

“We unlock that phone, we may be able to find out the identity of Predator Number Two,” said Moore. “I’ve checked the other cases in the CODIS database. All the rapes where the unknown DNA showed up. They span a period of four years, all within thirty miles of Boston.” He typed on his laptop keyboard and swung the screen around to show Marquette the images of three women. “You’ll notice the similarities among these victims, as well as with both Sarah Shapiro and Kitty O’Brien. All of them educated, accomplished women. All targeted in upscale venues such as cocktail receptions or business conventions. Most were last seen, before the assaults, with a man matching Scanlon’s description.”

“But his DNA wasn’t found in any of them,” said Marquette.

“No,” said Moore. “Scanlon may have abducted them. But he didn’t rape them.”

Marquette frowned. “He was merely the supplier.”

“Which may be why he didn’t need a job,” said Frost. “He claimed to be a software developer, but we can’t find any recent employment records to support that. He died with three hundred thousand dollars in various accounts. That was his job.” Frost pointed to the victims’ photos on the screen. “And it looks like he was well paid for it.”

“No wonder,” said Marquette. “Scanlon takes all the risks. Shows his face in public. Transports the women in his car to their own residences.”

“Easy enough to get the addresses off their drivers’ licenses,” pointed out Frost.

“And that’s when the second man shows up. The women are drugged, so they never see the man who’s actually assaulting them. The DNA isn’t Scanlon’s, so even if he is arrested, he can’t be convicted of rape. It’s a perfect partnership, with Scanlon as the employee.”

“Whoever hired him is obviously loaded and pays him well,” said Frost. “But maybe Scanlon got greedy. Maybe he tried to blackmail his boss. That would be a motive for murder.”

“Then why was Scanlon still working for him?” asked Marquette. “Because it seems that’s what he was doing Saturday night. He crashed that reception to look for the next victim.”

And he chose just the kind of woman his employer craves, thought Jane. Intelligent. Attractive. Accomplished. All words that described Maura Isles.

“He wants only the best,” she said softly, staring at the faces on Moore’s computer screen. “Maybe he’s afraid of women like this. Or he resents them. And this is how he conquers them, how he cuts them down to size. The question is, Why couldn’t he find these women himself? Why take on the risk of a partner?”

“Maybe he’s deformed,” said Frost. “Unable to get close to them.”

“Or he’s too prominent,” suggested Moore. “Someone who’s immediately recognizable.”

That second possibility disturbed Jane. Money and power, she thought. Is that what they were up against? A killer who paid someone else to take the risks while awaiting delivery of his next victim?

It would have been Maura.

But on Saturday night, something went awry for those partners. It started off well enough at the reception, where Scanlon chose his target and slipped Rohypnol into her drink. He guided his increasingly wobbly victim to his car. In her purse, he found Maura’s driver’s license and jotted down her address on the back of her business card, which he tucked into his pocket. He drove to her house in Brookline, used her keys to unlock the door, and carried her inside, where he deposited her on the sofa, unconscious and ready to be taken.

But for some reason, the partner did not claim her. Did he show up at all that night? Or did he decide he would wait for another time?

He already knows where to find her.