The Sinner (5 page)

She looked at the candy stripers in their crisp uniforms, and
thought
of herself at sixteen—not giggly, like these girls, but quiet and serious.
Even
then, aware of life’s dark notes. Instinctively drawn to melodies in a
minor
key.

The elevator doors opened, and the girls spilled out, a sunny
flock
of pink and white, leaving Maura and Sutcliffe alone in the elevator.

“They make me tired,” he said. “All that energy. I
wish
I had a tenth of it, especially after a night on call.” He glanced at her.
“Do
you have many of those?”

“Nights on call? We rotate.”

“I guess your patients don’t expect you to rush
in.”

“It’s not like your life here in the trenches.”

He laughed, and suddenly he was transformed into a blond surfer
boy
with smiling eyes. “Life in the trenches. That’s what it feels like
sometimes.
The front lines.”

The X rays were already waiting for them on the clerk’s
counter.
Sutcliffe carried the large envelope into the viewing room. He slid a set of
films
under the clips and flipped on the switch.

The light flickered on through images of a skull. Fracture lines
laced
across bone like lightning strikes. She could see two separate points of impact.
The first blow had landed on the right temporal bone, sending a single fine
crack
downward, toward the ear. The second, more powerful, had fallen posterior to the
first blow, and this one had compressed the plateau of cranium, crushing it
inward.

“He hit her first on the side of the head,” she said.

“How can you tell that was the first blow?”

“Because the first fracture line stops the propagation of an
intersecting
fracture from a second blow.” She pointed to the fracture lines. “You
see
how this line stops right here, where it reaches the first fracture line? The
force
of impact can’t jump across the gap. That tells me this blow to the right
temple
came first. Maybe she was turning away. Or she didn’t see him, coming at
her
from the side.”

“He surprised her,” said Sutcliffe.

“And it would have been enough to send her reeling. Then the
next
blow landed, farther back on the head, here.” She pointed to the second
fracture
line.

“A heavier blow,” he said. “It compressed the skull
table.”

He took down the skull films and put up the CT scans. Computerized
axial tomography allowed one to look into the human cranium, revealing the brain
slice by slice. She saw a pocket of collected blood that had leaked from torn
vessels.
The mounting pressure would have squeezed the brain. It was an injury as
potentially
devastating as that done to Camille.

But human anatomy and human endurance are variable. While the much
younger nun had succumbed to her injuries, Ursula’s heart kept beating, her
body unwilling to surrender its soul. Not a miracle, merely one of those quirks
of
fate, like the child who survives a fall from a sixth-floor window, and is only
scratched.

“I’m amazed she survived at all,” he murmured.

“So am I.” She looked at Sutcliffe. The glow of the
light
box lit half his face, glancing across the strong angles of his cheek.
“These
blows were meant to kill.”

F
OUR

C
AMILLE
M
AGINNES HAD YOUNG BONES
,
thought
Maura, gazing at the X rays hanging on the morgue light box. The years had not
yet
chewed away at the novice’s joints, nor collapsed her vertebrae or
calcified
the costal cartilage of her ribs. Now the years never would. Camille would be
placed
into the earth, her bones forever arrested in a state of youth.

Yoshima had x-rayed the body while it was fully dressed, a
standard
precaution to locate loose bullets or other metal fragments that might be lodged
in clothing. Except for the crucifix, and what were clearly safety pins over the
chest, no other pieces of metal were visible on the X rays.

Maura pulled down the torso views, and the stiff X rays made a
musical
boing
as they bent in her hands. She reached for the skull films, and slid them under
the
light box clips.

“Jesus,” Detective Frost murmured.

The damage to the cranium was appalling. One of the blows had been
heavy enough to drive bone fragments deep below the level of surrounding skull.
Although
Maura had not yet made a single incision, she could already envision the damage
inside
the cranium. The ruptured vessels, the taut pockets of hemorrhage. And the
brain,
herniating under the mounting pressure of blood.

“Talk to us, Doc,” said Rizzoli, crisp and to the point.
She was looking healthier this morning, had walked into the morgue that morning
with
her usual brisk stride, the warrior woman back in action. “What are you
seeing?”

“Three separate blows,” said Maura. “The first one
hit
here, on the crown.” She pointed to a single fracture line, running
diagonally
forward. “The other two blows followed, at the back of the head. My guess
is,
she was facedown by that time. Lying helpless and prone. That’s when the
last
blow crushed through the skull.”

It was a finale so brutal that she and the two detectives fell
silent
for a moment, imagining the fallen woman, her face pressed to the stone floor.
The
attacker’s arm rising, hand gripping the death weapon. The sound of
shattering
bone breaking the silence of that chapel.

“Like clubbing a baby seal,” said Rizzoli. “She
didn’t
have a chance.”

Maura turned to the autopsy table, where Camille Maginnes lay,
still
clothed in her blood-soaked habit. “Let’s undress her.”

A gloved and gowned Yoshima stood waiting, the ghost of the
autopsy
room. With silent efficiency, he had assembled the tray of instruments, angled
lights
and readied specimen containers. Maura scarcely needed to speak; with only a
look,
he could read her mind.

First they removed the black leather shoes, ugly and practical.
Then
they paused, eyeing the victim’s many layers of clothing, preparing for a
task
they had never before attempted: the disrobing of a nun.

“The guimpe should come off first,” said Maura.

“What’s that?” asked Frost.

“The shoulder capelet. Only I don’t see any fasteners on
the front. And I didn’t see any zippers on X ray. Let’s turn her onto
her
side, so I can check the back.”

The body, now stiff in rigor mortis, was light as a child’s.
They
logrolled her sideways, and Maura peeled apart the edges of the capelet.

“Velcro,” she said.

Frost gave a startled laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“The medieval meets the modern age.” Maura slid off the
capelet,
folded it, and set it onto a plastic sheet.

“Somehow, that’s really disappointing. Nuns using
Velcro.”

“You want to keep ’em in the Middle Ages?” said
Rizzoli.

“I just kind of figured they’d be more traditional or
something.”

“I hate to disillusion you, Detective Frost,” said
Maura,
as she removed the chain and crucifix. “But some convents even have their
own
Web sites these days.”

“Oh, man. Nuns on the Internet. That blows my mind.”

“The scapular looks like it comes off next,” said Maura,
indicating the sleeveless overgarment that draped from shoulders to hem. Gently
she
lifted the scapular over the victim’s head. The fabric was soaked with
blood,
and stiff. She laid this on a separate plastic sheet, followed by the leather
belt.

They were down to the final layer of wool—a black tunic,
draped
loosely over Camille’s slim form. Her last barrier of modesty.

In all her years of undressing corpses, Maura had never felt such
reluctance
to strip a victim nude. This was a woman who had chosen to live hidden from the
eyes
of men; now she would be cruelly revealed, her body probed, her orifices
swabbed.
The prospect of such an invasion brought a bitter taste to Maura’s throat
and
she paused to regain her composure. She saw Yoshima’s questioning glance.
If
he was disturbed, he did not show it. His impassive face was a calming influence
in that room, where the very air seemed charged with emotion.

She refocused on the task. Together, she and Yoshima lifted the
tunic,
sliding it up over the thighs and hips. It was loosely fitted, and they were
able
to remove it without breaking rigor mortis of the arms. Beneath it were yet more
garments—a white cotton hood that had slid down around her neck, the front
flaps
safety-pinned to a bloodstained T-shirt. The same pins that had appeared on the
X
ray. Heavy black tights covered her legs. They removed the tights first,
revealing
white cotton panties beneath. They were absurdly modest briefs, designed to
cover
as much skin as possible, the underwear of an old lady, not a nubile young
woman.
A sanitary pad bulged beneath the cotton. As Maura had suspected earlier, from
the
bloodstained bed sheets, the victim was menstruating.

Next Maura tackled the T-shirt. She unfastened a safety pin,
peeled
apart more Velcro flaps, and slid off the hood. The T-shirt, however, would not
come
off so easily due to rigor mortis. She reached for scissors and cut straight up
the
center of the shirt. The fabric parted, revealing yet another layer.

This one took her aback. She stared at the band of cloth wrapped
tightly
around the chest, fastened at the front with two safety pins.

“What’s that for?” asked Frost.

“It looks like she bound her breasts,” said Maura.

“Why?”

“I have no idea.”

“Substitute for a bra?” Rizzoli suggested.

“I can’t imagine why she’d choose to wear this
instead
of a bra. Look how tightly it’s wrapped. It had to be uncomfortable.”

Rizzoli snorted. “Yeah, like a bra’s comfortable?”

“It’s not some kind of religious thing, is it?”
said
Frost. “Part of their habit?”

“No, this is just standard Ace wrap. The same wrapping
you’d
buy at a drugstore to bind a sprained ankle.”

“But how do we know what nuns usually wear? I mean, for all
we
know, under all those robes, they could be dressed in black lace and
fishnet.”

No one laughed.

Maura gazed down at Camille, and was suddenly struck by the
symbolism
of bound breasts. Womanly features disguised, suppressed. Squeezed into
submission.
What had gone through Camille’s mind as she’d wound the cloth around
her
chest, pulling the elastic taut against her skin? Had she felt disgust about
these
reminders of womanhood? Had she felt cleaner, purer, as her breasts vanished
beneath
the strips of bandage, her curves flattened, her sexuality denied?

Maura undid the two safety pins and set them on the tray. Then,
with
Yoshima’s assistance, she began to unwrap the binding, baring successive
bands
of skin. But even smothering elastic could not make healthy flesh shrivel away.
The
last strip came off, revealing ripe young breasts, the skin stippled with the
imprint
of the fabric. Other women would have been proud of those breasts; Camille
Maginnes
had concealed them, as though ashamed.

There was one last item of clothing to remove. The cotton briefs.

Maura slid the elastic waistband down over the hips and peeled it
past
the thighs. The sanitary napkin, affixed to the underwear, was stained with only
a scant amount of blood.

“Fresh pad,” noted Rizzoli. “Looks like she’d
just
changed it.”

But Maura was not looking at the pad; her gaze was focused on the
toneless
abdomen, sagging and loose between jutting hipbones. Silvery streaks marred the
pale
skin. For a moment she said nothing, silently absorbing the significance of
those
streaks. She was thinking, too, of the tightly wrapped breasts.

Maura turned to the tray, where she had left the bundle of Ace
wrap,
and slowly unrolled it, inspecting the fabric.

“What’re you looking for?” asked Rizzoli.

“Stains,” said Maura.

“You can already see the blood.”

“Not bloodstains . . .” Maura paused, the Ace wrap
spread
across the tray to reveal dark rings where fluid had dried. My god, she thought.
How can this be possible?

She looked at Yoshima. “Let’s set her up for a
pelvic.”

He frowned at her. “Break rigor mortis?”

“She doesn’t have a lot of muscle mass.” Camille
was
a slender woman; it would make their task easier.

Yoshima moved to the foot of the table. While Maura held down the
pelvis,
he slid his hands under the left thigh and strained to flex the hip. Breaking
rigor
mortis was as brutal as it sounded—the forcible rupture of rigid muscle
fibers.
Never a pleasant procedure, it clearly horrified Frost, who stepped back from
the
table, his face paling. Yoshima gave a firm shove, and Maura felt, transmitted
through
the pelvis, the snap of tearing muscle.

“Oh man,” said Frost, turning away.

But it was Rizzoli who moved unsteadily toward the chair near the
sink,
and sank into it, dropping her head in her hands. Rizzoli the stoic, who never
complained
of the sights or the smells of the autopsy suite, now seemed unable to stomach
even
these preliminaries.

Maura circled to the other side of the table, and again held down
the
pelvis while Yoshima worked on the right thigh. Even she had a twinge of nausea
as
they strained to break the rigidity. Of all the ordeals she’d known during
her
medical training, it was her rotation in orthopedic surgery that had most
appalled
her. The drilling and sawing into bone, the brute force needed to disarticulate
hips.
She felt that same abhorrence now as she felt the snap of muscle. The right hip
suddenly
flexed, and even Yoshima’s normally bland expression betrayed a flash of
distaste.
But there was no other way to fully visualize the genitals, and she felt some
urgency
about confirming her suspicions as quickly as possible.

They rotated both thighs outward, and Yoshima aimed a light
directly
on the perineum. Blood had pooled in the vaginal canal—normal menstrual
blood,
Maura would have assumed earlier. Now she stared, stunned by what she was
seeing.
She reached for gauze and gently wiped away the blood to reveal the mucosa
beneath
it.

“There’s a second degree vaginal tear at six
o’clock,”
she said.

“You want to take swabs?”

“Yes. And we’ll need to do a bloc removal.”

“What’s going on?” asked Frost.

Maura looked at him. “I don’t do this very often, but
I’m
going to remove the pelvic organs in one mass. Cut through the pubic bone and
lift
it all out.”

“You think she was sexually assaulted?”

Maura didn’t answer him. She circled to the instrument tray
and
picked up a scalpel. Moved to the torso to begin her Y incision.

The intercom buzzed. “Dr. Isles?” Louise said over the
speakerphone.

“Yes?”

“There’s a call for you on line one. It’s Dr.
Victor
Banks again, from that organization, One Earth.”

Maura froze, hand gripping the scalpel. The tip just touching the
skin.

“Dr. Isles?” said Louise.

“I’m unavailable.”

“Shall I tell him you’ll return his call?”

“No.”

“It’s the third time he’s called today. He asked if
he could reach you at home.”

“Do
not
give him my home phone number.” Her answer
came out more harshly than she’d intended, and she saw Yoshima turn to look
at her. She felt Frost and Rizzoli watching her as well. She took a breath and
said,
more calmly: “Tell Dr. Banks I’m not available. And keep telling him
that
until he stops calling.”

There was a pause. “Yes, Dr. Isles,” Louise finally
responded,
sounding more than a little stung by the exchange. It was the first time Maura
had
ever spoken sharply to her, and she’d have to find some way to smooth over
the
rift and repair the damage. The exchange left her flustered. She looked down at
the
torso of Camille Maginnes, trying to refocus her attention on the task at hand.
But
her thoughts were scattered, and her grip was unsteady around the scalpel.

The others could see it.

“Why’s One Earth bugging you?” asked Rizzoli.
“They
hitting you up for donations?”

“This has nothing to do with One Earth.”

“So what is it?” pressed Rizzoli. “Is this guy
harassing
you?”

“He’s just someone I’m trying to avoid.”

“Sounds like he’s pretty persistent.”

“You have no idea.”

“You want me to get him off your back? Tell him where to
go?”
This was more than just Rizzoli the cop talking; it was also Rizzoli the woman,
and
she had no tolerance for overbearing men.

“It’s a personal matter,” said Maura.

“You need help, all you have to do is ask.”

“Thank you, but I’ll handle him.” Maura pressed the
scalpel to skin, wanting nothing more than to drop the subject of Victor Banks.
She
took a breath, and found it ironic that the scent of dead flesh was less
disturbing
to her than the mere utterance of his name. That the living tormented her far
more
than the dead ever could. In the morgue, no one hurt her, or betrayed her. In
the
morgue, she was the one in control.