Tess Gerritsen - John Doe

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?