Tess Gerritsen - The Silent Girl

She hesitated. “No. At least, not a final-”

“Why not?”

She took a breath, aware of all the eyes watching her. “I wanted to wait for the results of the toxicology screen. To see whether Mr. Dixon was, in fact, under the influence of cocaine or other pharmaceuticals. I wanted to be cautious.”

“As well you should. When your decision could destroy the careers, even the lives, of two dedicated peace officers.”

“I only concern myself with the facts, Mr. Whaley, wherever they may lead.”

He did not like that answer; she saw it in the twitch of his jaw muscle. All semblance of cordiality had vanished; this was now a battle.

“So you performed the autopsy on November first,” he said.

“Yes.”

“What happened after that?”

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

“Did you take the weekend off? Did you spend the following week performing other autopsies?”

She stared at him, anxiety coiling like a serpent in her stomach. She didn’t know where he was taking this, but she didn’t like the direction. “I attended a pathology conference,” she said.

“In Wyoming, I believe.”

“Yes.”

“Where you had something of a traumatic experience. You were assaulted by a rogue police officer.”

Aguilar shot to her feet. “Objection! Not relevant!”

“Overruled,” the judge said.

Whaley smiled, his path now cleared to ask the questions that Maura dreaded. “Is that correct, Dr. Isles? Were you attacked by a police officer?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I’m afraid I didn’t hear that.”

“Yes,” she repeated, louder.

“And how did you survive that attack?”

The room was dead silent, waiting for her story. A story that she did not want to even think about, because it still gave her nightmares. She remembered the lonely hilltop in Wyoming. She remembered the thud of the deputy’s vehicle door as it closed, trapping her in the backseat behind the prisoner grating. She remembered her panic as she’d futilely battered her hands against the window, trying to escape a man she knew was about to kill her.

“Dr. Isles, how did you survive? Who came to your aid?”

She swallowed. “A boy.”

“Julian Perkins, age sixteen, I believe. A young man who shot and killed that police officer.”

“He had no choice!”

Whaley cocked his head. “You’re defending a boy who killed a cop?”

“A bad cop!”

“And then you came home to Boston. And declared Mr. Dixon’s death a homicide.”

“Because it was.”

“Or was it merely a tragic accident? The unavoidable consequence after a violent prisoner fought back and had to be subdued?”

“You saw the morgue photos. The police used far more force than was necessary.”

“So did that boy in Wyoming, Julian Perkins. He shot and killed a sheriff’s deputy. Do you consider that justifiable force?”

“Objection,” said Aguilar. “Dr. Isles isn’t on trial here.”

Whaley barreled ahead with the next question, his gaze fixed on Maura. “What happened in Wyoming, Dr. Isles? While you were fighting for your life, was there an epiphany? A sudden realization that cops are the enemy?”

“Objection!”

“Or have cops always been the enemy? Members of your own family seem to think so.”

The gavel banged down. “Mr. Whaley, you will approach the bench now. ”

Maura sat stunned as both attorneys huddled with the judge. So it had come to this, the dredging up of her family. Every cop in Boston probably knew about her mother, Amalthea, now serving a life sentence in a women’s prison in Framingham. The monster who gave birth to me, she thought. Everyone who looks at me must wonder if the same evil has seeped into my blood as well. She saw that the defendant, Officer Graff, was staring at her. Their gazes locked, and a smile curled his lips. Welcome to the consequences , she read in his eyes. This is what happens when you betray the thin blue line .

“The court will take a recess,” the judge announced. “We’ll resume at two this afternoon.”

As the jury filed out, Maura sagged back against the chair and didn’t notice that Aguilar was standing beside her.

“That was dirty pool,” said Aguilar. “It should never have been allowed.”

“He made it all about me,” said Maura.

“Yeah, well, that’s all he has. Because the autopsy photos are pretty damn convincing.” Aguilar looked hard at her. “Is there anything else I should know about you, Dr. Isles?”

“Other than the fact my mother’s a convicted murderer and I torture kittens for fun?”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You said it earlier. I’m not the one on trial.”

“No, but they’ll try to make it about you. Whether you hate cops. Whether you have a hidden agenda. We could lose this case if that jury thinks you’re not on the level. So tell me if there’s anything else they might bring up. Any secrets that you haven’t mentioned to me.”

Maura considered the private embarrassments that she guarded. The illicit affair that she’d just ended. Her family’s history of violence. “Everyone has secrets,” she said. “Mine aren’t relevant.”

“Let’s hope not,” said Aguilar.

WHEREVER YOU LOOKED IN BOSTON’S CHINATOWN, THERE WERE ghosts. They haunted quiet Tai Tung Village as well as garish Beach Street, hovered along Ping On Alley and flitted down the dark lane behind Oxford Place. Ghosts were everywhere on these streets. That, at least, was tour guide Billy Foo’s story, and he was sticking to it. Whether he himself believed in ghosts hardly mattered; his job was to convince the tourists that these streets were haunted by spirits. People wanted to believe in ghosts; that’s why so many of them were willing to pony up fifteen bucks apiece to stand shivering on the corner of Beach and Oxford and listen to Billy’s gory tales of murder. Tonight, an auspicious thirteen of them had signed up for the late-night Chinatown Ghost Tour, including a pair of bratty ten-year-old twins who should have been put to bed three hours ago. But when you need the money, you don’t turn away paying guests, even bratty little boys. Billy was a theater major with no job prospects on the horizon, and tonight’s haul was a cool $195, plus tips. Not a bad payday for two hours of telling tall tales, even if it came with the humiliation of wearing a satin mandarin robe and a fake pigtail.

Billy cleared his throat and held up his arms, drawing on skills he’d learned from six semesters of theater classes to get their attention. “The year is 1907! August second, a warm Friday evening.” His voice, deep and ominous, rose above the distracting sound of traffic. Like Death singling out his next victim, Billy pointed across the street. “There, in the square known as Oxford Place, beats the heart of Boston’s Chinese quarter. Walk with me now, as we step back into an era when these streets teemed with immigrants. When the steamy night smelled of sweating bodies and strange spices. Come back to a night when murder was in the air!” With a dramatic wave, he beckoned the group to follow him to Oxford Place, where they all moved in closer to listen. Gazing at their attentive faces, he thought: Now it’s time to enchant them, time to weave a spell as only a fine actor can. He spread his arms, and the sleeves of his mandarin robe flapped like satin wings as he took in a breath to speak.

“Mahhhh -mee !” one of the brats whined. “He’s kicking me!”

“Stop it, Michael,” the mother snapped. “You stop it right this minute.”