Tess Gerritsen - Body Double

Rizzoli said to Gurley: “Why don’t you think she should see her?”

“I’m only asking her to approach this visit with caution.”

“Why? Is the inmate dangerous?”

“Not in the sense that she’ll spring up and physically attack anyone. In fact, she’s quite docile on the surface.”

“And beneath the surface?”

“Think of what she did, Detective. How much rage it must take to swing a crowbar with such force that you shatter a woman’s skull? Now you answer that question: What lies beneath Amalthea’s surface?” Gurley looked at Maura. “You need to go into this with your eyes open, and fully aware of whom you’re dealing with.”

“She and I may share the same DNA,” said Maura. “But I have no emotional attachment to this woman.”

“So you’re just curious.”

“I need to put this to rest. I need to move on.”

“That’s probably what your sister thought, too. You do know she came to visit Amalthea?”

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

“I don’t think it gave her any peace of mind. I think it only upset her.”

“Why?”

Gurley slid a file across the desk toward Maura. “Those are Amalthea’s psychiatric records. Everything you need to know about her is in there. Why don’t you just read that instead? Read it, walk away, and forget about her.”

Maura didn’t touch the file. It was Rizzoli who picked up the folder and said: “She’s under a psychiatrist’s care?”

“Yes,” said Gurley.

“Why?”

“Because Amalthea is a schizophrenic.”

Maura stared at the superintendent. “Then why was she convicted of murder? If she’s schizophrenic, she shouldn’t be in prison. She should be in a hospital. ”

“So should a number of our inmates. Tell it to the courts, Dr. Isles, because I’ve tried to. The system itself is insane. Even if you’re flat-out psychotic when you commit murder, the insanity defense seldom sways a jury.”

Rizzoli asked, softly: “Are you sure she is insane?”

Maura turned to Rizzoli. Saw that she was staring down at the inmate’s psychiatric file. “Is there a question about her diagnosis?”

“I know this psychiatrist who’s been seeing her. Dr. Joyce O’Donnell. She doesn’t normally waste her time treating run-of-the-mill schizophrenics.” She looked at Gurley. “Why is she involved in this case?”

“You sound disturbed about it,” said Gurley.

“If you knew Dr. O’Donnell, you’d be disturbed too.” Rizzoli clapped the folder shut. Took a deep breath. “Is there anything else Dr. Isles needs to know before she sees the prisoner?”

Gurley looked at Maura. “I guess I haven’t talked you out of it, have I?”

“No. I’m ready to see her.”

“Then I’ll walk you down to visitor intake.”

I CAN STILL CHANGE my mind .

That thought kept going through Maura’s head as she walked through visitor processing. As she removed her watch and placed it, along with her handbag, in a locker. She could bring no jewelry or wallet into the visitors’ room, and she felt naked without her purse, stripped of any proof of identity, of all the little plastic cards that told the world who she was. She closed the locker and the clang was a jarring reminder of the world she was about to enter: a place where doors slammed shut, where lives were trapped in boxes.

Maura had hoped this meeting would be private, but when the guard admitted her into the visiting room, Maura saw that privacy was an impossibility. Afternoon visiting hours had commenced an hour earlier, and the room was noisy with the voices of children and the chaos of reunited families. Coins clattered into a vending machine, which disgorged plastic-wrapped sandwiches and chips and candy bars.

“Amalthea’s on her way down now,” the guard said to Maura. “Why don’t you find a seat?”

Maura went to an unoccupied table and sat down. The plastic tabletop was sticky with spilled juice; she kept her hands in her lap and waited, her heart hammering, her throat dry. The classic fight-or-flight response, she thought. Why the hell am I so nervous?

She rose and crossed to a sink. Filled a paper cup with water and gulped it down. Her throat still felt dry. This kind of thirst couldn’t be quenched by mere water; the thirst, the quickened pulse, the sweating hands-it was all the same reflex, the body preparing itself for imminent threat. Relax, relax. You’ll meet her, say a few words, satisfy your curiosity, and walk out. How hard can that be? She crushed the paper cup, turned, and froze.

A door had just opened and a woman entered, her shoulders squared, her jaw lifted in regal confidence. Her gaze settled on Maura and for a moment it locked there. But then, just as Maura thought: It’s her , the woman turned, smiled, and opened her arms wide to embrace a child who was running toward her.

Maura halted in confusion, not knowing whether to sit down or remain standing. Then the door opened again, and the guard who had spoken to her earlier reappeared, leading a woman by the arm. A woman who did not walk but shuffled, her shoulders slumped forward, her head bent, as though obsessively searching the floor for something she’d lost. The guard brought her to Maura’s table, pulled out a chair, and sat the prisoner down.

“There, now, Amalthea. This lady’s come to see you. Why don’t you have a nice talk with her, hmm?”

Amalthea’s head remained bent, her gaze fixed on the tabletop. Tangled strands of hair fell across her face in a greasy curtain. Though heavily streaked with gray, clearly that hair had once been black. Like mine, thought Maura. Like Anna’s.

The guard shrugged and looked at Maura. “Well, I’ll just let you two visit, okay? When you’re finished, give me a wave and I’ll take her back.”

Amalthea did not even glance up as the guard walked away. Nor did she seem to notice the visitor who had just sat down across from her. Her posture remained frozen, her face hidden behind that veil of dirty hair. The prison shirt hung loose on her shoulders, as though she was shrinking inside her clothes. Her hand, resting on the table, was rocking back and forth in a ceaseless tremor.

“Hello, Amalthea,” said Maura. “Do you know who I am?”

No response.

“My name is Maura Isles. I…” Maura swallowed. “I’ve been looking for you for a very long time.” For all my life.

The woman’s head twitched sideways. Not in reaction to Maura’s words, just an involuntary tic. A stray impulse sparking through nerves and muscles.

“Amalthea, I’m your daughter.”

Maura watched, waiting for a reaction. Even longing to see one. In that moment, everything else in the room seemed to vanish. She did not hear the cacophony of children’s voices or the quarters dropping into the vending machine or the scrape of chair legs across linoleum. All she saw was this tired and broken woman.

“Can you look at me? Please, look at me.”

At last the head came up, moving in little jerks, like a mechanical doll whose gears have rusted. The unkempt hair parted, and the eyes focused on Maura. Fathomless eyes. Maura saw nothing there, not awareness. Not a soul. Amalthea’s lips moved, but soundlessly. Just another twitching of muscles, without intent, without meaning.

A small boy toddled by, trailing the scent of a wet diaper. At the next table a dishwater blonde in prison denim was sitting with her head in her hands and quietly sobbing as her male visitor watched, expressionless. At that moment a dozen family dramas like Maura’s were taking place; she was just one more bit player who couldn’t see beyond the circle of her own crisis.

“My sister Anna came to see you,” Maura said. “She looked just like me. Do you remember her?”