Tess Gerritsen: Vanish

He nodded. “We have no idea what drugs she might have taken, so I want her on a monitor.” He looked down at the patient, whose eyes were now closed. Her lips continued to move, as though in silent prayer. “This poor woman’s already died once. Let’s not have it happen again.”

Maura could hear the phone ringing inside her house as she fumbled with her keys, trying to unlock the door. By the time she made it into the living room, the ringing had stopped. Whoever had called had not left a message. She cycled through the most recent numbers on caller ID, but did not recognize the last caller’s name: ZOE FOSSEY. A wrong number?

I refuse to worry about it, she thought, and started toward the kitchen.

Now her cell phone was ringing. She dug it out of her purse, and saw from the digital display that the caller was her colleague, Dr. Abe Bristol.

“Hello, Abe?”

“Maura, you want to fill me in about what happened at the ER tonight?”

“You know about it?”

“I’ve gotten three calls already. The Globe, the Herald. And some local TV station.”

“What are these reporters saying?”

“They’re all asking about the corpse who woke up. Said she just got admitted to the medical center. I had no idea what they were talking about.”

“Oh, Jesus. How did the press find out so soon?”

“So it’s true?”

“I was going to call you-” She stopped. The phone was ringing in the living room. “I’ve got another call coming in. Can I get back to you, Abe?”

“As long as you promise to fill me in.”

She ran into the living room and picked up the receiver. “Dr. Isles.”

“This is Zoe Fossey, Channel Six News. Would you care to comment on-”

“It’s almost ten o’clock,” cut in Maura. “This is my home telephone. If you want to talk to me, you’re going to have to call my office during business hours.”

“We understand that a woman woke up in the morgue tonight.”

“I’m not going to comment.”

“Sources tell us that both a state police investigator and a fire crew in Weymouth pronounced her dead. Did someone in your office make the same determination?”

“The ME’s office was not involved in that determination.”

“But the woman was in your custody, right?”

“No one in our office made any pronouncement of death.”

“You’re saying this was the fault of the Weymouth Fire Department and the state police? How can anyone make this kind of mistake? Isn’t it pretty obvious when someone is still alive?”

Maura hung up.

Almost immediately the phone rang. A different number appeared on the caller ID screen.

She picked up the receiver. “Dr. Isles.”

“This is Dave Rosen, Associated Press. I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’re following up on a report about a young woman who was taken to the medical examiner’s office and woke up in a body bag. Is this true?”

“How did you people find out about this? This is the second call I’ve gotten.”

“I suspect you’re going to be getting a lot more calls.”

“And what have you been told about it?”

“That she was brought to the morgue this afternoon, by Weymouth Fire and Rescue. That you were the one who found her alive and called the ambulance. I’ve already spoken to the hospital, and they list her condition as serious but stable. All correct?”

“Yes, but-”

“Was she actually in the body bag when you found her? Was she zipped in there?”

“You’re making it far too sensationalistic.”

“Does anyone in your office routinely check the bodies when they first come in? Just to be sure they’re dead?”

“I’ll have a statement for you in the morning. Good night.” She hung up. Before the phone could ring again, she unplugged it. It was the only way she’d get any sleep tonight. Staring down at the now-silent phone, she wondered: How the hell did the news get out so fast?

Then she thought of all the witnesses in the ER-the clerks, the nurses, the orderlies. The patients in the waiting room, watching through the glass partition. Any one of them could have picked up the phone. A single call, and the word would be out. Nothing spreads faster than macabre gossip. Tomorrow, she thought, is going to be an ordeal and I’d better be ready for it.

She used her cell phone to call Abe. “We have a problem,” she said.

“I figured.”

“Don’t talk to the press. I’ll come up with a statement. I’ve unplugged my home phone for the night. If you need to reach me, I’m on cell.”

“Are you prepared to deal with all this?”

“Who else is going to do it? I’m the one who found her.”

“You know this is going to be national news, Maura.”

“AP’s already called me.”

“Oh, Christ. Have you talked to the Office of Public Safety? They’ll be in charge of the investigation.”

“I guess they’re next on my list to call.”

“Do you need any help preparing the statement?”

“I’ll need some time to work on it. I’ll be late coming in tomorrow. Just hold them off until I get into the office.”

“There’s probably going to be a lawsuit.”

“We’re blameless, Abe. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter. Get ready for it.”

“Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you are about to give to the court in the case now in hearing shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do,” said Jane Rizzoli.

“Thank you. You may be seated.”

Jane felt all eyes in the courtroom watching her as she settled heavily into the witness-stand chair. They had stared at her from the moment she’d waddled into the courtroom, her ankles swollen, her belly bulging beneath the voluminous maternity dress. Now she shifted in the seat, trying to get comfortable, trying to project some semblance of authority, but the room was warm, and she could already feel perspiration beading on her forehead. A sweating, fidgeting, pregnant cop. Yes, quite an authority figure.

Gary Spurlock, the assistant DA for Suffolk County, rose to conduct the direct exam. Jane knew him to be a calm and methodical prosecutor, and she had no anxiety about this first round of questions. She kept her gaze on Spurlock, avoiding even a glance at the defendant, Billy Wayne Rollo, who slouched beside his female attorney and stared at Jane. She knew Rollo was trying to intimidate her with the evil eye. Rattle the cop, throw her off balance. He was like too many other assholes she’d known, and his stare was nothing new. Just the last resort of a loser.

“Could you tell the court your name and spell the last name, please?” Spurlock said.

“Detective Jane Rizzoli. R-I-Z-Z-O-L-I.”

“And your profession?”

“I’m a detective with the homicide unit, Boston Police Department.”

“Could you describe your education and background for us?”

She shifted again, her back starting to ache in the hard chair. “I received my associate’s degree in criminal justice from Massachusetts Bay Community College. After my training at Boston PD Academy, I was a beat patrolman in both the Back Bay and Dorchester.” She flinched as her baby gave a hard kick. Settle down in there. Mama’s on the stand. Spurlock was still waiting for the rest of her answer. She continued. “I worked as a detective in vice and narcotics for two years. Then, two and a half years ago, I transferred to the homicide unit, which is where I am currently assigned.”

“Thank you, Detective. Now I’d like to ask you about the events of February third of this year. In the course of your job, you visited a residence in Roxbury. Correct?”