Jane Rizzoli slowed her car as she turned onto the quiet block in Beacon Hill. It was late—or rather, early—and there were no lights visible in any of the homes on the entire street. Focusing her senses, the detective virtually coasted past the brownstone, noting nothing amiss. Making her "rounds," as Jane thought of it, had started when she was a teenager, working late at the various part-time jobs she had held. After work, she would be too alert to go straight home to bed, so she would drive by her friends' homes, even the high school, making sure all was secure. By that age, she already knew she wanted to be a police officer, so she considered this part of her training: quiet, observant patrol routes past the homes of those she held dear, or places that were significant. It was something she had never discussed with anyone, her mother, brothers, or even her best friend, Dr. Maura Isles. Driving relaxed her, and seeing the silent, dark homes of her friends and family reassured her that all was well.
The habit had continued into adulthood, albeit less consistently. She uneasily reflected on the days after Charles Hoyt and her desperate need to make sure that her family was safe; driving the city for hours and hours in the night, before heading home for a few hours of nightmarish sleep. Awaking for therapy—both physical and mental—and wandering thoughtlessly through the motions, only to repeat her rounds the next night, certain that there was danger just out of sight. The serial killer safely dead did not lessen her anxiousness at her memories of him; and there were still nights when she woke screaming, feeling the scalpels piercing her hands again as if it just happened—not years in her past. Nowadays, she usually only drove rounds when she'd had a rough day, or a tough case, or—to be honest—a Hoyt nightmare; those nights when Maura's duties ended well before hers, she and the doctor didn't have any standing plans, or her own mind drove her out of bed in a frenzy. The detective tried not to think too hard about anything while she drove, the point was to relax and observe. However, any time she neared the doctor's home, her thoughts automatically focused on her beautiful friend: the way her eyes twinkled when she caught onto a joke, how her honey-blond hair was always perfect and Jane wondered if it could feel as soft as it always looked, the "Jane-only" smile that lit up her whole face and made the detective's heart flutter just a bit, the perfect shape of her body... No, these were not the kind of thoughts that she needed to be having about her best friend. Not when there was a case to solve and a killer to be caught. And no, not after either. Maura Isles was her friend, her best friend, and driving by Maura's home at "oh-dark-thirty" was nothing more than the detective assuring herself that her part of the world was right. She would keep telling herself that. Jane looked back through her rearview at the doctor's home before breathing a heavy, exhausted sigh and turning at the next corner to head to her own apartment.
~~~~~ Rizzoli & Isles ~~~~~
"Still no hits on Ronald Carson?" Jane asked Frost, walking over to his desk to put a fresh cup of coffee in front of him. She leaned over his computer, trying to decipher the information. There were several windows open with various reports, and a digital map of Boston with different colored points spread over what looked like the entire city.
"I told you I would call you, Jane," Barry returned, reaching gratefully for the caffeine. He was tired, and his eyes were burning from staring at the screens trying to will information to appear. They had been on this case for nearly a week. The irony was—they knew their murderer's identity; they just couldn't find him. A BOLO was issued on his vehicle, APBs sent to the State Police and surrounding suburbs, and notices sent to the airports, bus & train stations, and even the local taxi companies. After murdering his wife, presumably for the $1 million life insurance money, Ronald Carson had simply vanished. Frost had flags on his bank accounts and BPD patrolmen were watching his known associates. Yesterday, there had been a brief press conference asking the public to report any sightings of the suspect. Calls had flooded in, and extra officers were utilized to follow-up on each lead, all to no avail. Every call was a dead end.
"How can this guy just disappear?" Jane groused. "He's a nobody. He's a con artist, no job, no real money, no real friends." She stomped to her desk and threw herself into her seat. "Where is he?"
Frost looked over at his partner, noticing the wrinkled shirt and the dark circles forming under her eyes, knowing that Jane Rizzoli was not going to rest well until Carson was caught. "It's just a waiting game, Jane," he offered quietly.
"I hate waiting," the raven-haired detective growled back, bringing a smirk to Barry's face.
"Oh, we know that, Jane," he said, trying not to chuckle and not quite succeeding, "we know."
~~~~~ Rizzoli & Isles ~~~~~
The Chief Medical Examiner of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Maura Isles, sat at her desk reviewing the latest autopsy report for accuracy and clarity. Although Mr. Michael O'Malley had a history of ill health and was under hospice care for pancreatic cancer, Dr. Isles didn't take any shortcuts. Every autopsy that came through her morgue was processed exactly the same way. No death was taken at face-value; even with the obvious.
Maura signed off on the O'Malley death certificate and turned her attention back to the unresolved case at hand. Actually, from the ME's point of view, the death was settled: the mechanism of death was a single bullet to the back of Agnes Carson's head that effectively destroyed her cerebellum and then most of the brain beyond; the manner was murder. Additional evidence on the body was the gun's muzzle imprint on the scalp of the skull where it was pressed before the perpetrator pulled the trigger, a bit of skin under Agnes' left index fingernail, and another imprint—this one of four fingers and a partial palm from a forceful slap—on her right cheek. The only thing of forensic interest at the scene besides the body was the single bloody print from Ronald Carson's left boot, which was discarded along with its mate at the garage door. The doctor wondered if Carson had a second pair of shoes available, or had just fled in his stocking feet, then chided herself for such irrelevant musing. The bullet and muzzle imprint were from a 45 caliber, or similar, handgun. The Carson's had a Glock registered in Agnes' name, but it was nowhere to be found. Preliminary testing showed that the skin under Agnes' fingernail matched her husband's DNA taken from the house; the print on her cheek matched the approximate size of her husband's hand. Flipping through the autopsy report, she noted that all the other physical aspects of the 36-year-old Mrs. Carson were well within healthy, normal parameters. Had she not been murdered, there was no reason to think she wouldn't live a long life.
Although engrossed in the report, Maura lifted her head when she heard the elevator chime. After the quiet swish of the doors opening, she immediately recognized the footfalls of the person walking toward the morgue entry and was rewarded with the distinguished, yet defeated-looking, figure of her best friend at her office door. Maura noted the periorbital hyperpigmentation along with slight edema, the small coffee stain on the front of Jane's shirt collar, as well as the rumpled condition of said shirt and blazer as well. The doctor didn't speak as Jane slumped into the chair across from the ME's desk.
"Hey, Maura," Jane sighed.
The doctor silently observed Jane for a few more seconds before gently inquiring, "From your posture, deep breathing, and general discontent, I conclude that there is no further resolution in the case?"
Jane couldn't help smirking at her friend's comment. "If that means, we don't know shit from shinola about where this guy is, then yeah, you are correct."
Frowning slightly at the language, Maura watched as Jane rolled her shoulders, twisting her neck from side to side. The doctor rose and walked over behind the detective and began massaging her shoulders expertly and comfortingly. "You will find him, Jane. Right now, he's just hiding; when he comes out, you will get him." She continued to press soothing circles with her thumbs on Jane's scapulae, working her way methodically in toward the spine, then outward to her shoulders. Jane allowed her head to fall forward, permitting the doctor to continue her ministrations.
"This is just so frustrating," the detective whined. She closed her eyes, and concentrated on the pressure of the ME's fingers on her back. She breathed deeply, inhaling the light scent of the doctor's perfume mixed with the fancy, slightly nutty, shampoo and the vanilla of body wash. Jane felt her muscles gradually relax. It didn't matter how uptight or stressed she was, talking with or just being with Maura always helped clear her thoughts and soul. It occasionally bothered Jane that Maura had such a calming effect on her, like the doctor was the "Jane Whisperer"; but ultimately, she realized she was just fortunate to have someone like Maura to help balance the turbulence that was Jane Rizzoli's life. Lost in her musings for several long minutes, she barely registered that the doctor had finished her massage and returned to her seat. Abruptly realizing where her thoughts were leading her, the brunette stood, rolling her neck again and smiling gratefully at her friend, "Thanks, that feels so much better." She swung her arms in large circles, then reached around to hug herself, stretching the now relaxed muscles in her back. "Talk to you later."
Maura smiled gently, "Any time, Jane."