Summary: set pre-season one. Hoyt's trial approaches and Jane is sent on a special assignment with huge implications. Mob wars erupt in Boston, a displaced soldier comes home, and Jane's tenuous hold on her emotions test her closest relationships. Meanwhile, Maura deals with the social and personal ramifications of her failed engagement to Garrett Fairfield, and her growing attraction for a certain detective.
This original story is a sequel to Rising Above Myself. The goal is to continue the plotlines left open in that story, hopefully with tighter writing and faster updates, as well as to give a spin on the origins of the tension within the Irish mob that foreshadow the events in the TV series.
All copyrighted/trademarked media is owned by their respective companies/creators. I earn no money from uploaded content.
Finding My Reality
Chapter 1
Bright red pushpins littered the dining table, rolling and clattering together across the smooth wood finish, the shiny painted dye of the plastic pieces catching the light and bending it. A framed map laid spread in the center, the length of one edge hanging off the side by several inches. Jane Rizzoli stood hunched over it, a hand to either side. Only one pin remained.
Dark eyes focused on the bloody red marker standing out against the 2D plane of the city, rooted into the cork backing. It represented a god-forsaken shack in a forgotten field, many miles from her South Boston apartment, where the Surgeon kept his final victims. The memories had not lost their power, even after six months.
In one week, she would appear in court and give her testimony before a jury in the State of Massachusetts v Charles W. Hoyt. The outcome was all but guaranteed. The Boston Police Department, along with the Medical Examiner's Office, had more than enough evidence to condemn him to a life sentence. The defense would make short statements without saying anything of import and no one would bother to listen. Still, protocol required her to be there.
Jane was no stranger to the witness stand as a homicide detective, but this was different. The prosecution needed a human element, a face for an emotional jury to latch onto. And who better to play the role, than a survivor? Instead of standing with the Department, the Lieutenant, and a partner, she had to face Hoyt as a woman, a victim, a casualty tallied among the long list of his sins, damaged and alone.
She bowed her head, clenching her fingers on the table until her knuckles turned white, and the scars stood raised against the center of each mutilated hand. If the attorneys wanted a teary, moving account, they underestimated her.
The voice of the department psychotherapist came to mind unbidden, reminding her over and over again that anger is always indicative of a stronger, underlying emotion, like fear, because it offers feelings of control. The tone morphed into the soft cadence of her colleague and best friend, Dr. Maura Isles, who once gave her a lecture on how anthropology teaches that the evolution of the human species selects for cooperation rather than angry confrontations, with higher thresholds for aggression and no biological mechanisms to control it as other primates do. Like baboons…or something. Jane remembered because one of her many examples was that, in law enforcement as well as the military, individuals do not benefit from being enraged than if cool, calm, and thinking things through as they act.
Yeah, right. She wrapped herself in it, preferring the empowering rage. Jane refused to be crippled by fear again.
She tore free the last pin. It felt as if a great weight had cracked in two and rolled off her shoulders, making it easier to breath. The map that had dominated the space for years ripped. To Jane, the tearing sound was an affirmation of recovery. This time next week, she and the families of Hoyt's victims would have the closure they needed at last.
The annoying chimes of her ringtone startled her out of her reflection. Without checking the display, she answered with an automatic, "Rizzoli."
"Shot alert in Roxbury. Beat cops and CSI are already there," a coarse voice barked over the speaker with a wet, rumbling cough that signaled years of heavy smoking. Jane recognized the Chief of Police, wondering why he was calling instead of Lieutenant Cavanaugh.
"Has anyone notified Dr. Isles?" she ran a hand through her hair, mentally cursing her luck. She always seemed to be the one on-call when people kill each other in the middle of the night.
"No, a body hasn't been found, yet. But I want a detective at the site, someone trained for critical observation. Take your badge, but go in plainclothes. Contact any informants you have in the area, but don't draw any unnecessary attention to yourself. You're my eyes and ears, Rizzoli. Report directly to me."
It was more than a little odd, but she held back her questions, intrigued. If the chief's suspicions warranted secrecy, she wanted to know why. "Yes, sir."
Jane arrived just after 2:00am, parking several blocks down and making her way into the crowd surrounding the square perimeter of crime scene tape that blocked off half the street. Police took up stations at the surrounding intersections, directing traffic away from the site. Dressed casually in jeans and an oversized jacket with the hood drawn up, she slipped in among the spectators, moving as close to the center as she dared.
Jane was not known for her skill in subtly when force and intimidation better served her purpose, but not for lack of it. Rather, Jane's persona was intentional, using all her strength, determination, and intensity to make a place for herself in the department as a female detective among something of a boy's club. However, with the right clothes and posture, she could blend in seamlessly in most any situation. If she were good enough, her fellow officers would never know she was there.
Head down, she kept an ear on the conversations and whispers around her, and took in the scene. She recognized one of the CSI techs, an impressively fit man she knew only as Mick. He gave a low whistle as he took pictures, careful to step around the blood pooled on the pavement, the camera flash lighting the area in short bursts. Splatter from the shot extended up the wall of a pub called Hartigan's. If the vic wasn't already dead, they didn't have long.
She left them to it, shuffling along with the assembled civilians, while another CSI dug the bullet out of the brick. Jane wasn't here to process the scene, but to poke around for information. Several cops were already taking witness statements, though it didn't take long to figure out that no one here actually had anything useful to contribute. The street was almost empty when the shot was fired, and most were inside the pub, enjoying one last drink after a long day before shuffling home.
"And then I heard them drive off, that quick!"
"Could you describe the vehicle, sir? Did you see it at all?"
"Sure, yeah…yeah, it was an SUV. Black, I think."
"Nah man, it was blue, for sure."
It amazed her, the way the mind constructed memories. These routine interviews would just serve to clutter the case file. So far, nothing seemed out of place. Someone was shot, a terrible incident, but not enough to drag her out in the middle of the night. She wondered what had tipped off the chief.
Jane ducked under the awning of the pub near the entrance to an alley. Looking drunk was easy. She moved at a lethargic pace to slouch against the corner, hands in her pockets, resting the back of her head against the wall to survey the upper floors of the surrounding buildings. The windows reflected red and blue by turns from the revolving lights of a squad car.
A silhouette of a person came into view. Jane squinted up at the third floor, trying to make out any of their features. She counted six similar windows from the tenement across the street and the office building to the right, open with someone watching from each. She could clearly make out one observer, directly across from her on the first floor. Interested bystanders were to be expected, but this guy looked almost bored, arms crossed as he leaned against the sill. His head was shaved, and under his left eye was a tattoo of an anchor.
His gaze swept over the scene, passing right over her. She followed his eyes to the roof above her, turning and craning her neck, not bothering to look inconspicuous. Nothing. Jane tried to shake it off, but her curiosity was piqued.
The alleyway was unlit and she nearly tripped on an overturned garbage can as she made her way toward Hartigan's back door. It was locked, but she didn't consider that an insurmountable problem. In moments of confusion with lots of people, there was always a way.
Checking that her badge was hidden under her jacket, and her service weapon secure in her shoulder holster, she threw off the hood and pinched color into her cheeks, unfocusing her eyes before pounding on the door. A young man opened it. He was a twenty something kid, bartending his way through school Jane guessed by his t-shirt. On it was a picture of a little cartoon Simba from The Lion King with a pink breast cancer awareness ribbon, and above that read: Alpha Tau Omega supports Hakuna Ma Ta Tas.
She gave him her most bewildered expression, quirked up an eyebrow and caught herself on the doorframe. "You're not Phil," Jane slurred, laying on a thick accent.
"Oh, for Christ's sake," he muttered, assuming she was a patron and pulling her into the back room, "Come on, I'll call you a cab." She did her best to look disoriented and sick while the frat guy went to get a phone, taking note of the staircase to her right, and darting up it as soon as he was out of sight.
After four flights, she exited onto the flat roof of the building, bracing herself against the door and drawing her handgun. She didn't know what she expected, but it was clear, no movement visible in the dim reach of the streetlights below. A fluttering sound reached her, like a baseball card clipped to a spinning bike wheel, or a poster caught and whipping in the wind as she approached the edge overlooking the crime scene. CSI was already cleaning up. Hartigan's would be open again by morning.
All the windows were empty, too much of a coincidence to safely ignore. Who were they, and why were they watching the scene? Was there a connection at all? Jane located the source of the fluttering, and knelt down on one knee. It was a photograph stuck to the ledge. Jane used the end of her sleeve to pull out whatever kept the photo from blowing away.
The blade of a short knife emerged from a crack in the mortar. Maybe there was something going on here after all, she thought, ill at ease, tucking it away, and considering the picture. It was too dark to make out the image, and Jane wished she had thought to bring a penlight.
She straightened and slipped the photo into her back pocket just as the frat guy thundered up the stairs.
"What do you think you're doing? Please step away from the ledge, ma'am." Jane could only imagine what conclusions he had drawn, suppressing a laugh.
Maura Isles stood in front of Jane's door promptly at 6:00am, waiting for the detective to answer her knock. She heard the sound of two locks and a dead bolt sliding free before it swung open to reveal Jane, half dressed with wet hair.
"Why are you dressed for work?" She asked, tilting her head to one side.
"Because I'm going to pick up some cash for my meeting with a contact in two hours," Jane stepped aside for Maura to enter, in the middle of fastening her belt, the bronze badge flashing at her hip, "Shit, I'm sorry. Can I get a rain check on our run?"
Disappointed, but curious, Maura deposited her bag by the door under the coat rack and moved towards the couch, her new Asics making little to no sound on the hardwood floor. She noticed Jane's eyes lingered on the definition in her legs, taking no small pride in the way she caught herself starring before following.
"Sure, you're working. But, I would stress the importance of proper training if we're going to run the marathon next year." Jane waved her off, coming to sit next to her. "Is there a case?"
"Yeah, get this, I was called out by the chief last night to snoop around a crime scene. Something's weird about it, though. Besides that they haven't found a body," Jane paused, and Maura watched her worry her lower lip with her teeth, lost in thought.
"Hey," she twisted to face her, "how well do you know the forensics people in the crime lab?"
"Not very," she admitted, "but they recognize me, and wouldn't question my presence."
"Good," Jane proceeded, her thoughts spilling over one another, "Maybe you can do me a favor. If you could look over the ballistic report on the bullet and DNA tests from the blood, I can run this," she indicated a photograph on the coffee table," through facial recognition, and hopefully catch a lead from my guy in Roxbury."
Maura enjoyed watching the speed of Jane's mind at work. She talked with her hands, a rare occurrence when she was distracted enough to not consciously hide them from view. "I'll see what I can find out," she said with alacrity.
Jane met her gaze smiling, "Thanks. With all your random expertise, I trust your opinion more than some bored lab technician," she pulled her hair over her shoulder and rubbed at her eyes, "And I haven't slept. It's going to be a long week."
It was a solemn reminder of the upcoming trial. Maura had not told Jane that she would be in attendance, representing Dr. Tierney, who retired after that case. She didn't know why she hesitated, continuing to wrestle with the decision at the date crept closer. It was a subject better left unspoken among the homicide unit, Jane in particular.
She decided to test the waters, so to speak. "How was your appointment with the therapist yesterday?" To her surprise, Jane responded openly.
"We've started EMDR. Before the next session, I have to decide on an image that represents the target event…being that day," she couldn't hide a shiver, or the darkness that shadowed her eyes.
"What did you choose?" Maura asked softly.
"A scalpel."
Maura concentrated on the blank television across the room, not sure how to respond. She remembered with guilt one of her first conversations with Jane in the morgue, how she had reacted to the instrument in her hand. Even now, she rarely ventured down, and refused to come near when Maura was in the middle of performing an autopsy. She had never been ashamed of her profession and its morbidity before she had learned the details of Jane's ordeal with the Surgeon.
"I can see how that would have a negative connotation," she tried to keep her voice smooth.
"See, that's the thing," Jane bent over, her arms crossed over herself, resting on her knees, "There has to be a positive association, too."
At Maura's puzzled expression, she offered her a bashful grin and reached for her hand.
"You."