Maura sat silently behind her desk, trying to cut through the white noise of her thoughts.

Chavez now slumped his broad shoulders, kept his head submissively lowered and his hands folded, looking as if he were praying.

Lou Ribero, whom she had ordered back from the Pickle Barrel, squatted across from her with his arms crossed, giving his rookie a dirty look. He was probably thinking about what punitive duty he could assign Chavez to for the next ten years.

Finally, Maura took the floor. She spoke softly and with deliberation. "No matter what the specific case, the Massachusetts law on anonymous tips is pretty clear.

Since there is no way to verify the caller, determine where and how he got his information, or question his motive, such a tip is only probable cause for a vehicle stop if it provides sufficient detail for a police officer to assume that the caller has accurate knowledge of the facts. If the information can be independently corroborated by the officer, then, and only then, does the officer have probable cause, or at least reasonable suspicion, that a criminal act is in progress and may stop a vehicle to investigate further. A tip that lacks such credible details is not sufficient for a vehicle stop. And, of course, we know that the search following the unlawful vehicle stop is also unlawful unless there is otherwise probable cause to justify it. Any evidence arising out of an unlawful search must be withdrawn and is inadmissible in court. Thus, a vehicle may be stopped at any time for traffic violations committed by the driver in the presence of a police officer, such as speeding or making an illegal turn; and for vehicle damage that endangers traffic, such as a defective headlight, turn signal, or taillight. Officer Chavez informed me that on September nineteenth, at approximately 8:15 p.m., he was sitting in his patrol car on Main Street. At that time, he noticed a new black Jaguar XJ8, license plate TTR-L57, traveling southbound on Main Street toward the Causeway. The driver was a white male, blond, between thirty-five and forty-five years old. The car was probably going faster than thirty-five Mp/H, but the top speed was twenty-five. Officer Chavez drove back down the main road leading directly onto the Causeway. There he again spotted the black Jaguar XJ8 with license plate TTR-L57, still driven by the same driver. On the Causeway, he followed the vehicle for about two miles, and now he noticed the defect taillight, moreover, he observed the driver changing lanes without signaling. Officer Chavez decided to conduct a vehicle stop. Using his blue lights and siren, he signaled the driver to pull onto the shoulder. He asked the driver, later identified as William Rupert Bantling, for his driver's license and vehicle registration. Mr. Bantling appeared nervous and erratic. His hands were shaking as he handed Officer Chavez the driver's license, and he avoided the officer's direct gaze. On his way back to the patrol car, Officer Chavez took a closer look at the broken taillight. As he did so, he spotted a stain on the bumper that could have been caused by blood.

In addition, when he went back to give Mr. Bantling the papers, Officer Chavez noticed the smell of marijuana in Bantling's car. He asked Bantling for permission to look in the trunk. It was denied to him. Based on the totality of the circumstances, the stain on the bumper, the smell of marijuana, and Bantling's behavior, Chavez became suspicious that drugs were being transported in the vehicle, so he requested a K-9. Beauchamp of the BPD arrived, and his dog, Butch, struck the rear of the vehicle. That gave the officers probable cause to search the trunk, where they then found Anna Prado's body." Maura looked at the two men urgently. "Is that what happened, Officer Chavez? Did I hear you correctly?!"

"Yes, ma'am, that's exactly what happened."

She looked at Ribero. "Is that how the incident was reported to you, Sergeant?"

"Exactly so."

"Good, have another cup of coffee with Officer Lindeman, Sergeant Ribero. I'll expect him then for his interview at noon."

Ribero stood up. "Thank you very much for your help, Ms. Isles. See you around." He nodded grimly at Maura, then cast a scowl in Chavez's direction. "Come on, Chavez."

The door closed behind them, and now it was done. The deal stood. A pact with the devil. From now on, there was no turning back for any of them.

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For the first time in her life, Maura put her career on the line. For a higher purpose, she told herself. Her professional integrity was a small sacrifice for a higher purpose. In order for the beast to be destroyed, the dragon to be slain, even the good guys had to get their hands dirty sometimes.

The vehicle stop had been unlawful, unequivocally. Legally, there was no probable cause to justify it, and the search was just as unlawful. Maura would have preferred it if Chavez had been a better liar and she hadn't had to find out what she now knew in the first place. Then she wouldn't have had to play the role she was now forced to play.

Without a search, no body. No body, no case. If they didn't get Chavez' story straight, Bantling was a free man. No matter how much evidence in his house linked him to the murders, the prosecution would have blown it, because, without the unlawful vehicle stop, the police would never have known of Bantling's existence. They wouldn't have searched the house. They would have found no Haldol, no blood, no murder weapon, no sadistic porn videos. That was just the way the law was.

The phone rang, snapping her out of her murky thoughts. "Maura Isles."

"Maura? This is Christine Frederick from Interpol. Sorry it took a few days. I had to run the information you gave me through several systems."

"Did you find anything?"

"Did I find anything? Yeah, well, I think I found quite a bit. I think when you're done with him, your suspect has a pied-à-terre in some countries' prisons. There were matches in all three South American countries: in Rio, Caracas, and Buenos Aires. White male with a mask. He likes to cut and torture. The masks change. There was an alien, a monster, a clown, and some rubber faces that women didn't recognize. Your man is also wanted in the Philippines, with four such rapes in three years. Nothing since then. In Malaysia, however, there was nothing. In total, there seem to be around ten victims in four countries. But that is only what appears in the wanted lists. I didn't call the consulates or the police authorities. I thought you'd rather do that yourself, in case your man matches the wanted, and that's what it looks like. I'll e-mail you my material and you'll have it in black and white."

Another ten women. Maura didn't even have to read through Christine's findings to know it was Bantling. He was a serial rapist, a serial killer, a beast who targeted women. He had raped and tortured over seventeen women. Ten, probably eleven women he had murdered, perhaps more.

Without Chavez' "new" testimony, there would have been no case. Bantling couldn't be prosecuted for Prado's murder. There was a statute of limitations on his rapes in the United States. She knew the rapes would never come to trial in the other countries. It was always the same: no physical evidence and the legal systems of poor South American countries didn't inspire much confidence, to put it mildly. He wouldn't be convicted there either. William Rupert Bantling would be a free man. And he would go back to preying on women. Would rape and torture and murder again. It was only a matter of time.

She made only a small sacrifice for a higher purpose.

Now there was no turning back, now and never again. Only one question remained. A question that couldn't be ignored, but she didn't think she would ever be able to answer it either.

Who had given the anonymous tip?

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"You're avoiding me." Detective Jane Rizzoli stood in the doorway of her office, a Dunkin' Donuts bag in one hand, a leather briefcase in the other. She was soaking wet.

Maura tried to look as indignant as possible about the detective's accusation and opened her mouth in protest, but then she thought better of it. Guilty as charged.

"Don't even try to deny it. Last week you stood me up in the morgue and ignored at least six of my messages. You called Korsak back, but not me, and you scheduled my interview as the very last one."

"You're right. I probably have been avoiding you."

"I'd like to know why. Do you like Korsak better than me? He's much more annoying, isn't he?" Jane sat down across the desk from the blonde.

"Couldn't they give you an umbrella with the Glock?"

"Umbrellas don't exist. Brass doesn't care if I get wet and sick, as long as I can still shoot if things get dicey. But now don't change the subject."

"So, Jane, you know, this thing that's going on between us ... we should keep it on the professional level. You're my lead detective on this case, and it's not a good idea for us, well, for us to start anything. I guess I just didn't know how to tell you that."

"It doesn't sound like it. Or have you been practicing that for a week?" Jane propped herself up on the desk with both hands and leaned over to the lawyer. She had slicked back her wet hair, and little rivulets ran in zigzag lines down her temples.

Again, Maura smelled her clean scent. She watched the drips creep down Jane's neck and disappear into her light blue T-shirt, the soaked shirt clinging to her chest. "Maybe you think this is pretentious, but I don't believe you. I thought we -" Jane hesitated for a moment, and Maura regarded her mouth as the detective searched for the right words. "I thought something was happening between us. And when we kissed, I had a feeling you felt the same way."

Maura realized she was blushing and hoped no one was walking past the open door at that moment, of all times. She looked away quickly, avoiding Jane's inquiring gaze.

"Jane, I -" she stammered as she tried to gather her thoughts. "I ... We have to keep it professional. My boss ... The media would have a field day if it got out -"

Jane leaned back again. "Oh, the media wouldn't give a shit. They wouldn't care about the whole thing for more than two minutes. And even if they did, who cares?" She reached into the doughnut bag, pulled out two paper bags of coffee, and handed one across the desk to the blonde. "Milk and sugar, right?"

Maura smiled wanly and nodded. "Yes, milk and sugar. Thank you. Very thoughtful." For a while, there was a tense silence as they both stirred in their cups. The rain pattered against the window. It had been pouring continuously for three days. Outside, one could barely make out the other side of the street, and the entire parking lot was under water. Squat figures ran to the courthouse, desperately trying to avoid the puddles with long strides. Someone had lost a file, and the white sheets were stuck to the asphalt.

In a low voice, Maura broke the silence. "You understand me, don't you?"

The detective sighed and leaned over to the blonde again. "No, I don't understand you. Let's put the cards on the table, Maura. I like you, a lot. I'm attracted to you. And I was under the impression the feeling was mutual. I thought we were gonna make something of it, give each other a chance. But maybe now is just not the right time.

All I know is... something's been going on with you since Bantling got arrested. I have no idea what, but it has nothing to do with the media. And nothing to do with your boss. So if you want me to accept what you're saying, fine, that's fine. But I don't understand you, that's too much to ask." She brushed a wet strand from her forehead. "Anyway. I'm here for the interview. Friday, 2 p.m. On time." Resigned, she set the briefcase on the office chair next to her and opened it. "Oh, I forgot one thing -" she reached into the paper bag again. "I brought you a Boston Cream doughnut and heroically protected it from the rain with my own body."

Maura tried desperately to suppress the upcoming smile. Only the first twenty minutes of the interview were tense, then the tension eased, and for a while the conversation flowed as if by itself. Maura knew Jane was angry with her for hurting the detective. Of all things, after the Italian had promised not to hurt her, now it was she who was hurting Jane. And at that, it was the last thing Maura wanted. She would have loved to tell Jane how she really felt, how much she wished they could get involved. But she put Jane under oath, took her statement, and kept her mouth shut. Another small sacrifice for a higher purpose.

Martin Yars, the Chief Assistant, would bring the case before the grand jury the following Wednesday, September 27th, just a few days before Bantling's arraignment in court on Monday, October 2nd. There, Jane would testify, rehashing the entire investigation into the death of Anna Prado in order to get the jury to indict Bantling on murder charges. On the surface they had a strong case, all the testimony and reports pointed to him. They had a mutilated body, and even if the DNA hadn't been analyzed yet, the blood type of the spatter from Bantling's shed already matched that of Anna Prado, 0 negative. There was also a possible murder weapon. One of the scalpels Jim Fulton had discovered also showed traces of blood. And then there was the Haloperidol that had been found in both Anna Prado's body and Bantling's house. It all added up to a watertight case, except for Chavez and his troubling opening on Monday. Still, Maura expected the grand jury to indict, and it was for murder. At that stage, only the prosecution had the floor, the defense wasn't heard; there was no judge, and circumstantial evidence was allowed. As Maura's law professor at St. John's College had once put it, the state could indict a ham sandwich if it put its mind to it.

Maura didn't tell Jane about the irregular vehicle stop. She didn't want to drag the Italian into it, too, although the question of who the anonymous caller had been was on Maura's mind. After much deliberation, Maura finally concluded that it had to be a coincidence. There weren't that few black Jaguar XJ8s in Boston; maybe Chavez had pulled over the wrong one. Or Bantling had pissed on someone's leg, and they retaliated by giving a wrong tip. To keep worrying about it was like leaving the door of a room open that no one was supposed to enter.

It was still pouring when Maura was done with the interview a few hours later and Jane stood up. The wind whipped the rain against the window, and Maura reached into the drawer and pulled out an umbrella. "To keep you nice and dry. You need to take better care of yourself. I can have security escort me to my car later."

"The security people? Good one. It's after five on a dreary Friday afternoon. Everyone's long gone home, just like your colleagues, I guess. Thanks, but no thanks. I'm tough. The water just rolls off me."

"Whatever you say. But don't a catch cold. You're needed in front of the grand jury on Wednesday, oh, I almost forgot. Earlier today I got an appointment for the Arthur hearing. Guess what, Bantling wants to get out on parole. It's next Friday, the twenty-ninth, at 1 p.m. I need you for that, too. Can you make it?"

The Arthur Hearing was much more thorough than the First Hearing, in which, after all, the judge practically just read the arrest report and determined suspicion of the crime. Even if the indictment, on the part of the grand jury, stood by then, Maura still had to make a credible showing, based on witness testimony, that "the evidence was clear and the suspicion was reasonable" that Bantling was guilty of murder. That, in turn, meant that she had to call at least the lead detective to the stand. Again, circumstantial evidence was allowed, but unlike before the grand jury, all witnesses could be cross-examined. The defense liked to use the Arthur Hearing as a tool to find out what the prosecution had in hand and how well witnesses held up under cross-examination, even when they knew full well that the judge wouldn't allow bail. Maura suspected that in this case, that was exactly Sarah Rubio's intention.

"Are you doing the Arthur hearing?"

"Yes. Yars is only in it for the grand jury. After that, it's all in my hands."

"Then how could I say no? But we were going to keep this on a strictly professional level, so you'll have to send me an official subpoena."

Maura felt herself blushing again. "Very funny. Thank you, um, for understanding that we ... uh, that we leave it at this professional friendship."

"I didn't say anything about understanding. I just said that I accept it. Big difference."

Maura escorted the detective past the empty desks of the secretary's office and through the security gate to the elevator.

Jane turned back to the attorney. "Korsak and I are going out for drinks at the Dirty Robber tonight to discuss a few more things. You're welcome to join us if you want. The three of us could work on our professional relationship over a few beers, after all."

"Thanks, but I'd rather not. I've got so much to do."

"All right. Have a good weekend then, Counselor. Then I'll see you Wednesday after the grand jury."

"Stay dry," Maura called after the detective as the elevator doors closed, and then she was once again alone in the dark hallway.

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It took the grand jury less than an hour to bring charges against William Rupert Bantling for the murder of Anna Prado. And that was only because they ate lunch during deliberations because the state only paid the bill if food was eaten during the duration of the session.

Within minutes of the news breaking, the media hordes pounced on the news of the indictment, and then they fed the information into their microphones on the crisp white marble steps of the Boston courthouse, analyzing for the spellbound audience at TV sets around the world what it "meant in detail."

Maura hadn't expected the decision to come down so quickly. She was in a meeting with the attorney general when one of the secretaries rushed into the conference room with the news and turned on the TV. She and Small, along with the U.S. Attorney in Massachusetts and the Boston's FBI Special Agent in Charge, had to watch an overworked, red-faced Martin Yars stumble over the simplest of sentences outside the courthouse and prove simply incapable of fluidly answering the machine-gun fire of questions from a good dozen reporters who had ambushed him on the way to his car. He didn't cut a good figure. And what he did say was no better.

The impromptu meeting had been called jointly by the FBI and federal prosecutors. Apparently, the Feds wanted Boogeyman, and they didn't want to share. All eyes were on Yars, who of all people was stammering away. After a few awkward moments, even Channel 7 knew mercy and went to commercial break. Tom de la Flors, the U.S. Attorney in Massachusetts, broke the silence.

"You see, Jerry? That's exactly what I'm talking about. Our office has the capabilities and the experience to deal with the media circus." He shook his head, then struck a confidential tone and looked Small, who was shifting nervously in his chair, straight in the eye. "Let's put our cards on the table, Jerry. This case is dynamite, politically speaking, and we all know it. One drop off the mark, a single mistake, and the whole thing explode. Right under your nose. Right in the middle of an election year. And I know how hard it can be to keep the people well-disposed so they'll be chanting your name on election day. I used to be a judge, so I know my stuff. And the polls don't lie, Jerry. The people weren't particularly happy about the handling of this case, not from the beginning. Eighteen months until there was a suspect, and he's only charged with one of the murders. The families of the other victims are crying bloody murder in every open ear. And everybody cares, Jerry, everybody's listening."

Mike Gracker of the FBI chimed in as if on cue. "The FBI is prepared to take over the whole investigation. We need, of course, the evidence that the Boogeyman task force has seized up to this point; we're taking it back to the FBI labs."

De la Flors paused for a moment, letting what was said settle. Then he sat back and continued in a resigned tone that reminded Maura strikingly of a stern father. "Federal prosecutors should investigate all murders, Jerry, not just the one of Marilyn Siban. I think things would go a lot smoother if we settled quickly here and now. It would save us all a lot of trouble."

Maura seethed as she listened to these threats, barely veiled behind de la Flor's slick commitment. How wonderful it would be if Small would just get up and smack de la Flor's face, but her boss didn't have the guts.

Small glanced around and continued to slide around in his chair at the head of the long table. After a little eternity, he cleared his throat and said, "Uh ... well, Tom, thank you so much for your concern. I really appreciate it. But so far, we've got things pretty well under control here, I think. Maura Isles is one of our best prosecutors, and I'm sure she can handle the case." Jerry Small presented a pitiful sight. His old-fashioned brown suit had creases, his toupee was constantly slipping, and sweat was visibly on his forehead. He couldn't hold a candle to Tom de la Flors, the beaming, Calvin Klein-wearing ex-judge and larger-than-life U.S. Attorney appointed by the president himself.

"I'm not sure you understand, Mr. Small." Now Gracker stepped back in. Maura watched his fat little fingers drum on the table as if to draw more attention to his small ego. "The FBI has put hundreds of serial killers behind bars. We have the resources to solve the murders of all eleven victims."

That was it. That was all Maura would put up with. "Ten victims, Agent Gracker. So far, we only have ten bodies, unless the FBI knows where Morgan Weber's remains are. Until then, we only have ten victims. And perhaps I can briefly explain why we have not yet jumped to conclusions and filed charges on the other nine women who were killed. So far, there is no trail leading from Bantling to them, and we think it's prudent to try the case we can prove first."

"This is not against you, Ms. Isles -" placated Tom de la Flors.

But Maura cut him off. "Oh yes, it is. It's an attack against me, against my competence, and against our entire agency, Mr. de la Flors. But even if we assume for once that the state of Massachusetts would leave the prosecution of all ten murders to the U.S. Attorney's Office, under what legal theory would you even have jurisdiction? Only Marilyn Siban's murder was committed on federal property."

De la Flors was taken aback. He hadn't expected any objection from the prosecutor, or even minimal protest from Small himself. It took him a moment to compose himself. "It's my understanding that the narcotic Haloperidol was found in the blood of each victim, Ms. Isles. By all appearances, it was administered to them by their captor, namely William Bantling. Thus, Mr. Bantling was guilty of a "continuing criminal offense" under Section 848 of the U.S. Code."

But Tom de la Flors had picked the wrong day and the wrong woman for his shenanigans. "The information about the drug is quite correct. But, and correct me if I'm wrong about the continuing criminal act: to my knowledge, there must be at least five people be involved. If the FBI knows the names of four other suspects, we respectfully request to be notified, but to my knowledge, Bantling acted alone. So you are four people short of a continuing criminal act. And therefore for your jurisdiction."

That was it. Maura had just said goodbye to a possible career in government, to a job as a highly regarded federal prosecutor in particular. De la Flors shot her a venomous look across the table.

"Well, I'll have to take another look at the case, Ms. Isles, but that was just one of the possibilities that came to mind off the top of my head. There's also the Hobbs Act." He turned back to Small now. "We've invoked that before, and successfully when it came to the robberies of tourists here in Boston."

"Yes. But it was about robbery then," Maura followed up. "What does that have to do with the murders? There's not enough in the back of your mind for an indictment."

Now de la Flors was fed up: what an annoying fly! He was a politician, not a pedant. In the four years since he had been a federal prosecutor, he had hardly seen the inside of a courtroom or glanced at federal law; and he was not inclined to discuss any legal niceties here. "It's enough to make a huge row, I'll give you that in writing. And if your agency really wants to dispute our jurisdiction, we'll just take it case by case under the robbery aspect."

"What robbery are you even talking about, if you don't mind me asking?" Tentatively, Small spoke up.

"You may, Jerry. Each of the victims was found naked and heartless, correct? Ms. Prado included? So they've all been robbed. And the law is clear on that, Ms. Isles. The case falls under our jurisdiction. We can easily hold Mr. Bantling for a couple of years in Federal court and try each robbery individually. And that would still be better than anything your agency has done so far. Then, when we get through with him, you can have him back from Camp Leavenworth and try whatever charges you may have finally managed to get by then. Assuming, of course, Jerry, that you are still Attorney General then and can even make those kinds of decisions. Think about it and let me know if you would prefer to move the case along with us before I start bringing charges. In the meantime, I have here an injunction and a search warrant from Federal District Judge Carol Kingsley granting us access to Bantling's home and cars and all the evidence seized so far." He tossed a bundle of papers onto the conference table.

Maura didn't take her eyes off de la Flors for a second. "I will send you a copy of all the documents seized, Mr. de la Flors. I will give you a tour of the evidence room myself and hand you all the lab reports personally. But for anything beyond that, we'll have to pay a visit to Judge Kingsley, because as much as I'd like to cooperate with you, I have a murder to try here. And after your threats, I obviously need to hurry before I need an injunction to get my defendant back from the no man's land of the federal court where he's being tried for robbery." She stood up and reached for the thick envelope on the table. "Now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have to go copy the documents you want."

Jerry Small looked as if he envied Maura's courage. Nonetheless, he too now looked five inches taller in his unflattering suit, and he smiled as a frustrated Mark Gracker and an angry Tom de la Flors stormed out of the conference room.