For what seemed like an eternity, Maura hadn't slept eight hours at a stretch. After spending Friday night at the grisly fishing lodge site where Morgan Weber's remains had been discovered, she had accompanied Jane and Korsak to the ME's office early Saturday morning, where Dr. Neilson was performing the autopsy. In the afternoon, she had been in the office trying to figure out whether or not the fishing lodge was on federal property. Fortunately, the latter was the case, and she had spent the rest of the evening being yelled at on the phone by the obnoxious de la Flors and his nasty entourage. Only after Maura slammed the survey documents on the table and threatened them with trespassing and blackout charges did de la Flors call his FBI bloodhounds back from the scene, but not without swearing eternal vengeance on her and her agency. The guys on the task force gave her a high-five. Anyway, by Sunday night she was so emotionally and physically exhausted that she just fell into bed and didn't even let her nightmares bother her.
Morgan Weber. Nineteen. Blonde. Beautiful. Dead. As Maura drove to the courthouse Monday morning, the sight of the dashing wannabe model from Kentucky was on her mind. After the gruesome impressions at the fishing lodge, she couldn't get the image out of her mind. The body hung by fishing line from the crumbling beams of the low ceiling, Morgan Weber's petite body hovering there like a bat, arms and legs splayed wide apart like an acrobat or contortionist. The neck was bent swan-like to the ceiling, wired and strapped to a beam. She had been dead so long that almost all that remained of her corpse was the skeleton, a few black pieces of flesh still clinging to her delicate bones here and there. On the basis of the driver's license, which lay splattered with her blood under the corpse, a quick preliminary identification had been possible. It was later confirmed by the dental records.
It was clearly Boogeyman's doing. The copious amounts of blood on the floor under the body and the blood splatter on the walls and ceiling indicated that Morgan had been killed where she hung. The cruelty and vileness of the murder, the elaborate staging in the remote location, this was exactly Boogeyman's style. Ironically, it was this very precision, the care, the particular staging that could bring Bantling down. For the way Morgan Weber's body hung in flight on invisible fishing line under the ceiling of the dark cabin was almost eerily reminiscent of the photos of stuffed birds from Bantling's garden shed. With indictment in hand, Maura entered the crowded courtroom, filled with Monday morning applicants and, of course, press waiting with bated breath for the prosecution's big official indictment. Excited murmurs rose as Maura made her way left to the gallery where the prosecutors were waiting for their case to be called.
The defendants had already been brought in, and out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the bright orange jumpsuit in the corner of the jury box, again a bit apart from the other prisoners, between two prison officials. She avoided looking him in the eye, instead of staring at the paper in her sweaty hands.
Judge Leopold Chaskel III looked up from the agenda and discovered the reason for the whispering. He cut off a pathetic public defender who was in the middle of demanding a therapy slot for his drug-addicted client and addressed Maura directly.
"Ms. Isles. Good morning. I believe you're on my agenda this morning!
"Yes, Your Honor, I am." Maura now stepped to the prosecution podium.
"Apparently I'm the lucky judge who gets to hear the case of Massachusetts vs. William Bantling, can that be?"
"Yes, Your Honor, you hit the jackpot, he's all yours now."
"Fine. Is the defense present as well?"
"Yes, your honor. Sarah Rubio for the defendant, and he's here as well, Your Honor," Rubio said. She stood like a shadow next to her client on the jury bench.
"Good, let's get this done." Judge Chaskel turned to the public defender, who still refused to be turned away, and said in a serious voice, "I will deal with you and your client in a moment, Mr. Madonna. Please don't be offended, but today is only Monday, and you may see me three more times this week. Hank, bring me the Bantling file.
Judge Leopold Chaskel III was a prosecutor's dream. He had been one himself, and he didn't like to let the defense get the best of him. He listened to both sides thoroughly, hated trickery or whining, and his appeal rate was extremely low. "All right. Please identify yourselves for the record."
"Maura Isles for the state of Massachusetts."
"Sarah Rubio for the defense." Rubio also came forward now.
"We are here today in the matter of Massachusetts vs. William Bantling. Today is the twenty-first day. Does the prosecution have anything to present?"
"Yes, Judge. The grand jury has indicted William Rupert Bantling for the murder of Anna Prado." Maura handed the indictment to the clerk.
"Good," Judge Chaskel said, accepting the document. "Mr. Bantling. The state charges you with murder. How do you plead to these charges?"
"Not guilty, your honor," Rubio said. Bantling remained silent. "We waive the arraignment, we plead 'not guilty' and we demand a jury trial."
"Prosecution, disclosure of documents relevant to the trial must take place within 10 days."
"Excuse me, your honor. I have spoken with my client and he has decided against disclosure. All that matters to him is a quick date."
Judge Chaskel frowned. "Ms. Rubio, in case you don't see it clearly, this is murder, there's a lot at stake. What do you mean your client doesn't want disclosure?"
"Exactly what I'm saying, your honor. I explained to him that he has the right to disclosure, but he refused."
Now Judge Chaskel looked questioningly at Bantling. "Mr. Bantling, you have just been charged with murder. You have the right to know what evidence the prosecution has against you, you have the right to talk to the witnesses the prosecution calls against you. That's what's meant by disclosure, and in the state of Massachusetts, that's your full right."
"I know that," Bantling said, not avoiding the judge's gaze.
"If you refuse disclosure now, you can't ask for it afterward. If you're convicted, it's too late. Do you understand that? You're giving up your right to object to witnesses and exhibits."
"I understand that, judge."
"And yet you refuse to participate in discovery and to depose the prosecution's witnesses?"
"That's correct, judge. I've spoken to my defense attorney, I'm aware of my options, and I don't want disclosure."
The judge shook his head. "All right. Let's go find a court date. What do we have, Janine?"
Janine, the court reporter, looked up. "Twelfth of February next year for trial. Report date Wednesday, February seventh."
Rubio cleared her throat. "Your Honor, Mr. Bantling would like to expedite this matter and clear his name of the charges as soon as possible. Isn't there an earlier date?"
"Ms. Rubio, you understand that this is murder, a capital offense."
"Yes, judge. It's my client's decision."
The judge shook his head again in wonder. "All right, then. We want to please everyone involved, after all. Janine, give us an earlier date. One in December, please."
"December eighteenth of this year. Report date Wednesday, December thirteenth."
"Fine, we'll do it in December then. Merry Christmas. Happy Hanukkah. Joyful Kwanza. But don't come to me in two months complaining you didn't have enough time, Ms. Rubio. You're the one who wanted that earlier date."
"No, I won't do that, your honor."
"Very well. I'll see you in December. Motions can be made within thirty days. And no surprises, please. I hate surprises."
"Your honor," Maura said. I have one more announcement to make to this court."
"I thought so, Ms. Isles."
Maura gulped and handed the clerk another document. "Pursuant to the Massachusetts Rules of Criminal Procedure, the prosecution is filing written notice that it is pleading to the maximum sentence in this case. A sentence of life imprisonment without the possibility of parole for William Rupert Bantling."
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Slowly, he had had enough. Enough of the theatrics. The vapid judge who just skipped over the agenda, who cut off poor saps just to make his smug speeches. Turning the cameras on his vacuous face. And then there was that bitch again, the uptight bitch of a prosecutor in her staid black pantsuit, making her big announcement today. Like she was the star of the day. Shit. The press was here to see him; she was just accessories after all. Come on, give it to me, you little bourgeois! How I'd love to spank your pinched little ass. After five minutes it would be so soft and supple as never before.
How could a fair negotiation be possible with these louses? Everyone was pushing themselves into the limelight, while it was him who was helping them to gain a bit of fame. They didn't give a damn about the truth. They didn't even recognize it when it was right under their noses.
He sat back sullenly while the show, the farce, the theater went on before his eyes. He would have loved to turn around and grin at the damned cameras. Until a lens or two would have jumped. Maybe he'd get one of those sugary blonde journalists to send him love notes in the cell, or better yet, come by for an exclusive interview. Come closer to the mike, honey. That's it. Now put it in your mouth and shove it in deep. That would be nice. She might bring her camera, too. His mind wandered, and his cock stirred under the bright orange jumpsuit.
Then the bourgeois started her announcement.
... the public prosecutor's office files the notice ... blah, blah, blah ... A life sentence with no chance of parole for William Rupert Bantling.
It wasn't that he didn't expect it. But not today, not in the middle of this circus. Today was just supposed to be the arraignment. Just sit there and be silent. Today was the day our plea would be heard, and that was it. At least that's what his incompetent lawyer had said. So now they wanted to put him away forever? They would need a thick rope because he would definitely not keep still. He would fight. By all means.
He heard the whirring of lenses and the clicking of triggers and saw the bourgeois stumble snootily past him out of the courtroom. She was so close he could have spit her in the face. So close, he smelled her perfume. Chanel No. 5. He saw her sweet little nibble, her peach skin, her full mouth.
And suddenly the scales fell from his eyes.
Bill Bantling smiled a calculated, simple-minded smile for the cameras. Because at that very moment, he finally remembered why the prosecutor looked so damn familiar.
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"It took a little while, but now the lab has sent the readings. The fishing line Morgan Weber was hanging from the ceiling with is the same as the one from Bantling's shed," Jane said.
It was Monday, Oct. 16th, exactly two weeks after Bantling's arraignment. Korsak, Eddie Bowman, Jimmy Fulton, and three other members of the task force were gathered around the conference table at BPD. Maura sat next to Jane at the head of the table. They were holding a strategy meeting, war council.
"All right. And the bad news? How many spools of this type have been made and sold in tackle stores across Massachusetts in the last ten years?" asked Korsak.
"A lot. We're working on the exact number," Jane replied. "But there's another piece of good news we just got in: Jim and Chris have been working through Tommy Tan's meticulous records. Although our sofa salesman of the year spent over half his time overseas, he happened to be home in cozy Boston whenever one of the girls disappeared."
"Did anyone see him with any of the victims?" asked Maura with a frown.
"No. Just a couple of guys who'd like to be on the Jerry Springer show, but they have no credibility."
"Well, so far he hasn't attached any alibis, and he's waiving disclosure, which worries me a little. I don't know what the defense is planning. Maybe we'll get a big surprise in court," said Maura, tapping her pen on her padfolio.
"Something like a wayward identical twin?" asked Chris.
"Sit down, Matlock, that hurts," exclaimed Korsak and everyone laughed heartily.
"So when can we file charges on the other murders?" asked Eddie Bowman then. He scratched his head impatiently. "I'll freak out if that pervert gets acquitted in the Prado case and we don't have anything to stop him marching out."
"He won't be acquitted," Maura assured him.
"The case is pretty much watertight, isn't it, Maura?" opined Chris.
"Absolutely watertight. DNA analysis says it was Anna Prado's blood in the garden shed. The body in the trunk. The murder weapon. The mutilation and the cutting out of the heart are gruesome and disgusting. Not to mention the drug used to keep her paralyzed yet conscious while he killed her. The kidnapping from the Level provides the premeditation, and all of these aggravating factors together argue for the maximum sentence. The only thing I would really like to have to seal the case is the heart, and of course the hearts of the other victims. But even without that, we have enough material in hand against him."
"So why don't we charge him with the other girls, too?" asked Bowman again. He looked annoyed. Even after twelve years on the force, he still sometimes didn't understand the crooked ways the legal system could go after a crystal-clear case fell into the hands of a lawyer. Take a mugger with a pile of priors and a two-hour tape of his confession, any bet that because of some twisted clause, there wasn't even a trial. At least that's how it looked to him, and every year he got more and more annoyed. One minute there was a commendation and a certificate for outstanding police work, and the next minute they were all sitting in the courtroom listening to the perpetrator of the same case being acquitted. So he had his doubts about Bantling's conviction, no matter how "watertight" the prosecutor called the case.
"Bantling is all about time. He wants his trial as soon as possible, and I don't want to jump the gun and screw anything up in the process. If I get him on Prado, I can later apply the evidence to the other cases per Williams Rule and then try them all together. That way, even without factual evidence, he can be directly linked to the other murder victims; the jury is then told about all the murders, and Bantling is convicted of at least one murder. Of course, it still hangs on various circumstances, and that makes me a little nervous, especially with Boston jurors. I need physical evidence, and the fishing line is at least a start, circumstantial evidence that links him directly to these women. I want the smoking gun, Eddie. Find me the trophy he took from each of his victims. Bring me the hearts."
"We're looking for them, yes, but maybe he burned them or ate them or buried them somewhere, Counselor. I don't see why that's so important." Bowman scratched his head again.
"Hey, Bowman, what's wrong with you? You got fleas?" exclaimed Korsak. "Maybe they're nesting in your ears because you're not really listening. Maura is going to court even without the hearts. Give her time." Not everyone shared Bowman's pessimism.
"I don't think he destroyed the hearts, Eddie," Maura said. "I think he's storing them up somewhere. I talked to Greg Chambers, the forensic psychiatrist who also helped us with the Tamiami Strangler. All serial killers keep trophies of their victims. Snapshots, jewelry, hair strands, underwear, personal items. He thinks Bantling's souvenirs are the hearts. It fits the pattern. And Bantling wouldn't destroy what he went to so much trouble for. Most likely, he put them in a place where he could access them at any time, where he could look at them, touch them, reminisce. That's why I think they're somewhere, Eddie. We just need to know where to look.
In the meantime, I had Bantling's medical records come in from New York. The defense still hasn't entered an insanity plea, and I doubt Judge Chaskel will let me see the actual medical records unless Bantling challenges his sanity. But his doctor's diagnosis and the drug he prescribed him, we have those. With the Haldol, we prove the connection between him and the murder victims." She ran both hands through her hair and tucked a strand behind her ear. Then she started packing her briefcase. "But maybe we don't have to dig that deep into the bag of tricks. Maybe he'll make it easy for us, too."
"How so?" asked Jane with furrowed brows.
"Yesterday, Sarah Rubio called me. They want a meeting. They probably want to explore if there's any way he can get around the life sentence with no chance of parole."
"That's bullshit!" grumbled Bowman, upset. "He chopped eleven women into pieces, and now he's supposed to sit in prison forever on my tax dollars and get three meals a day?"
"That's not the point now," Maura said, beginning to sound annoyed. "But if he wants to save the state the time and trouble of suing him for eleven murders, of course, I'll oblige him. Then, when the jury fixes the sentence, he can howl to the jury that he's found Jesus and hope that his cooperation in solving the case completely will save his neck. But that argument didn't fly with Danny Rolling in Gainsville -" She already had the bag in her hand and headed for the door. "I'll let you know how it turns out. By the way, I sent the Federals enough paperwork that they could decorate all of Manhattan with it. When they've read through it all, I'll give them a tour of the evidence room on Friday. They always want more. So I need a strong man to unlock the evidence room for me and keep an eye on it. Any volunteers?"
"Yeah, I'm for Bowman. He loves to babysit. You're still scratching yourself! Maybe you can give some of your fleas to Gracker." Korsak laughed.
"He doesn't have much on his bald skull to put them in, Korsak," Jim Fulton let himself be heard from behind.
"I'll go with you," Jane said to Maura. "And you behave yourselves now, boys. No peashooters!"
Jane and Maura left the conference room and walked down the hall. Rain ran down the glass doors of the main entrance. Behind them was the parking lot. A loud thunder rolled.
"Crap. I forgot my umbrella," Maura said.
"I'll walk you out." Jane borrowed an umbrella from the front desk. Arm in arm, they walked to Maura's car. "How are you sleeping lately?" she asked without warning.
Maura looked at the detective strangely, as if Jane knew something she couldn't. "Why?"
"You said after Morgan Weber's crime scene review you didn't sleep a wink over the weekend. I just wanted to know if you were able to catch up."
"I'm fine, thanks." She climbed into her Toyota.
Jane stood in the open door, and despite the umbrella, her pant legs were already soaking wet. The trees in the parking lot bent under the rain and wind, a typical blustery afternoon in autumn. Then suddenly Jane leaned in with her upper body toward Maura.
Jane's face was inches from Maura's. The faint scent of perfume rose to the lawyer's nose. The detective's breath smelled of peppermint, and Maura saw the fine lines around Jane's soft brown eyes. She thought of their kiss a few weeks ago and held her breath. Butterflies in her stomach.
"When this is all over, can I take you to dinner?" wanted Jane to know.
Maura stuttered, the question had caught her completely off guard. When she finally recovered her voice after a few long seconds, she was surprised at her own answer. "Yes. When this is over."
"Good." The fine lines deepened and now stretched all over Jane's face. She had a beautiful smile. "When are you going to meet them? Bantling and his lawyer?"
"Day after tomorrow at Department of Corrections. I'll call you and tell you how it went." Involuntarily, Maura smiled back, warm and confidential. The butterflies fluttered.
Jane closed the door and waited under her umbrella until Maura parked out and drove away in the pouring rain.
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The lime-green hallways of the Suffolk County prison reeked so pervasively of old sweat and feces that Maura held her breath. She hated prisons. Whenever possible, she ordered defendants into court or the DA's office, but for security reasons, that just wasn't possible at Bantling. So here she was marching in the fluorescent light past the peeling paint on the walls, trying to block out the whistling and bawling of the inmates in the gallery above her. Just keep walking. A moving object is hard to hit.
On the sixth floor, where the high-security cells were located, the guard directed her from his bulletproof plastic booth to a massive steel gate at the end of the hallway. A loud buzz sounded, it opened and then closed again immediately behind her. At the end of another hallway painted a shabby lime green was a barred gate. Three video cameras on the ceiling recorded everything. In the room beyond, two people sat at a metal table, one was Bill Bantling in his orange jumpsuit. Boogeyman. Just a few steps away from her. Slowly, she exhaled. Showtime. She stood in front of the gate, which in turn slid open automatically. Then she straightened up bolt upright and stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind her with a clang. Maura was locked in.
At the sound, Bantling turned to look at her, but Maura tried to focus on Sarah Rubio, who was sitting next to him at the table. She felt his gaze as she paced the room. Except for the metal table and three chairs, it was empty. It was cold, and an uncomfortable shiver ran through her. "Hello, Sarah." Maura sat down at the other side of the table, opened her briefcase, and pulled out a pad.
"Hello." Rubio looked up from the papers in front of her. "Thanks for coming in this morning," he said.
"You wanted to talk about a plea. Well, I'm listening." Maura looked at Rubio and frowned.
"There are indeed some things there that would warrant a plea, that's true." Rubio sighed, and after a moment, she slid a thick document over to the prosecutor.
"What's this?" asked Maura suspiciously.
"My motion to declare the vehicle stop illegal."Maura skimmed the motion as Rubio resignedly continued. "We believe your judgment is clouded in this case, Ms. Isles. We will be filing a motion tomorrow before Judge Chaskel to remove you from the case. Also, I will have to address the Attorney General on this matter."
Maura swallowed hard. The panic that an animal in a trap must feel rose within her. At the same time, she felt as if someone had clubbed her. All she could get out was, "Excuse me? And what makes you think my judgment might be clouded?"
"We mean ... Facts have come to our attention -" Rubio blinked, and then she fell silent. She stared at her notes, and the moment passed uncomfortably slowly.
Maura could feel Bantling's gaze; he didn't take his eyes off her. She could smell him. His long fingers scraped the green paint from the table to which he was handcuffed; green paint chips gathered on the floor beneath him. One half of his mouth was twisted into a sardonic grin. He looked like a sneaky kid who knew more than the others. Maura concentrated on Rubio with all her might, but under the table, her knees began to tremble.
Rubio spoke quietly, eyes still glued to her notes. "I know that twelve years ago you were the victim of a rape in your New York apartment. I've read the police reports." She hesitated, and then looked at Maura. "I want to tell you that I'm very sorry for what happened to you." She cleared her throat, adjusted her glasses, and continued speaking. "My client states that he is the one who raped you. He thinks you recognized him. Because of the statute of limitations, he can no longer be charged with that crime in New York State, and he thinks that's why you now have a personal vendetta against him. We're convinced you're withholding evidence in this case because you know he's innocent." Rubio exhaled, obviously relieved to have it over with.
Rubio's use of pronouns was interesting. Bantling was still smiling and nodding his head affirmatively as his attorney spoke, like a good Sunday sermon. He deliberately let his probing gaze wander over Maura's body. She knew what he was thinking, and immediately she felt dirty: naked and exposed in a room full of voyeurs. Maura sat motionless, completely taken off guard by what she had heard. What could she say in response? What could she do? Feverishly, she searched for the answer. Her head was on fire, a terrible silence hung over the room.
Then he spoke. The voice from her nightmares. Barely half a yard away from her.
"I remember what you taste like," the voice said. Smiling, he leaned across the table and slowly licked his lips with his long pink tongue. He closed his eyes. "Yummy, Maura. Or would you like me to call you Beany?"
Rubio winced and snapped at him, "Mr. Bantling! We're not getting anywhere like this! Shut up!"
Maura's knees were shaking so badly now that she had to lift her legs slightly so her heels wouldn't be heard clacking on the cement floor. She felt sick to her stomach, cold sweat broke out, and she had an irresistible urge to run away. Just to get away from here. Because once again, he had her trapped. But she didn't move from her chair. She couldn't flee, because now the moment had come. The moment she had been waiting for; the moment she had feared so much.
Maura looked him in the eye and withstood his evil stare for a few seconds. He grinned spitefully, his pupils dancing with excitement. Then she found her voice again. She spoke softly, but clearly and firmly; she herself was amazed at how resolute she sounded. "I don't know how you learned of the crime of which I've been the victim, Mr. Bantling; I really don't know. The police reports, I suppose. That was a long time ago. But your accusation is really outrageous, especially the fact that in your sick imagination you hope it will give you an advantage in the trial." Now it was her turn. She felt anger welling up inside her, shooing away the weak, frightened Maura who wanted to run and hide. She leaned across the table and resisted his cold stare.
Her voice became even quieter, it was barely more than a whisper, but she knew he could hear her very well. "But I can assure you that I will make sure that you are locked away and that the key is sunk into the fucking Mariana Trench to make sure that you never see the sunlight again. And I will personally make sure that you end up in this cell and never get the chance to do to other women the things you did to Morgan Weber or Anna Prado." Then she stood up and turned once again to Rubio, who had been sitting there with her mouth open, watching the scene. "And as for you, Ms. Rubio, that was the most unethical behavior I have ever encountered in my career. I will bring this to Judge Chaskel's attention immediately. I may even take the incident to the bar."
Rubio was about to say something, but Maura silenced her with a look.
Full of anger, she hissed, "Don't ever speak to me again! In the future, I will only communicate with you through written proposals. We have nothing more to say to each other that can't just as easily be said in court. You are as despicable as your client." Then she grabbed her briefcase, walked to the door, and rang for the guard.
Bantling had gone white as a sheet, beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. Suddenly he let out a loud, inhuman scream, like a cat being skinned alive.
"Goddamn it, Bill! Stop it!" shouted Rubio.
Maura didn't turn around. The anger in his voice was all too familiar, and silently she began to pray.
"I didn't do it!" he screeched. "You know I'm innocent! You can't keep an innocent man locked away forever!"
The heavy door slid open. Maura left the room, trying not to run.
Now Bantling stood up, the metal chair crashing to the floor behind him, the handcuffs rattling against the table leg he was shackled to. He screamed after her, "You fucking dirty bitch! You can't run from me, Maura! Always remember, you fucking whore!"
She rang the second doorbell. The guard in the booth slowly looked up from his magazine. Come on, come on. Open up. Her knees were shaking now, and she could barely breathe. Air, she needed air. The door buzzed. Bantling was still screaming, trying to tear himself away from the table. Maura wondered if anyone had ever managed to pry the table from its moorings. Would he be with her before the guard had put down his magazine and come out of the booth?
"Twelve years and still on the run, Beany! I told you I'd find you anywhere! Now I'm back ... And I'm coming for you -"
The scream was cut off as the metal gate closed behind her. She reached the elevator and pushed the button with a trembling hand. It seemed like hours before it came and she could get in. Finally, Maura was alone. But she knew that the video cameras were recording everything here, too. Her knees were as soft as pudding, and she leaned against the wall of the elevator. Once downstairs, she quickly walked to the reception desk and signed out. Her hand was shaking so violently that she had to hold it with the other.
"Are you all right, Ms. Isles?" The man at the reception desk was Sal Tisker. He had previously worked as a security guard at the courthouse, bringing the inmates over.
"Yeah, Sal, everything's okay. I guess it's just not my day." Even her voice shook. Maura cleared her throat and accepted her purse from Sal. Then she took out her sunglasses and put them on.
"Have a good day, Ms. Isles." Sal slid open the last security door, and she stepped out into the bright sunshine.
Everything seemed so surreal in the sunlight. Maura resisted the urge to run. 'Act normal, just a little more. Hold on until you get to your car. You're almost there. Then you can break down.