Maura remained seated at the prosecution table long after the hearing had ended and the courtroom emptied behind her. She had exchanged a glance with Rubio as she packed her bag at the table next to her, but there was nothing the two had to say to each other. Rubio had hurried out as soon as the prison staff brought her obviously disgruntled client back to his maximum-security cell.
Chavez was an idiot. And a miserable liar. And Rubio had had him by the collar. But suddenly she had backed down. Why? Clearly, she knew about the tip. How? And then the rape. Rubio hadn't mentioned Bantling's accusation in a word, even when Bantling practically pressed her about it. Was this strategy, or was there more to it?
A wave of guilt rose in Maura. Before Bantling, she had actually liked Rubio. They had worked together on two murder cases over the past few years, and Rubio had always been open and honest. Neither sniveling nor unscrupulous like most defense attorneys. And now she knew Rubio was putting herself in a compromising position. Maura felt guilty in the short term. But since the jailhouse conversation, Maura also knew she had to be wary of Rubio. Now she wondered if her opponent might not be up to something. Whether she was saving the damning information for a more effective moment? Perhaps after the jury was sworn in and the trial had begun? After all, if Rubio brought the charge to trial once the prosecution had begun, and the judge declared a mistrial for conduct unbecoming a prosecutor, Bantling wouldn't be able to be retried for the same crime. Never again. Then he would be a free man. Maura's mind wandered back again to the day Bill Bantling sat sneering next to his once-sincere defense attorney and fired his lethal ammunition directly at his victim. Rubio must have known beforehand that her client was a lunatic. He had told her himself, and the police report had confirmed it. And yet Rubio had helped him. She had arranged for Maura to face her nightmare in a closed cell. Just for the sake of effect. And at that realization, Maura's guilt immediately faded.
After Bantling was taken away, the press mob descended on the members of the task force and the FBI agents in the hallway. Maura felt like she could take a breath, at least for the moment. After a while, she didn't know how long, Jane sat down next to her in the empty courtroom.
"Well done," the detective said quietly.
"I didn't do anything, did I?"
"The motion didn't pass, that's enough, isn't it? All without the help of that cocky pipsqueak from the BPD. For the trial, his testimony needs fine-tuning again."
"He's not particularly easy to fine-tune. I've tried. And so did his sergeant."
"Maybe we'll let Korsak take a crack at it. He has great teaching talent." Jane was silent for a moment, trying to look the lawyer in the eye, but Maura was still fixing the files on the table. "I know you're worried, but things are looking good, even with Chavez trying so hard to screw everything up."
"I hope so."
"And Bantling isn't doing himself any favors either. I think if he can't keep his mouth shut, Chaskel will let the Boogeyman watch his own trial on the screen, in a cell."
Maura said nothing.
"I liked your summary."
"Thanks. What a day."
"You can say that again. The ghosts are really out today. By the way, happy Halloween. Can I help you get these things back to the office?"
"Is everyone gone?"
"More or less. I think it's just Korsak and the boys and your secretary in the hallway."
"Cara's here?"
"I think she came to cheer you on."
"I doubt it."
"She was watching the whole hearing. Now she's outside talking to Korsak. She's wearing another interesting outfit today."
"As usual. All right. I can use some help."
Jane began heaving the files from the table onto the little cart. Then she pulled it behind her with one hand, carrying Maura's heavy briefcase in the other. Side by side, they crossed the hall. "How about dinner tonight?" she asked.
"That would be nice," Maura said. This time she didn't hesitate. Not for a second.
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Sarah Rubio pulled open the bottom desk drawer and pulled out the amber bottle of Chivas Regal, the good one she saved for special occasions, celebrations, favorable verdicts, acquittals.
But today she needed it for a different reason. Today she drank it to get drunk and calm her nerves.
She poured herself a glass and stared at her desk, which was littered with horrific crime scene photos. Anna Prado's butchered, bloodied corpse stared out the trunk of her client's brand-new Jaguar, eyes widening in horror.
She hated herself. For what she had said in court today. For what she had almost said. For what she hadn't said. No one could win. No celebration, no victory today.
She knew her client was a rapist. A sick, sadistic, brutal rapist. And she knew that he had raped the prosecutor and that he didn't feel the slightest bit of remorse for ruining her life. Rubio suspected he had raped other women, too, even if he didn't admit it. Not yet. Bill Bantling gave her only as much information as he felt she absolutely needed. But that didn't surprise her; most of her clients shared that behavior.
Was he a murderer?
At the beginning of their collaboration, she would have absolutely denied it. Someone was trying to frame him; the whole thing was a trap, a mistake. There was no way this man was a rapist, a murderer. There was no way he was the Boogeyman. But she had been fooled, and that rarely happened. Especially as a criminal defense attorney, she knew that most of her clients kept secrets, lied; even the people Rubio hired to save their necks, and she accepted that. But Bill Bantling had appeared differently than most of her clients. He was a successful businessman, attractive, charming, honest. They had become friends long before he was arrested. They jogged together, Saturday mornings in Mission Hill, and sometimes they had a cappuccino at the bookstore. She had bought the whole story, and now she found he had deceived her. She had been blinded by a slick psychopath. That was what hit her the deepest.
And then there was Maura Isles, the prosecutor she had always respected and admired. A person who didn't play political games or use dirty tricks just to make the prosecution look better. Rubio knew Maura was lying, too, and while her motives might have been understandable, that didn't make it any less reprehensible. Rubio had gone through the inventory lists from the house search. She had looked thoroughly at the boxes of evidence. And found nothing. None of what her client said was there. Another blind spot. Rubio was to the point where she no longer trusted her own judgment when it came to people.
She finished the first glass in one go, her eyes still fixed on the horrific photos. Where was justice for Anna Prado? Where was justice for her client, whom she had so ambitiously sworn to defend? What the hell did justice even mean anymore?
Today she had failed as his lawyer. She'd already had the cop trapped, but then she'd quit. She had quit because she knew her client was a rapist. He had, at that same moment in the courtroom, pierced his victim with looks, without remorse or compassion. When she saw the hatred and contempt in his eyes, she knew he would do it again if he got the chance. And she couldn't let her be the one to enable him to do it. She, who stood up for the rights of women in the Cuban community. She was even on the board of La Lucha, an association that helped victims of spousal violence, offering them safety and protection from their abusers. How could she claim to be an advocate for women's rights and in the next breath use her skills to set a brutal rapist free? She had seen firsthand the damage he had done to one victim; who knows what he would do to the next.
Rubio drank the next whiskey, and the second glass went down much better. It was easier to swallow, didn't burn quite as badly. Maybe there was a parallel to the farce she was taking part in here. Maybe every step would be easier from now on. If she helped put her client away forever. She really didn't believe he was a killer. And she knew she could get him free, that she could have gotten him free today.
She knew about the strange anonymous tip that came into BPD on September 19th. Last month at the Clevelander, the dumb cop had told her intern everything: He'd been drunk and out for a quick score.
Rubio knew exactly why he had stopped the Jaguar in reality, even if Chavez had decided to sing a different tune now. He thought he could just deny what he'd said in the bar, pretend he'd never said anything. But it wasn't that simple.
She looked at the DVD she had requested from BPD after that night. As a matter of routine, police call recordings were kept for thirty days, then deleted. Fortunately, Rubio had received her copy on the twenty-ninth.
The whiskey was working. She felt lighter, a little dizzy, and much better. Rubio looked at the photos of Anna Prado and poured herself a third glass.
This time it ran easily down her numb throat.
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He watched the scene unfold before him in the packed courtroom. It was even better than he had hoped. As if in a theater, the various actors were interacting, playing off each other. Emotions boiled up, the tension was so thick that it could have been cubed. The breathless, nail-biting crowd around him lacked only popcorn; the spectators snapped like cheap tourists as they enjoyed the spectacle. And he was one of them. The game he had set in motion was developing magnificently, with all its offshoots, and the suspense of how it would turn out was almost killing him.
But he needed more. He had been holding off for months, and he realized he couldn't wait any longer. The feeling in his head was like that of a desert dweller in search of water. An unquenchable thirst, a pining for life. For death.
But he couldn't jeopardize the spectacle that had unfolded by questioning the culprit's guilt. He had to abandon what the police called his modus operandi. It would arouse suspicion if he tampered with a blonde again, no matter where he got her this time. And, unlike the others, of course, he had to make sure that this body would never be found. Because what he was going to do with her body was unspeakable. And what he would do with her spirit beforehand was simply unimaginable. If they knew what horrors he had in store, they would think William Bantling was a cuddly cat.
Oh yes, a dark-haired beauty. Black as ebony, white as snow, and red as blood. He would have a little Snow White of his own to play with. And he hoped he would win her heart.
The killer, to whom the police had given the name Boogeyman, rose with the crowd and left the crowded hall. Then he rode down the escalator, stepped out into the glaring sunlight, and went in search of his next great love.
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Maura found Korsak and Jane at the Pickle Barrel having coffee. She supplied herself at the self-serve counter and sat down with her mug.
"How did the status hearing go?" asked Jane. Today was December 13th, Bantling's report date before Judge Chaskel. The attorneys had to discuss the status of the case, negotiate pleas, and finally set the trial schedule for the coming week.
"No continuances. It looks like I'll be able to pick the jury on Monday morning."
"Honestly?" asked Korsak. "I would have bet that lunatic would have come up with a hundred excuses why we can't finish him off before Christmas Eve. Oh, great. Let's get it over with."
"I have to say I'm surprised, too," Jane said cautiously. "Two months of preparation for a felony, here in Boston, the promised land of adjournments and lame-duck judges? No custody, no disclosure? Not even an attempt at transfer to another jurisdiction? That's not going to be a problem later, I hope, is it, Maura?"
"You mean as a basis for an appeal? No. It's Bantling who wants the quick trial, not Rubio. And I think Bantling also wants to stay here in Boston, which is still better than the northern counties, where the average age of the jury is sixty-five and a cop's word is gold. And he can't plead that he hasn't been defended enough, either. Judge Chaskel has Bantling's statement in the record that the waiver of disclosure was made with his full knowledge of the situation and consent. And Judge Chaskel still wanted pretty much everything from me. He just doesn't want this case reopened. Sarah hasn't taken on clients since Bantling. She's a well-respected attorney with six felony trials under her belt, so she knows what she's talking about, and I don't think she's pressed for time. She has also gone through trials without disclosure.
Sometimes it's pure strategy: I don't want to see yours, but I won't show you mine either. Maybe she'll pull another surprise out of her hat. I hope not."
"Why is Bantling in such a hurry? Does he really think he'll have time for his Christmas shopping?" asked Korsak.
"Anyway, it's better for us if it's quick. I hate it when cases like this wait endlessly in purgatory. Witnesses forget their statements, evidence gets lost, all kinds of crap happens," Jane said with furrowed brows.
"That's the way I see it," Maura agreed. "But on one issue, an adjournment would have benefited us, too: We would have had more time, too." She was silent for a moment, then continued, "Small called me this morning. De la Flors is taking the Siban murder and robbery cases to the grand jury next week. If we lose on the Prado case, he'll snatch Bantling away from us and take him to federal court so fast we won't even be able to blink. Then we'll have to get in line and wait until every single federal indictment is tried."
"That will then give the career stud the attention he needs to secure the federal judgeship," Jane concluded.
"Exactly," Maura said, nodding.
"Then why don't we nail Bantling on the other murders, too, Counselor?" asked Korsak.
"Because other than the fishing line found on Morgan Weber, we don't have any evidence linking him to the other victims, and the fishing line isn't enough. And in the Prado case, I don't have a conviction yet." She turned back to Jane. "I need the hearts. I need you to find me his trophies."
"I thought you said we didn't need those for the conviction?" Korsak was confused.
"Actually, no. But you saw Victor Chavez on the stand. He's evasive, cocky, arrogant."
"A jackass of the first order," Korsak interrupted.
"Exactly. He's a terrible witness, but it just can't be done without him. What if he so baffles the jury that they buy Bantling's version? And if they let Bantling walk in the Prado case, then I don't have a verdict to which I can apply the Williams Rule to get him on the other murders. Maybe then the judge won't even allow me to cite the facts from the Prado case at the next trial. We'd come up empty-handed."
"Maura, we've been all over the place," Jane said. "We've talked to three hundred witnesses, analyzed thousands of pieces of evidence. I don't know where else to look."
"Maybe his psychiatrist in New York knows where they might be. Have you ever talked to this Dr. Fineburg, Counselor?" asked Korsak.
"No. Bantling won't plead insane, definitely not, Sarah claims. I'm not allowed to see his medical records. My hands are tied, and anything he's discussed with his psychiatrist is subject to doctor-client privilege. The shrink won't even tell you if Bantling buried the hearts in his own backyard."
"What if Bowman was right and he pulled the Jeffrey Dahmer stunt ... ate the hearts?" asked Korsak. "You never know."
"I don't think so, Korsak. I think Maura's right. I've seen this before in other serial killings. They always keep a trophy. It would fit that here it's the hearts. He wants us to look for it, I think. Bantling's teasing us. He's gone to such lengths to shock us with the way he took them out, and he wants to scare the hell out of us again when we find them."
"Go through all the evidence again. Look at all his papers. Maybe we missed something," Maura said, "an unimportant storage receipt, a locker key. I don't know. We'll just have to try. The process will take three weeks at most. But if I, the others can take him to trial then, no judge is going to let him go to Club Fed before I get him for all eleven murders."
"Three weeks of trial, huh?" Korsak sighed. "Well, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. I guess none of us have time for Santa this year. No matter how good we've been."
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Korsak waited until Maura went back into the office, then said, "I like the Counselor, but she's crazy if she's hoping we'll come up with the hearts this late in the game. If Bantling doesn't have them in the freezer somewhere, they'll have decomposed by now."
"Fine, let's go find the freezer then."
"Man, you're an optimist. How long has this been going on between you and the counselor, anyway?" asked Korsak suddenly, looking at Jane over his coffee cup, strangely sheepish.
Jane took a breath. "I wouldn't necessarily call it a thing, maybe. Is it that obvious?"
"It is to me, Jane. I would say of myself that I can read women like an open book, Jane. And I read that the counselor has a thing for you."
"Like an open book, huh?"
"Exactly. And you've got a thing for her, too. Since when?"
"A month or two."
"And?"
"Nothing and. I don't know. I like her, she likes me. She won't let me get too close. We're kinda stuck."
"Chicks! Always wanting a relationship, a relationship, a relationship. Until you offer them one, and then all of a sudden they don't want it. That's why I've been married three times, Jane. I still don't understand them. But no matter how many times I swore I'd keep my hands off women, they still get me. "
"Anyway, Maura doesn't want it to be public, so please keep it to yourself, and take off those reading glasses. She's losing it when she feels people are noticing. Because of Small and the press."
"I'll be as silent as the dead. But don't you dare make out in a patrol car."
"Still, I think Maura's right, Korsak. In fact, I'm convinced of it." Jane hesitated. She wasn't sure she should be so open with Korsak about her thoughts. She glanced around; the Pickle Barrel had emptied, and they had the back section to themselves. Quietly, she continued, "I've been thinking, Vince, and looking over all the reports and photos again. Looking for what we've been missing all this time. Why are there no biological leads? Because the Boogeyman doesn't want us to find any? No, that doesn't fit, because then he wouldn't have presented the bodies to us like that. I think there are no traces because he's too smart, Vince. He took big risks. Taking the girls out of the clubs just like that, right under the noses of their friends. Then he took his time killing them, choosing the locations, playing with the bodies, and then draping them for us. Everything is completely controlled, calculated. He wants us to see what he did, Korsak. He wants us to know what he did to them with this drug, Mivacurium chloride before he killed them. He wants us to be shocked, dismayed, and at the same time admire him for how smart he is. No matter how obvious he is, we still can't catch him. Every location, except for Anna Prado's, was carefully planned. He calculated when and how to kill his victims, and when and where to find them. Down to the last detail."
"Good, so he's smart. He plans everything, even how we should find them. But what are you getting at? What's the link?" asked Korsak.
"Think about Marilyn Siban at the abandoned Army site. I think he knew the cops were using it as a training ground. He knew the cops would find her, and that even the toughest guys would rethink their careers at the sight of her. Nicolette Torrence. Trapped in the abandoned crack house. A building that just so happened to be under investigation by the DEA for violating drug laws. Hannah Cordova. Found in an abandoned sugar mill that had been raided by Customs four weeks earlier for a heroin tip. Krystal Pierce. Found in a vacant supermarket where three people had been murdered not six months earlier. We were in charge. Almost all of the places found have some connection to a police department or similar agency."
"What are you saying, Jane? Do you think Bantling is a copycat? Or do you even buy it when he claims someone is trying to frame him? The police thing could just be a coincidence. Hell, the crybabies from the civil rights movement claim that the cops have turned almost every Boston citizen's house upside down at one time or another. And the FBI ones are real cockroaches when they look for drugs. The bodies certainly weren't found in the nicest neighborhoods, Jane, but that's usually the case with dead bodies."
"I don't think Bantling is a copycat, Korsak. I think he's the real Boogeyman. The cuts on the torso were in exactly the same place, in the same order. Anna Prado was on the same medication. Neither of which anyone else could have known about. But still, I think there's some connection to the police."
"You mean we missed the fact that Bantling would have liked to be a cop? Or that his cat got run over by a cop once? There are a lot of reasons people hate cops, Jane. We're always the scapegoat, aren't we?"
Jane nodded and slowly took a sip of coffee before formulating her final thoughts. "Maybe. But as for Anna Prado ... I think Bantling had other plans for her. He was interrupted because he was caught. If we find out what he was up to, we might know where he has the trophies."
Korsak shook his head. "I don't know, Jane. A connection to the cops. How would Bantling have heard about the searches, raids, training, all that crap?"
Jane was silent.
Korsak tried to continue the thread, then blew a low whistle. "Holy shit, Jane. You think there's a second man, don't you? You think our friend Bantling has a partner out there, someone who laughs his ass off all the time. And you think maybe it's one of us."