On Friday at 2:42 p.m., exactly sixteen minutes before the court closed for the holidays, the jury, consisting of five women and seven men, was sworn in. In Massachusetts, jurors were not required to go into isolation, and therefore all were able to go home to their families. Bantling's jurors were four Hispanic, two African American, and six white, ranging from a twenty-four-year-old diving instructor to a seventy-six-year-old retired accountant. All lived in Boston, and all had heard or read about the Boogeyman murders. All stated they hadn't yet formed an opinion about the guilt or innocence of the accused, and all testified under oath that they would rule fairly and impartially.
As Maura packed up her files, the courthouse was deserted. Even the press had folded their tents, for jury selection had proved uneventful and thus boring.
It was no different in the prosecutor's office. Small had officially closed the office at 3 p.m., but most had left by noon. Maura walked past the deserted, Christmas-decorated desks of the secretary's office. The paper baskets overflowed with red, green, and white wrapping paper. Half-empty plastic cups and paper plates of leftover food piled up on a large wheeled cart that was normally used to retrieve file folders from the basement and now stood lonely next to the copier, the remnants of the Christmas party Maura had missed. Most of the Major Crimes Unit attorneys had already left for the two-week vacation earlier in the week to take their remaining vacation before it expired. The offices lay dark.
Maura picked up the files she needed over the holidays to finish her opening statements and locked the others in the closet. She grabbed her coat, purse, briefcase, and cart with the folders and headed for the elevator. No wonder the suicide rate rose rapidly on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's Day. After all, not only were they the most beautiful days of the year, they could also be the loneliest.
Maura walked through the lobby into the now dark parking lot and pulled her coat tighter around her. The night air had turned cold, and December sometimes brought an unpleasant wind blowing across the Charles River.
Everyone else had plans. Visits to friends loved ones. Except her. There was no Christmas for Maura, and this time, too, the holidays would pass as in years past, with no carols, no blessings, or whatever else the preprinted Christmas cards promised. Of course, that was because her parents lived in California. But it was crazy to fly to the West Coast for two days. Besides, the bad memories overshadowed these visits and made any conversation impossible. Her mother always wanted to block out anything unpleasant and would have loved to spend a week talking about the weather and musicals. And her father stared at her nonstop sadly; probably silently waiting for her next breakdown. Maura could just handle a week in the summer emotionally, but not in the winter, not at Christmas. Bantling had taken that away from her, too: He had also destroyed her relationship with her parents. Like the last few years, there would be turkey with Lucy and Tibby at home again. No Jimmy Stewart on television, though. Instead, in the solitude of her kitchen, she would work on opening statements, prepare cross-examinations, formulate closing arguments, focus all her skills on taking down a killer.
It had been exactly a week since she had last seen Jane, and she wondered how the detective spent Christmas. With family? With friends? Alone? Suddenly she realized how little she knew of Jane, and how much she had once hoped to learn more about the Italian. She would have loved to believe that after the trial they could pick up where they left off. But was that even possible? Jane had sounded very final when she left the other day when she let the detective go.
Another sacrifice for a higher purpose. But this sacrifice was anything but small.
Maura reached the Toyota, loaded her files and folders, and waved to the security guard on duty in the building's warm, brightly lit lobby. Then she drove off, toward Beacon Hill and the single serving of turkey that awaited her there, oblivious to the familiar face watching her from the shadows.
Waited.
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"If I were to stay here in my seat and remain silent, just sit here and not say a word, then you would think he was guilty, even though the law says he is not." Rubio remained seated in her chair as she began her opening remarks. She glanced toward the bench, and it appeared she was thinking aloud.
Maura had just sat down after delivering a good, solid, forceful opening to the attentive audience and camera crews that left no room for speculation. Now it was Rubio's turn.
Rubio let a few seconds pass, then finally turned and looked at the jurors with doubt and disappointment. "You all look at my client as if he were an assassin. You are afraid and disgusted at the overly colorful, bloody picture the prosecution has painted for you in the last sixty minutes. Without question, Anna Prado was a beautiful young woman brutally slaughtered by a madman. And now you think that here before you sit the guilty one as if the words of the prosecutor were proof enough. Because we want to be afraid and disgusted at the sight of William Bantling, even if I'm sure your common sense tells you that this handsome, well-bred, successful businessman doesn't necessarily deserve that reaction." She placed her hand loosely on Bantling's arm and patted it. Then she shook her head. "But what the prosecutor put forward in her opening is not an expert opinion, ladies and gentlemen. It isn't evidence. It's not fact. It's theory. Assumption. Speculation. It's a presumption that the leads and the alleged facts that she hopes to bring forward in this case, that those facts strung together on a string form an overwhelming chain of evidence. She wants to force all of you here to the conclusion she has already drawn for you: that my client is guilty of murder. But I warn you, ladies and gentlemen, things are not always what they seem. And facts, no matter how evil, how bloody they may be, cannot always be strung together in a chain." Now Rubio rose and stood before the jury, seeking a direct gaze. Some of the jurors looked away, ashamed that they had drawn the very conclusion Rubio accused them of, that they were already breaking the oath they had sworn just last Friday. "The exact same thing is happening in Hollywood, the same way producers are doing it. You are supposed to go to the movies, buy the movie that these people spent many millions of dollars on. You're supposed to buy posters and T-shirts, vote for the best actor before you even sit in your theater seats. And to convince you, two-minute trailers are produced, packed with blood and action. You're supposed to say, 'Great movie,' but you haven't even seen it yet. And many do. All because of two exciting minutes. And Ms. Isles has done it very well, ladies and gentlemen. She packed action and blood and all the gruesome details and special effects into her trailer. It looks great. Sounds great. But I warn you, don't buy a ticket yet. Just because the trailer is promising," and now Lourdes turned to Maura, "doesn't mean the movie is any good. A bunch of gory, horrible facts doesn't make a good case. No matter how many special effects, a bad movie is still a bad movie. My client is innocent. He is not a murderer. And certainly not a serial killer. He's a talented, successful businessman who has never gotten a parking ticket in his life. An alibi? Mr. Bantling wasn't even home during the time period when Anna Prado was allegedly murdered in his garden shed. He can prove that, too, although he has no obligation to prove anything here. The murder weapon? Mr. Bantling is a recognized taxidermist, and his specimens are on display in several local museums and institutes. The scalpel in his garden shed is a tool he needs for his craft, not a murder weapon. The microscopic traces of blood are from animals, not a human. And he will prove that, too, although he has no obligation to prove anything here. The blood? The splattered blood that Ms. Isles spoke of so vividly in her opening, which was all over the walls in the shed, made visible by the chemical luminol, it's entirely animal, not human. I want to emphasize, there are only three," she held up three fingers as she slowly walked up and down in front of the jury, looking deeply into their eyes, "three microscopic drops of blood found in the garden shed that was identical to Anna Prado's DNA, although everything in the shed should have been full of Anna Prado's blood if her aorta was indeed severed there. Instead, only three microscopic drops were discovered. Discovered by a desperate police detective who needed a name and a face for the serial killer Boogeyman she had been searching for in vain for over a year. Whose entire career depended on finding that name, that face. The trunk? The Jaguar had been in an auto shop for two days before Mr. Bantling picked it up on September 19th. It wasn't in his custody, under his supervision, or under his control. Mr. Bantling didn't even take a look in the trunk when he threw his bag in the back seat and headed for the airport for a business trip. And he will prove that as well, although he still has no obligation to prove anything here. Please remember, not a single fingerprint, not a hair, not a fiber, not a scratch, not a stain, not a secretion was found on Anna Prado's body, not a single piece of evidence linking her death to Mr. Bantling. And although he's not responsible for the murders of the other women here, I inform you that no biological evidence pointing to him was found on the other ten victims either. No fingerprint, no hair, no fiber, no stain, no scratch. No DNA. Not the slightest biological trace. Nothing."
"Objection." Maura rose. "The state of the investigation in other cases is not part of this trial. It is irrelevant."
"Objection sustained."
But it was too late. Rubio had already made it clear to the jury that there was nothing to connect Bantling to the other murders. Nothing at all.
Rubio caught the gaze of a woman who had turned away even earlier. Now the woman nodded, barely perceptibly, and looked curiously over at Bantling. Maura could practically hear what she was thinking: he doesn't look like a serial killer. Bantling smiled weakly at the woman, and she smiled back before looking away, embarrassed.
"The overwhelming chain of evidence isn't overwhelming at all anymore, is it, ladies and gentlemen? The movie's not so good. So don't get blinded by the special effects, the bloody evidence, and the bad word serial killer in the Boston Globe. Remember the oath you took, and ... Wait a little longer before you buy that movie ticket."
With those words, Rubio sat down. Thoughtful silence reigned in the room. Her client put his hand on hers as a sign of his gratitude, while a perfectly staged false tear rolled down his cheek.
And Maura realized she had a huge problem.
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"Jesus Christ, how did you not know that, Maura?" Small paced back and forth in her office, nervously stroking his head. "Now we're standing there like a bunch of college students on the debate team!"
"Jerry, I just didn't know. He refused to make a disclosure. We thought we had it all in the bag. Obviously, that was a mistake."
"This man's car was in the auto shop for two days before the murder, and the task force, and I mean a task force of experienced investigators, couldn't figure that out?" Small was as red as a pancake in the face. Maura had never seen him so angry.
"Just because his car was in the shop doesn't mean he's innocent. He was still driving when they found that dead girl in his trunk."
"Right. But now we look like bloodthirsty prosecutors who turn a blind eye to the facts just to put a name to a serial killer and provide a scapegoat for the frightened citizens. We're left looking like rookies, and Lord knows I don't need that. Especially not in an election year."
"I'll handle it, Jerry. I'm meeting with Detective Korsak and Rizzoli in ten minutes. I'll fix this."
"I hope so, Maura. Because now even the Federals don't want to get their hands dirty with this guy. Tom de la Flors immediately withdrew his indictment when he heard about it. In his opinion, more investigation is needed before someone who may be a harmless citizen is charged on circumstantial evidence alone." He paused and wiped his hands on his pants. "Damn. We've made complete fools of ourselves."
"I'll fix it, Jerry."
"That's what I want you to do. I trusted you, Maura. That's all I have to say to you about that." He adjusted his toupee and headed for the door. "I strongly suggest you do everything you can to make sure we don't put an innocent man away forever." With a loud bang, he slammed the door behind him.
A few seconds later, there was a soft knock, and it opened again. Korsak stuck his head in. "Your boss looks really bad, Maura. I think he's about to have a heart attack."
„He's not the only one here!" replied Maura, leaning back in her desk chair with a sigh.
Korsak entered, followed by Jane. All three looked at each other in silence for a few seconds.
"What the hell happened?" said Maura finally, her hands flat on the desk. She sounded exhausted. "How did we miss the car repair shop? Where exactly was he during the ten to fourteen hours before Anna Prado's body was found?"
"Maura, you know he never talked to us. He was screaming for his lawyer before we even got him off the highway. And there was no disclosure either," Jane said quietly. She was having a hard time staying calm. "We interviewed three hundred people. He wasn't with any of them on the eighteenth or the nineteenth of September. And there wasn't the slightest reason to suspect the Jaguar might have been in the shop, the car is brand new."
"He planned all this for a long time. He wanted to lull us into a sense of security and then make fools of us in front of the jury. I should have seen it coming because that's the same tactic Sarah used before. Ambush. But I didn't think she'd try it again this time, with everything at stake. Yet the evidence is watertight -"
"Look, she directly accused me of fabricating evidence. How do you think that makes me feel, Maura?" Jane was furious. "You're not the only one here trying with all your might to put this guy behind bars."
Korsak tried to mediate, his voice as gentle as he could manage. "Counselor, we're doing everything we can, talking to every garage in a six-mile radius -"
"Make that twelve. We need to find that workshop. Ask around, see if anyone saw anything."
"Fine. Twelve miles. We'll start over and talk to the witnesses. Every acquaintance he ever had in Boston -"
"It's got to be quick because Judge Chaskel is determined to get ahead. He starts early and doesn't stop until late in the evening. We haven't much time."
"Then we'll just have to wait and see what he says when he makes his arguments," Jane agreed.
"By then it may be too late, Jane. If the jury thinks we're not good enough, or worse, we're withholding evidence, they'll let him go. And I can't let that happen. I won't let that happen!" As she had before, she felt the cracks in the fragile facade that had been glued back together with years of therapy. The cracks grew longer and wider, branching out in all directions. She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to force her thoughts into normal channels. Jane looked at her hauntingly. Watched her crumble. As she broke into pieces before her eyes. "I need his files. Everything. I need to know what he's going to come at us with next. And I need to find out before he gets a word in edgewise," she said, mostly to herself. She looked up. Korsak and Jane were watching her. The awed silence sobered her. "Don't you understand? He planned this all along," she finally said, her voice now just a rough whisper. "We fell into his trap. And I didn't see it coming -"
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The melodic ringing of the cell phone jerked Jane out of deep sleep. She was lying on the couch, the Jay Leno show was long over, and now a continuous commercial for a brand new depilatory was playing. Blinking, she looked around for the cell phone. She wasn't sure if she was still asleep or already awake. "Rizzoli," she then answered.
"Who's DR?" the voice on the other end asked.
"What, Maura, is that you?" She rubbed her eyes and looked for a clock. "What time is it?"
"It's one. Who's DR? What's DR?"
"What are you talking about? Where are you?"
"At the office. I've spent the last few hours going through Bantling's appointment book, and for the last year, those two letters have kept popping up, with no further explanation. The day before Anna Prado disappeared, for example, and the one before Bantling was arrested. Did you see that?"
"Sure," Jane sighed and sat up, running her hand through her hair. "We followed up on that, too. We questioned everyone we could find with those initials. Didn't come up with anything, though. We don't know who or what DR stands for."
"It's the same with the last three victims. Two to eight days before they disappeared, his calendar says DR. What the hell does that mean?"
"It could be anything. Or nothing at all. I don't know. I guess Korsak isn't home?"
"What do you mean?"
"I haven't heard from you in almost two weeks, and I know you call him when you need something. So I guess you're checking in with me because you can't get a hold of him."
Without responding to her sarcasm, Maura then said, "Well. I just thought DR might be something we missed. Maybe a place we haven't been. Maybe the place he's visiting, where he's got the -"
"We've been over all that. You're clutching at straws. It's late."
Silence. Maura's once-in-a-lifetime chance to just hang up. But she surprised the detective because she continued speaking in a softer voice. "I'm sorry about yesterday at the office. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. But it just makes me all nervous that I don't know where Sarah is going with her defense."
"Oh, Maura, we all know the man is a lunatic. He enjoys throwing us off our game. He gets a kick out of it. That's why he didn't ask for disclosure. He wants us to look like idiots in court, he wants to trick us. If he didn't have anything to do with this, he would have given us the information to prove his innocence from the beginning. This is a game to him, Maura. Remember that. Don't let him get under your skin like this, because that's what he's playing at."
"You did good today, on the deposition and also on cross-examination. I was going to tell you that, but you left so quickly. You didn't let Sarah piss you off."
"She tried. And still, she managed to make me look like a desperate cop whose career is over if she doesn't crack this case. Do you feel like I need it that badly, too?"
"No. Remember, I called you."
Jane laughed. "Do you think she convinced the jury?"
"On the contrary. I think you handled it beautifully."
"How did Chavez hold up?" Witnesses weren't allowed in the courtroom during the trial so they wouldn't be influenced by each other's testimony.
"Not much better than last time. At least he wasn't quite as forward after the last disaster. But even though his testimony was smoother this time, it sounded pretty rote for that. So the bottom line is we didn't win anything."
"What does the jury think?"
"That Chavez either has something to hide or is stupid. Maybe both. There was no mistaking the tension between the two of them. Sarah and he were like cat and mouse."
Maura didn't tell Jane that Rubio had again steered Chavez into the same shallows as last time, with the same vague hints regarding his real motive for stopping the Jaguar. With heart pounding and sweat on her brow, Maura had waited for the next question. For the question that would put an end to all the fuss.
The tip. Did Rubio really know, or was she just bluffing? And if so, would she use her knowledge here? Did she also have a copy of the tape? Or did she perhaps even know who the caller was? Did Maura have to expect the mysterious deep voice to suddenly parade in here as a witness for the defense, an evil surprise guest, and hunt down her case? But just like last time, Lourdes did corner Chavez, but then backed off, leaving it to the jury to suspect that something was fishy about the young cop's story. Hesitantly, Maura had breathed a sigh of relief.
"What's next?"
"The pathologist, the trace investigation, Masterson with the porn videos. Maybe two or three more days. Probably won't be done until the new year, but you never know with this judge. Maybe he'll come to a conclusion the day after tomorrow."
"You were right when you said Chaskel was in a hurry. He's gone through more in a week than most judges do in a month. And that's on a capital case. What time does he start in the morning?"
"8 a.m. Yesterday and today we didn't finish until 9 p.m. in the evening. The jury is pissed. We're spoiling their vacation. And I feel like they're blaming me for it. It really wasn't me who wanted to try a murder at the most wonderful time of the year."
"How did you spend the holidays?" The conversation had ceased, becoming more familiar again. It almost physically hurt how much Jane missed the lawyer.
"Just fine," Maura lied. "Tibby gave me a wool mouse. A big one. How about you?"
"Nice," the detective asserted. "Vince didn't give me anything. He got a hickey for it, but not from me. And in the spirit of Christmas, he handed out a few too, I think."
"Really?"
"I'm afraid your secretary will have to wear turtlenecks this week."
"Oh, God. Men are so stupid."
"Yeah, I guess they are," Maura said nothing, but Jane could tell her cheap comment hadn't gone over well. Quickly, she tried to deflect. "Has Small calmed down again?"
"No. I'm sure he won't until I win. And that looks looking shakier and shakier."
Jane heard the tremor in her voice; Maura sounded as distressed as she had the other day in the office. "How are you?" the detective asked anxiously. "Is everything all right? Would you like me to come -"
But Maura cut her off when she realized what the Italian was about to suggest. "Listen, I'll let you go back to sleep now," she said quickly before tears started to fall. "I'm sorry I woke you up. Good night." She hung up.
Jane knew the lawyer was crying. That she was sitting alone in the darkness of her lonely office in the middle of this damned city, crying. The detective got up and paced restlessly around the apartment. She was wide awake now.
Maura was balancing too close to the edge. Jane heard it in her voice, saw it in her gaze, over the past few months, the past few days. If she took just one wrong step or stumbled ...
The detective looked out the living room window toward downtown, where the lawyer was, lonely and desperate.
Jane only hoped she would be there to catch her if Maura fell.