DR. Again and again, these two letters were scrawled on Bantling's calendar. On different days of the week, at different times. Day or night. The last time just one day before Anna Prado was discovered in Bantling's trunk. What did those letters mean? Was DR a place? A person? A thing? An idea? Nothing at all?

Maura's head was pounding from thinking so much. She poured cold coffee into herself, refusing to give up and go home. Soon it wasn't worth it anyway. The trial went on at 8 a.m, and now it was 2:30 a.m. Papers piled up on her desk, address books, bank statements, tax receipts. Everything that had been seized from Bantling's house and car or that Tommy Tan had provided to the task force. Everything there was to know about William Bantling lay spread out before her like an open book. She had flipped through the calendars and notebooks, looked at his business appointments, read tax returns and receipts. She would be considered crazy for combing through records that were so mundane, so commonplace, and probably had no probative value at all. Besides, the same books, calendars, address directories, and documents had already been combed through by experienced investigators. But still, Maura had to go through everything again, had to see with her own eyes how Bantling's managed to live with himself, every single day, a completely normal everyday life. And maybe, just maybe, the experienced investigators had missed something ...

She flipped through the appointment book that had been recovered with the travel bag from the back seat of the Jaguar. The scuffed black leather cover was stuffed with address lists and business cards, matchbooks and beer mats with names and numbers scrawled on them. She tried to decipher Bantling's illegible handwriting, looking for something. What, she didn't know herself. A graphologist had once told her that he could tell whether he was looking at a sane person or a madman just by looking at his signature. She thought of that now and wondered what the jingling in Bantling's little black book would tell him.

There were hundreds of entries in the address section, often just first name and number, and almost all were women. Apparently, he had entered the name of every female he had ever even met in here. Some names she knew from the interview reports of the special commission. Others meant nothing to her. As she went through the names of dozens of women, an oppressive thought suddenly struck her, and she turned a few pages to I to make sure her own name didn't appear in the eerie black book. She went through the page, but there was no Isles there. Then she flipped forward to the entries under M; hastily she skimmed the lines. She half expected to find there scrawled across a page in his mad sow's claw: For a special evening, Maura! 202-18, Apt. 1B, Rocky Hill Road, Bayside, New York. With bated breath, she read through one entry after another. But her name was not there, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

The relief was short-lived. She had spotted name under C in Bantling's black book, in tiny, hastily scrawled letters, almost illegible, but only almost. A name that completely baffled her, that she had never expected. And she also wished she had never discovered it.

Chambers, G.

22, Almeria Street

Greg Chambers. How did his name get in Bantling's address book? How did the two of them know each other? And did they even know each other, or had Bantling picked up Greg's name somewhere and taken the precaution of noting him as a psychiatrist, a contact?

Maura stood up and paced her office, her mind racing. If they knew each other, wouldn't Greg have told her about it? Yes, he would have. He sure would. So he hadn't known Bantling had his name. Had no idea it was in Bantling's book. The way the appointment book looked, the entries could be years old. Maybe his New York doctor had given Bantling the address, or maybe they had met in passing ages ago. Greg would surely be as surprised as she was to discover his own name here. It couldn't have been any other way.

But as she marched up and down the office, all sorts of scenarios loomed before her. The well-known paranoia tied her throat again, seized her thoughts. The question "What if?" kept forcing itself into her consciousness. Fear that he was everywhere, watching her, dictating even the most absurd thoughts.

It was 3 a.m., and she needed to be in court by 8 a.m. She hadn't slept more than four hours a night since September, pretty much.

You're seeing ghosts. Stay rational. The case is eating you up. Bantling eats you up. It's sucking you alive. And you allow it to happen.

Stress played a big role in many illnesses, whether physical or mental. She knew that stress had also been a contributing factor in her latest breakdown. She needed to get a handle on it before it overwhelmed her before she lost control again. Her personal life, her career, everything was going into a tailspin, just like then. Just like back then. Everything was repeating itself. The parallelism was frightening.

After finishing her last coffee, she grabbed her purse; taking the address book with her. She called the front desk, woke the security guard, and took the elevator down.

She had to get out of here. At least for a little while. To think. Rest, she told herself.

Before everything got out of control.

Like it did back then.

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Estelle was packing her into a large straw basket when Maura knocked on the glass window. It was just after 7 p.m. on Thursday night, three days before New Year's Eve.

"Oh, Ms. Isles!" Surprised, she looked up from the basket and put a clawed hand over her heart. "You've startled me. I didn't see you at all."

"I'm sorry, Estelle. Is Dr. Chambers in?"

"Yes," she said absentmindedly, going through the appointment book. "But, well, he has a patient right now." She looked at Maura and frowned. "There must be some misunderstanding, I didn't even put you down for tonight."

Maura knew Estelle was dying to ask the big prize question: How are you? You don't look well at all!

Even Judge Chaskel had wanted to speak to her privately today to ask what was wrong with her. The makeup could no longer hide the bags under her eyes. She was too thin as it was, and had lost six pounds in the last week alone. The worry lines on her pale forehead deepened daily. Maura told everyone it was just the lack of sleep. She feared people didn't want to hear the truth anyway, that she was just about to lose it again. Just a few more days until the madhouse. Hurry if you don't want to miss the show. But Estelle dealt with lunatics on a daily basis and was smart enough to stifle the question.

"I don't have an appointment, Estelle. Could I speak to Dr. Chambers when he's done? It's very important, he'll understand."

"Oh. If you say so. But if he's on the call, I hate to disturb him." She glanced at the clock hanging in the waiting room. "And I've got to get going. I have an appointment with my husband."

"That's no problem, Estelle. I'll just wait until he's done. But it absolutely has to be tonight."

"Oh, is this about your case?" Now she whispered. "I see you on TV every night, on the eleven o'clock news."

"I just want to talk to him."

Estelle thought for a moment. "All right, you're friends. I'm sure he wouldn't mind. Why don't you have a seat? The last patient for the day is in the consulting room right now, and Dr. Chambers should be done by 7:30 p.m. at the latest. Then you can catch him when he comes out."

"Wonderful, thank you."

Estelle picked up the straw basket and her jacket and walked through the waiting room to the door. "Normally I'd stay, but we're having dinner with Frank's boss and his wife today, well, you know. We can't be late for that."

"No problem at all, Estelle."

At the door, she paused once more. Now she whispered again, "Do you really think he did it, Miss Isles? I mean, honestly?"

"If I didn't believe it, I wouldn't charge him." And I have to know, Estelle. I know he's guilty. It's just that whether he's a murderer, too, I'm not so sure about that anymore.

"You just never know where you stand with a person, do you?" Estelle shook her head. "Have a good evening, Ms. Isles."

"No, you never know," Maura murmured when Estelle had left. For a few minutes, she sat in the empty waiting room, trying to sort out her thoughts. Yet somehow it wasn't working today. Since her discovery last night, this was the first chance she'd had to talk to Greg Chambers. If only she knew what to say and how to say it? She didn't want to sound paranoid or hysterical. But she probably gave just that impression. The door to the registration desk was only ajar. Apparently, Estelle had forgotten to pull it shut behind her as she left. Maura stood up and paced nervously in the waiting room. Maura stood up and paced nervously in the waiting room.

At the window to Estelle's realm, she paused and glanced down the hall. The consulting room door was closed, as it always was when he elicited the deepest secrets from one of his patients. On the reception desk, she saw the open appointment book that Estelle had been looking through just a few minutes ago. Again, the questions crowded her mind, demanding answers. What if?

Quietly, Maura walked to the door and stopped. Nothing could be heard. Then she pushed the door open a crack. The consulting room door was still closed. She turned and glanced at the waiting room clock. It was 7:21 p.m.

Without thinking further, she quietly opened the door and stepped across the threshold that separated the sick from the healthy. The appointment book on Estelle's desk was open at the week of Monday, December 25th, through Friday, December 29th. The last page of the year. Maura touched it hesitantly, then quickly flipped back through the pencil entries for November and October until she found the week of Monday, September 18th, through Friday, September 22nd.

She skimmed the list of Monday appointments. And there she found it, the last entry of the day. Monday, September 18th, the day before Anna Prado's body was found.

Her breath caught as she found her most terrible fears confirmed.

Entered for the 7 p.m. appointment was B. Bantling.

Maura searched for all seven dates, which she had still written out of Bantling's calendar during the night. All of them matched the appointment book. The same dates, the same times, the same name: B. Bantling.

So it wasn't a coincidence. DR. Suddenly everything was as clear as day. Dr. Chambers was his doctor. Chambers was Bantling's psychiatrist.

Involuntarily, Maura backed away from the calendar, from the truth she had been facing all along. The room spun, and she felt sick to her stomach. What was the meaning of this? How could it be? He had treated them both. He had treated her rapist. How long had this been going on? Years? Her memories fluttered together like a flock of startled birds. Had she met Bantling here? Had she sat here in the waiting room next to him, exchanging a smile or a magazine with him, or making small talk about the weather with him until the doctor called on her? What did Chambers know? What had Bantling shared with him? What did Bantling know? What had Chambers told him? Thoughts she had repressed last night as paranoid and unreasonable now raced through her mind, threatening to overwhelm her. The air tightened, and she found it hard to breathe.

This couldn't be happening. Not again. Please, God, not more. No human being can take this much. I'm at the end of my rope. That was it. She had to get out. Think. She jumped up, knocking over Estelle's office chair. It rumbled backward, a picture falling off the wall. Maura ran, grabbed her purse in the waiting room, and stormed out. Behind her, she heard muffled words, "What the hell is going on, Estelle?" then the door to the hallway opened, but she was already gone. She yanked on the heavy, cast-iron handle and ran past the yellow, white, and red flowerbeds down the brick walkway to the street. Away from the pretty house on Almeria Street. Just away from the kind, understanding doctor, she had turned to for ten years when she needed help getting along in life. Advice to cope with her debilitating anxiety. Now she was running from him as fast as she could. She got into the Toyota and sped off. At the last moment, a bicyclist managed to avoid her; he yelled a barrage of curses after her.

She had already disappeared down Almeria Street, toward the Expressway, when Dr. Chambers came into the empty waiting room to see what had caused the noise.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"The first incision was started at the top of the sternum and then made parallel to the sternum, down to the umbilicus. It was clean, smooth, with no other skin damage." Joe Neilson twitched involuntarily as he demonstrated the cuts on the mannequin they had set up in front of the jury. The laser pointer in his hand bounced nervously along. "The second incision was made horizontally below the thorax, starting just below the right breast, and then horizontally across, to below the left breast. Again, just a single, precisely executed incision."

"Can you infer what kind of instrument the cuts probably came from?" asked Maura. The courtroom was quiet as a mouse. Spellbound, the audience waited for each word.

"Yes, I can. It was a scalpel. The cuts are deep. They go down to the bone, through three layers, skin, fat tissue, and muscle. There are no cracks or jagged edges. We compared the five-blade scalpel recovered from the defendant's apartment with the incisions in Anna Prado's chest. The width and depth of the cuts match the instrument exactly. They are identical." Two enlarged photographs were set up on easels next to the mannequin. One showed the scalpel from Bantling's garden shed, magnified five times. On the other, a close-up of the incision in Anna Prado's breast, also magnified five times. "After the incisions, the sternum, which reinforces the thoracic wall and protects the heart and lungs, was broken open and the chest spread apart."

"Can you tell what kind of tool was used to break open the sternum?"

"Not with any certainty. Probably with a bolt cutter, though."

"Was Anna Prado still alive at this point?"

"Yes. Death occurs when the heart stops beating. At that moment, all other bodily functions cease breathing and so on. At the exitus, everything comes to a halt. That is why we can determine what someone ate last, what toxins were in the blood and liver, etc. With the opening of Ms. Prado's chest, the lungs were indeed exposed to air and air pressure, which causes them to collapse after a short time. But we still found air in Ms. Prado's left lung at autopsy, so we know she didn't die from lack of oxygen. And therefore also that she was still alive when -"

Suddenly there was a loud wail in the auditorium. It was Anna Prado's mother. She was sobbing and screaming and had to be held down by several relatives. "Monster! Monster!" she wailed.

"Quiet, please!" demanded Judge Chaskel, his face dark red. "Hank, please escort Mrs. Prado out during this portion of the deposition. I'm sorry, Mrs. Prado, but outbursts like this are not allowed in the courtroom."

"He took my baby!" she shrieked as relatives escorted her out under the eyes of the jury. "That monster stole my little girl, he killed my baby! And now he's sitting here grinning!" As the door closed behind her, the screams were muffled.

"The jury is hereby instructed not to include this incident in their deliberations," the judge sternly admonished before Rubio could even object. The twelve jurors looked toward William Bantling, who was now visibly shaken, shaking his head with his face buried in his hands.

Uncomfortable silence weighed on the courtroom as Mrs. Prado's weeping slowly died down outside.

"All right, Ms. Isles. You can proceed now," Judge Chaskel said.

"So what caused Anna Prado's heart to stop, Dr. Neilson?"

"The severing of the aorta, the main artery that pumps blood from the heart through the body. Right after the chest ruptured, even before the second lung collapsed as well, the aorta was severed and the heart muscle was removed. This resulted in death immediately." The laser pointer now bounced over a new large-format image showing a gray, naked Anna Prado, on the metal table in the morgue, a large black hole where her heart had been.

"Was she conscious at the time?"

"It's impossible to determine with certainty, but as I said before, the Mivacurium chloride that was in her circulation doesn't cause unconsciousness. It only causes complete muscle paralysis. Its relaxant moment slows down or probably even prevents the body from going into shock, the body's natural defensive response to a severe injury. So I would say, yes, it's likely that she was conscious when her heart was removed." Collective murmurs rippled through the courtroom.

"Thank you very much, Dr. Neilson. I have no further questions."

"Good. Ms. Rubio? Cross-examination?"

"I just have a few questions. Doctor, you testified that the cuts in Anna Prado's body were consistent with the five-blade scalpel, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And they could have come from any five-blade, couldn't they? Not necessarily from the one found in Mr. Bantling's garden shed?"

"Yes. From any five-blade scalpel."

"And fiver scalpels aren't uncommon either, are they? In fact, they're pretty common in both medicine and taxidermy, right?"

"I'm not familiar with taxidermy, but it's true, they're pretty common among doctors. They're available at any medical wholesaler."

"Thank you, Doctor." Rubio returned to her seat, then turned around once more. "Oh," she exclaimed, as if something had just occurred to her, "and which officer was it who brought you this scalpel, the alleged murder weapon, and asked you to do the examination? Which detective was it?"

"Boston homicide detective Jane Rizzoli."

"I see," she said thoughtfully and sat down. "No further questions."

"Prosecutor, do you have anything else?" asked Judge Chaskel.

It was 6.10 p.m. on Friday afternoon, December 29th. The last business day of the year. By the time she had come into court that morning, Maura's world had begun to crumble, the cracks were widening, and everything was about to come crashing down on her. Another sleepless night had shaded her eyes black and carved even deeper lines in her forehead. She had come for the simple reason that by now there was no alternative at all, and giving up against the other team was simply out of the question.

Just as in Rubio's cross-examination, by now everything was full of ambiguities, everyone was suspect. Answers led to even more questions. Clarities became diffuse. Nothing was real anymore; she couldn't be sure of anything. Maura had lost control of both her personal life and professional affairs. Her witnesses were suddenly testifying for the other side. Doctors who were supposed to help her were also unwittingly supporting the enemy. Confidants may have been spies. And the cracks in the facade deepened and branched out in a thousand directions. Just as they had then.

"No, your honor. No more witnesses," she said, rising. Joe Neilson had been her last witness, his painful and powerful description of the last agonizing moments in Anna Prado's life had concluded her presentation of the case. "The evidence on the state's side is closed," he said.

"Very good. This is just the right time to go into the weekend," Judge Chaskel declared. And then he began rattling off the routine admonitions to jurors before dismissing them over the New Year's holiday.

Maura turned to look at Bantling, who was sitting in the seat next to Rubio. He still had his face buried in his hands, still shaking his head. But only now did she see why he was hiding his face from the jury.

William Rupert Bantling was laughing.