- 2 -

Maura took a deep breath and rolled her head in the back of her neck. No one would do her work for her. She resumed her seat and checked where her notes tore off. Exactly, she thought. The woman's missing parts. Somewhere in the woods, two of her fingers had to be found, among other things. She finished the lineup and shared the data in a quick phone call to Kent.

"You're funny!" the latter exclaimed. "How are we supposed to find this? With a group of a hundred?"

"I know. The fact is, these body parts are missing. And there are three possibilities, one of which I can pretty much rule out. Wild animals ate them, wild animals carried them off, or the perpetrator cut them off."

The was silence for a second on the other end of the line. "Let me guess. Not a souvenir hunter."

"Doesn't look like it," Maura muttered as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. According to a recent study, it was considered extremely unlikely that body dismemberment was performed outside the home of either perpetrators or victims. Whereas there had been no actual dismemberment. "If it's human in origin," she continued, "he stopped dismembering way too early. Was he disturbed? Then why did no one report the bodies to anyone? You understand, find every single part. I want every last shred that might have DNA on it on my table."

"Got it. Crystal clear."

Maura heard a more-than-familiar set of footsteps and abruptly ended the call when she spotted her wife in the hallway. "The woman is a thirty-five-year-old," she began without preamble and Jane slowed her steps. " 5"4'." In what followed, Maura rattled off her findings, stressing that much could only be based on conjecture, something she would only do with Jane. The condition of the body was simply deplorable. By all accounts, the woman had delivered a child, must have been involved in running sports, and had a tattoo on her shoulder blade. The death had been caused either by the shot in the head or by strangulation. „The broken hyoid bone indicated severe strangulation."

"On him, too?" asked Jane with a sigh, wearily running her hand over the back of her neck as she thought about how the holding and strangling could come from a sexual tormentor, too. And it didn't necessarily have to be the killer.

"Yes." Maura's answer burst that thought right away, and Jane slumped her shoulders. "It's even more obvious on his neck."

"Why," the detective asked almost whiningly.

"Because his neck is still there," Maura replied, smiling when Jane made a face.

As empathetic as Maura might be as a human when she did the job she seemed to wear titanium armor.

Maura walked over to the second autopsy table. "Let's get to him," the ME continued, and the procedure began again. Traces of wear from a heavy watch. Adhesive residue on the skin at the wrists, which, incidentally, had also been tied up.

"They were tied up," Jane stated. "Is there any evidence of sexual activity?"

Maura sighed loudly. "I'm sorry, Jane. With him, there's not much more I can investigate. And with her ... It's been too long. I'm not done yet, but -"

"Yeah, all right," Jane sighed, furrowing her brows. "Can you at least give me a time of death?"

Maura pulled out her calendar, on which she had drawn a circle around the twenty-third week of the calendar. „Pentecost," she said, lost in thought, with a frown. "Sometime around that time, though the time window here is getting pretty big."

"That's over four weeks ago," Jane calculated, rubbing her left temple with furrowed brows.

A short time later, the investigation for the owner of the parked cars at the scene and matching of missing person reports led to an interesting result. Even if they still had to work without a definite identification via external features, fingerprints, or DNA, the match of other factors appeared to be quite resilient. On May 10th, the thirty-three-year-old Susan Satori had been reported missing by her husband. He had last seen her on Friday afternoon, and she had left in her car that evening and hadn't been able to get on the phone or had been seen among friends since then."

"Is it the Toyota," Jane asked Nina, who had just given her the news.

The analyst nodded and handed a file to her boyfriend's sister. "Yes."

The two women knew what that meant. There was a child out there who had been waiting for weeks for his mother to come home. And the next person who mentioned his mother would deliver a nightmare from which they wouldn't recover for years. Probably never.

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Jane fell dead tired into the bed that she and Maura had shared for several years and rolled onto her right side.

Maura raised her eyebrows and smiled broadly when her wife groaned and slid close to her. My wife, she thought, taking a deep breath. She had to get used to that thought. She ran her right hand through Jane's hair. Something she had to get used to, that she was allowed to do that.

Jane had her eyes closed and was breathing deeply, almost starting to purr like a kitten. "Maura," she whispered and put her arm around the blonde's middle, tiredly opening her eyes to make sure she wasn't just dreaming.

"Sssh," the ME whispered as she continued to massage Jane's scalp, "you need sleep, we both need sleep badly."

Jane slowly shook her head and without warning climbed on top of the smaller woman, propping herself up on both elbows next to the doctor's head. She connected their lips and felt her arms begin to quiver. Something that had been unusual, a sign of exhaustion. She broke away from her wife again and pouted a little. "I think you're right," she whined, plopping down on top of Maura.

"Whew," the smaller woman gasped.

"Sorry," Jane mumbled into the crook of Maura's neck.

"It's okay," Maura chuckled and began rubbing the detective's back soothingly.

"Mmm," was all Jane mumbled before drifting off into dreamland.

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Lieutenant Sean Cavanaugh had called for the duty briefing the next morning. In attendance were, in addition to himself, Jane, Frankie, Nina, and Korsak. Cavanaugh had chosen the conference room, although his office would have provided ample space as well. On the table were coffee, table water, cups, glasses, and even pastries. Leftovers from another meeting, Jane guessed.

She chewed a cookie and washed it down with a sip of coffee. She had just summed up the latest insight into the female victim.

"Wow," Cavanaugh concluded. "So the male victim is not her husband, since he reported her missing."

"Exactly," Korsak nodded. "Also, the husband is several inches shorter than the male victim, and he's made several inquiries over the past few weeks."

"I'm surprised the car wasn't discovered," Cavanaugh said, but for this Jane had an explanation. "It was parked so you couldn't see it from the street. You would have had to drive specifically into the parking lot and search for it."

"Annoying, though. We're talking about four weeks, after all," Cavanaugh turned his cup in his hands. "Well. What about the man."

"Nothing new yet," Frankie replied. "The VIN on the VW came up with a hit. Some guy, unaware of any guilt, claiming he had his plates stolen. Mimed the innocent and had the gall to ask who would replace his broken door."

The others laughed.

"Pay him a visit anyway," Cavanaugh said. "Identity, alibi, possible connection to the murdered woman. We can't afford not to follow up on that. What about the witness who discovered the bodies?"

"All still pending," Jane said, and no one had to say out loud that there were a lot of unfavorable factors in this case. The long period between the crime and the start of the investigation was one.

They agreed that Jane and Korsak should go to the bereaved husband. The visit to the husband hung in the room like the sword of Damocles. It was one of the most difficult and unpleasant duties to perform in homicide, and it wasn't something that got easier as the years went by. Even though delivering death notices was a repetitive ritual for detectives: for every relative, it was the first time. And it hit with full force. Screaming, tears, apathy. After the first flare-up, something seemed to die in the relatives. Something in their gaze, something in their movements. As if the loved one was taking a part of them to the grave. And it always happened exactly when the detectives delivered the certainty. Messengers of death, who first found a corpse and, as if that wasn't bad enough, also destroyed the happiness of a living person. Killed.

"I'll check the guy with the VW, then," Frankie said.

Cavanaugh had no objection. "I just talked to pathology again," he relayed. "The federal DNA database won't be available until Monday. That's as fast as Dr. Isles can get it. And the fingerprint thing is a crapshoot. But we know her. She'll work some magic there."

Jane had to smile. Magic. Sometimes it truly bordered on magic, for example, when Maura put a dried-up finger in saline solution, only to get an almost perfect print of it hours later.

But already her mind was getting heavy again. By then, DNA or other methods would probably have revealed the identity of the female corpse long ago. None of this, however, said anything about the perpetrator.

"Surprised there's not a missing person report in all of Massachusetts that matches our male victim," Korsak muttered.

A few minutes later, the small gathering dispersed. Not without most of them fishing for handfuls of cookies on the way out.

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The BMW's engine approached, and immediately a cold fist tightened around the woman's heart. Melinda stood by the stove, her eyes on the kettle. She wanted to prepare an herbal tea because nervousness was hitting her stomach.

He was as punctual as clockwork. Perhaps the last virtue her husband held on to. No car in the neighborhood had the same sound as the six-cylinder - and indeed, in the next minute, the linkage of the electric swing gate creaked.

It began to hiss softly in the glass belly, and the first bubbles danced across the metal floor, which was covered with white flakes of lime as if it were a snow globe. Heavy footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs leading from the garage to the inside of the house. Then the knob.

Melinda's hands clutched the edge of the countertop. Her heart hammered to her throat, and she feverishly considered whether she had thought of everything. Her cell phone. The tablet. He controlled her life, he had made her completely dependent on him. Had gambled away her entire fortune in shady deals, only chaining her to him even more. The house, the car, everything was in debt, and separation would plunge Melinda into the abyss. At least, that's what she had believed for the longest time over the past few years.

"Here I am," echoed down the hall. Had he been drinking, or was it just the distorted acoustics? Either was possible.

Already he stood behind her and held out his hands. Melinda eluded him.

"Hello?!" he gasped strained and reached for her shoulder. "A greeting sure looks different." He tried to turn her around.

"Wait. The water's about to boil," she replied softly.

"I don't give a shit." Now she smelled the alcohol.

"Hello, my darling," she purred sincerely. "I'm glad you're here."

"there you go," he grumbled, forcing a wet kiss on her cheek. His whiskers scratched. A greasy strand of hair ran down her face.

Years ago, when they had married, he had been a handsome man. Old pictures suggested a certain resemblance to Frank Zappa. Tall, slender, deep-set eyes, and prominent facial hair. What remained was an unkempt hairstyle and an out-of-shape body. The hair above the upper lip was yellow from cigarette smoke, and far too often alcohol seemed to emanate from all pores.

Fate had left a marriage that had begun happily childless, and through purposeful impacts had transformed it into a sinister prison.

Did he read in her eyes how much she loathed him?

She forced herself out of his grip and turned to the bubbling kettle. But already he was flying into a rage, trying to overpower her, his movements out of control. The next thing she heard was a clang, followed by unspeakable pain as the boiling water scalded her hand. She screamed - and his voice rose as well. Both rushed to the faucet, cold water splashing over the dirty dishes in the sink. They both craved cold water.

"You stupid cunt!" he groaned, pushing her roughly off him. "Thank you!"

"You were reaching for it, weren't you," she returned.

But already he was stomping away

The bathroom door flew open. Then the closet. Presumably, he was rummaging for a Band-Aid and an ointment.

Melinda moved as if in slow motion. Her injury wasn't as bad as she feared. Just a few splashes. She ran cold water over it, even though she had once read that this should not be the best treatment for a scald.

Trepidation set in. What would he do to her when he returned from the bath? She didn't know.

But then the sounds she had heard minutes ago rewound. Only backward. Stairs. Garage. Six-cylinder.

He was driving away? He sure did. Melinda breathed a sigh of relief.

Of course, she knew it wasn't over yet.

Her eyes wandered to the glass kettle. There was still plenty of water in it. She poured herself a cup.

Longingly, she looked at the tablet and her cell phone, which she had neatly placed on the corner seat. Right next to the curled up cat, which must have placed itself there silently at some point. Sometimes Melinda was frightened by the animal, but she was a very kind creature. Perhaps the only one under this roof.

For a second she caught herself thinking what would become of the house and the cat if ...

The nausea returned. Tired, Melinda plodded toward the corner bench with the cup.

No, it wasn't over yet.

It was only adjourned.

And the next time her husband came back, it was going to be really bad.

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After driving for nearly an hour, Korsak and Jane arrived at an apartment building.

Korsak had to pull over several times to maneuver the unmarked car halfway straight into a parking space.

"Really?", Jane laughed in amusement when she spotted the beads of sweat on his forehead.

"Just shut up!" the older detective growled as she chuckled again while unbuckling her seatbelt. "Shall we?"

Jane slammed the door and pulled on her blazer. "Yeah, where do we have to go?"

Korsak told her the apartment number before the two marched off.

Only after several knocks did anything stir inside.

The door swung open. "Who are you?" The questioner cut a sorry figure. Sweatpants of dark blue cotton, over it a washed-out shirt. On his feet, sneakers. The bulge in his stomach suggested that neither the sweatpants nor the shoes had been used for their intended purpose in recent years.

"Detectives Rizzoli and Korsak, Boston Police Department," Jane introduced herself and her colleagues, flashing her badge. She'd long given up the habit to tell the people Homicide. To her counterpart, that word would probably have seemed like a sledgehammer.

But the expression on the face of the man, who was only a few inches taller than Jane, spoke volumes. He rubbed his face, which had been unshaven for days, skin scales trickling down.

"BPD," he breathed, stepping aside a bit to let them in. "This doesn't bode well. Or does it?"

There was a flicker in his eyes, and Jane couldn't tell if it was hope or fear. Probably a little of both. She had seen that flicker far too often.

"Mr. Satori," she began strained. "don't you want to go inside first?"

Inside the apartment was a staircase leading to a room, the door ajar.

Satori looked upstairs, then back into Jane's face. "My little son is here," he said. "Please tell me now what's going on. Is Susan ... Did ... Have you found her?"

"We're very sorry," Jane replied meekly.

The news literally pulled the rug out from under the man. With difficulty, Korsak got a grip on him as he stumbled with a clang against a dresser in the hallway.

"Mr. Satori," Korsak gasped, straightening him up.

Satori gasped for air. "Susan!" Tears welled up in his eyes. "Are you sure about this? Absolutely sure?"

Jane nodded slowly, even though she would have liked to do otherwise. And what was absolute certainty? "There's very little doubt. I'm sorry for your loss."

Satori was still trembling but now kept his tears halfway under control. He had to be strong now, he didn't want to face his child like a bundle of nerves.

How old might his son be? Elementary school-age at the most, when she thought about the seat. How did you teach a school kid about the death of his mother? And was it easier or harder with a toddler who understood much less?

Jane shivered. The Satori's had been waiting a month for the news of life and death.

Children's voices reached Jane's ears, only then she realized it was the television. On the couch in front of it, a blond boy of about four years old was lounging, seemingly oblivious to everything around him. Only when Satori took the remote and whispered something to him after switching off the TV, did the little boy notice the visitors.

He hid behind a stuffed animal until his father explained that they were police officers.

"And where are their uniforms?" he asked with a critical expression.

"We don't have to wear any." Korsak smiled and took his badge from his belt. "But we always have our badges with us."

The boy looked at the badge only briefly, then checked Korsak's waistband. "Is this your gun?"

"Yeah."

"Cool."

"Isn't it?"

Jane had to smile as well. Korsak was doing a good job.

"What's your name, anyway?" wanted to know Korsak. "I'm Vince."

"Philip."

"Will you show me your room, Philip?"

Immediately Philip signaled enthusiasm and grabbed Korsak's hand to pull him toward the stairs. The older man followed him, and the boy had long since begun to babble.

It was about some 'Ninjago', whatever that was. The two disappeared into the room, then the door closed and only muffled sounds could be heard.

"What happens now?" asked Satori, who had sat down on a chair at the dining table. "Do I have to identify her?"

Why do you have to ask that of all things, Jane thought. She pulled up a chair and took a seat across from him. Then she pursed her lips. "I'm sorry, but that's not necessary," she evaded.

"No?"

"The long time in the woods," she tried to explain as gently as possible.

"But ... I wanted to see her again -"

You definitely don't want to, the thought crossed the detective's mind.

"... And what about Philip? I mean - the kid has to say goodbye!"

"We've identified your wife by her features. Thanks to your precise description, we can be pretty sure that it is her. At the latest, when fingerprints and DNA will come -" Jane interrupted herself. None of this mattered in the least to Satori. "I'm sorry," she continued. "But we're still trying to reconstruct exactly what took place."

"Was she -"

Jane nodded. "I'm sorry. There's no way to make this easy for you. But your wife was the victim of a violent crime."

"Rape?"

"We can't say that," Jane swallowed hard. "However, there is one thing I need to tell you right now -" And that thing, was the hardest of all. "Your wife was not alone. She was found next to another body. In the woods -"

"Another dead body?" Satori jumped to his feet. "A male -?"

Jane confirmed. She reeled off a few details, but Satori probably got little of it. Whether he knew who it might be. Whether his wife could possibly be having an affair.

A tough, tearful fifteen minutes passed, full of frustration and anger, disappointment and self-doubt.

"Here I am," Satori summed up at one point and rose. He strode purposefully to a curtain that concealed a sort of pantry and returned with a bottle of liquor. He cradled it in his hand, muttered something about a gift, twisted open the lid, and took a bold swig. He wiped his mouth and screwed up his face. Then he repeated the whole thing, setting the bottle down on the crumbly tabletop afterward. "I don't have anything stronger," he said. "I don't really drink."

Jane nodded slowly. Her thoughts were mostly on the child. "Do you have anyone to support you?"

"Why?" Satori responded almost defiantly. "We've been getting along fine for four weeks!"

"Still. In this situation -"

"I can handle it. Our pastor lives around the corner, I'm active in the church. And Philip has some good friends. That'll keep him distracted."

Jane slid her business card across the table, drawing a path in the crumbs. "Please reach out anytime you need someone," she said. "I've been through a tough loss myself. I know how you feel."

"You do?" Satori's eyes flared. "Did your husband fuck someone else in the woods, too, before he was killed?" He snorted and slipped a meek apology after it.

Jane reached for his hand briefly, then stood up. "That's all right. I've been in situations like this before, unfortunately. That's why I know it's good to have someone."

Satori put his head back. "Where do we go from here?"

"As soon as forensics gives the okay, you can bury your wife. And we'll take a closer look at the closer circle of your wife's friends. That means we have to talk in detail again. Also about your alibi, we can't spare you that. But it doesn't have to be today."

"Hmm."

"Still: it would be helpful if you could tell us everything that was going on with you at the time of the disappearance. Anything that might have been different than usual."

Satori remained seated at the table with a thoughtful expression, and Jane made her way to the nursery to pick up her colleague.