(PART II)
...
It is shortly past 10 a.m. when Maura's stomach resorts to drastic measures and reminds her with a grumbling growl that there are three bunny pancakes sitting in a plastic container on her desk, still untouched and waiting to be devoured.
Reluctantly realizing that she should indeed take a break before beginning with the unidentified woman's internal examination, Maura pauses her autopsy, takes off her gloves, and trudges into her office.
And as she takes the first bite and the sweet taste of Angela's special morning treat fills her mouth, the grim reality of her task waiting next door is momentarily pushed to the back of her mind, replaced by memories of lazy Sunday mornings at home… with the smell of freshly brewed coffee filling her house… and the quiet humming of the elder Rizzoli woman accompanying her breakfast preparations… and sleepy-eyed Jane teasingly grinning at her from the couch…
But then a sudden knock on her office door jolts her out of her dream.
"Doctor Isles?" Susie stands in the door frame, fidgeting with a report in her hands, her face filled with guilt over having interrupted the medical examiner's break.
"Yes, what is it?" Still chewing on that last piece of pancake, Maura puts away the plastic container and expectantly waves the young criminalist into her office.
Promptly stepping inside, Susie nods towards the body on the autopsy table behind the glass windows. "We have an ID for that woman…"
Noticing her assistant's hesitation, Maura rises from her chair and takes the report from Susie's hands.
"Detective Randall was called to a scene," Susie explains, uncomfortably shifting from one foot to the other. "So, no one has been notified yet…"
A frown fills Maura's face as she lets her eyes wander over the woman's profile in the report. "She's… a cop…?"
"I'm sorry…," Susie offers shyly, very much aware of the thoughts running through her superior's mind.
"Unless you're responsible for putting those five bullets into this poor woman's body, there is nothing you have to be sorry for." Without waiting for a response, Maura walks back into the autopsy room, her eyes still focused on the report.
And for a few seconds, Susie simply watches her through the windows, unsure what to do. But then, at the sight of the medical examiner standing in silence behind the morgue slab, she fishes her cell phone out of her lab coat's pocket, begins to enter a text, and sneaks out of the office.
Inside the autopsy room, Maura still studies the profile of the woman, who finally has a name. Lindsay O'Malley. A detective from South Boston, District C-6. Who just turned 35. Who was on her way up the ladder in her department. And who is now dead.
Leaning against the autopsy table, Maura reaches for her own cell phone and calls the number of O'Malley's superior. Contemplating the woman's features, she waits until a tired male voice answers. "Sergeant Holder…"
"Hello, this is Doctor Isles, Chief Medical Examiner," she says, attempting to hide the insecurity that always resonates in her voice during these kinds of calls. "I'm afraid I have some information… bad information… regarding Lindsay O'Malley…"
A heavy sigh on the other end of the line makes any further explanations obsolete. "Can we meet after lunch? I'll come to your office…?"
"Yes, I will be here," Maura confirms.
"Alright…," the man murmurs, then hangs up with another sigh.
As the room is once again wrapped in silence, Maura puts on a new pair of gloves, gathers the required instruments for the woman's internal examination, and selects one of the scalpels to begin with the Y-incision. But as soon as the cold steel touches Lindsay O'Malley's battered skin, Maura pauses and lets the scalpel sink down.
She is a detective.
Unable to focus on the task at hand, Maura's mind revisits all the facts currently known about the case. She is a detective… and she got shot… brutally… as if in an act of revenge… and then they left her behind like a piece of trash…
And inevitably, one thought leads to another. Whom was she investigating? Did someone betray her? Maybe a CI? Or a corrupt cop? Another Bobby Marino…?
Suppressed agony wells up in her heart at the thought of the siege at BPD a few years ago during which they almost lost Jane. Yearning for a quick chat with the detective, or at least for any sign of life, Maura takes a step back, breathes in and out to stifle her irrational fears. After all, Jane is in New York, safe and alive and out of harm's way. There is no reason to worry.
And yet, it is one of those instances when logic and emotions simply collide.
Giving up her attempts to continue the autopsy, Maura reaches for her phone and enters a short message but then hesitates and stares at the cursor expectantly blinking on the display.
I miss you…
After another moment of contemplation, she erases the message again. It is too obvious. Jane would immediately see through it and know that something is wrong. And as usual, she would worry and drop everything and maybe even skip the rest of her training in New York. But despite her current longing, this isn't what Maura wants. Not for herself, and especially not for Jane. No more ultimatums. No more playing the guilt card the way Casey always did, and the way everybody else still does when they need Jane.
Resolutely, Maura puts her phone aside and directs her attention to Lindsay O'Malley on her table. She has performed hundreds of autopsies before, and clearly, she will manage this one as well. She just needs to concentrate, to push all those distracting thoughts to the back of her mind, to focus on the feeling of the scalpel in her hand and—
The sudden buzzing of her phone rips her out of her routine once more. And when a new text from Jane pops up on her display, a smile of relief fills her face.
finally done with last session. back to hotel now, then airport. how about a little dirty talk while i'm stuck in the cab? ;-)
Feeling a faint blush warm her cheeks, Maura quickly types her response.
I can't. I'm at work right now.
But before she gets a chance to resume her work, her phone already buzzes with another message.
so? that didn't hold you back last time…
Her thoughts definitely straying off again, but in a very different direction, Maura quickly sends another response.
I'm serious. I'm in the middle of an autopsy.
As if to remind herself, she clutches her scalpel a little tighter and bends over O'Malley's body again. But when her phone rings and Jane's name blinks on its display, all attempts to focus are completely in vain. Sighing to herself, Maura answers her phone. "Yes…?"
"Why are you answering your phone if you're in the middle of an autopsy?" Jane doesn't even try to conceal the triumphant tone in her voice.
"Because you called," Maura explains patiently. "And I have sufficient empirical data to conclude that you won't stop calling unless I answer my phone."
"Sufficient empirical data?" Jane repeats teasingly. "I like it when you use your fancy science words…"
"Jane…" Tempted to give in to her needs, to both their needs, Maura leans against the autopsy table. "I really can't talk right now…"
Apparently unwilling to give up, Jane changes the subject. Casually. "What case is your autopsy for?"
But the change in tone comes a bit too sudden, and Maura furrows her brows in suspicion. "Why are you asking?"
"Just curious…"
"Did Susie call you?"
"Nope." Jane quickly forestalls any further inquiries. "So, what case is it for?"
"It's… not important," Maura decides. It would be so easy to just dump all her worries on Jane. Too easy. And too unfair. "I just want to be done before you get back tonight."
There is a brief pause on the other end of the line, a pause of mutual understanding. "Well, my plane won't leave for another few hours," Jane finally gives in. "So… you know… if that case becomes important at some point, just give me a call, okay?"
"Okay…," Maura whispers thankfully.
"I'm almost at the hotel…," Jane informs her after another moment of silence. "So, I'm gonna let you get back to your work…"
"Thank you for calling," Maura says softly, sensing that Jane's call wasn't as spontaneous as she was supposed to believe.
"Sure… oh, and last chance," Jane suddenly adds gleefully. "Want me to bring some tacky souvenirs?"
"Please, don't," Maura instantly objects. "I'm still apologizing to Bass for what you brought from Florida."
"Come on, I'm sure he thought it was funny." Jane's snickering mixes with the noise of New York traffic in the background.
"There is nothing funny about a cookbook with turtle recipes, Jane," Maura grumbles.
"You should've seen your face!" Jane barely manages to hold back her laughter. "Totally worth it…"
"I'm going to hang up now," Maura announces, her mood much lighter after their little chat. "You have a safe flight."
"Okay… byeee," Jane giggles into the phone.
Shaking her head in amusement, Maura puts her phone away, then turns to the dead woman on her table. The woman who isn't Jane. Because Jane is alive and well and on her way home.
But Lindsay O'Malley won't be back home tonight. And her killer still needs to be found.
Determined to do what she can to let justice prevail, Maura reaches for a scalpel to resume her autopsy. With a practiced Y-incision, she opens up the front of the woman's body, splits the decaying corpse wide open, and removes the lungs, the heart, the liver, the stomach, the intestines. Now completely absorbed in her work, she takes samples of each organ, then continues with her examination of the woman's internal genitalia and her pelvic region. Having confirmed the lack of any signs of rape or assault, Maura directs her attention to O'Malley's head, makes a precise intermastoid incision, pulls back the scalp to expose the skull. With an electric saw, she cuts a wedge-shaped opening into the skull to gain access to the brain, removes it in its entirety, weighs it, and carefully frees the fifth bullet lodged deep within the cerebral matter.
Once she is done with her examination, Maura returns all of the woman's internal organs to the body's cavities, closes it up, and documents her findings. Calm and composed. Suppressing any emotional thoughts. She collects all bullets and fragments in a small evidence bag, and adds information on the estimated distance of the shooter to her notes.
Shortly before 1 p.m., Maura is finally done with the process and has changed back into her regular clothes. With a heavy sigh, she sinks into her chair in her office, signs Lindsay O'Malley's death certificate, and closes the case file.
And for a few minutes, she simply leans back and waits for the smell of death still lingering in her nose to fade away. Another autopsy completed. Another victim stripped off her remaining dignity. Another violent death reconstructed in a feeble attempt to bring clarity and consolation to those who remain behind.
Eventually, Maura rises from her chair, snatches her purse from her desk, and heads out for lunch. Though she considers accepting Angela's invitation, she quickly decides in favor of a restaurant in the immediate neighborhood. Given the Rizzoli matriarch's constant need to pry news and gossip out of everybody who doesn't manage to get away, the risk of accidentally blurting out the gruesome details of Lindsay O'Malley's demise is just too high. And Angela would inevitably see the obvious parallels, and her ever-present concerns about her daughter's safety would overshadow the rest of her day.
Besides, the meeting with O'Malley's superior is looming on Maura's schedule, and even after all those years, the thought of having to bear the bad news still causes more discomfort than all of her autopsies combined.
Pushing her panic to the back of her mind, Maura hurries past the Division One Café and out of the BPD building, struts down the street, and soon reaches a small Mexican restaurant just two blocks away.
Minutes later, she finds herself sitting at a table near the windows, relaxed and undisturbed, with a plate of chiles en nogada all to herself. It may be a slight deviation from her usual dietary preferences, but ever since her first visit two years ago, she and Jane have spent enough dinner dates at this place for all the waitresses to know their names. It is a compromise. One of so many. Locally sourced veggies for herself, and some oh-so-desired beef for Jane. And on a day like this, comfort food and memories of the detective devouring her burger across the table are just the right ingredients to lift her spirits. And as she takes another bite from her mild poblano peppers, a faint smile slowly finds its way onto her face.
…
Shortly after her lunch break, just as Maura is about to sit back down in her office chair, an elderly man in a suit only slightly more wrinkled than his face steps into the door frame and quietly clears his throat.
Still not quite ready for this dreaded conversation, Maura looks up and recognizes the sergeant from a BPD charity auction a few months ago.
"Hello…," he hesitantly enters the room. "I'm Stan Holder from C-6. I'm here for Lindsay O'Malley…"
"Yes, come in, please." Determined to get this over with, Maura emerges from behind her desk, and with the reserved politeness of two people wishing to be somewhere else, they briefly shake hands.
"You've already identified her?" Holder asks, years of stressful police work having left their marks on his face.
"I'm afraid so," Maura nods. "We ran her fingerprints and checked her personnel file—"
"She in there?" The sergeant points at the morgue slab with the dead woman's body hidden under a cloth in the room next door.
"Yes…" Without further words, Maura leads him into the autopsy room, but when they both stand on opposite sides of Lindsay O'Malley's body, she pauses before lifting the cloth. "She doesn't look the way you knew her…"
His lips compressed to a thin and bloodless line, Holder signals her to remove the cloth.
And so Maura does.
At the sight of his former colleague's lifeless face, the sergeant swallows hard, clenches his fists.
"I'm sorry…," Maura murmurs.
Brows furrowed with anger, Holder lets his eyes wander from the now cleaned gunshot wound on O'Malley's head to the two holes in her shoulders. "She got shot three times?"
"Five times, actually," the medical examiner corrects him. "There are two more in her kneecaps."
"Damn it!" Holder's emotions suddenly burst free as he averts his face and furiously kicks against the other morgue slab's leg.
It is not the first time that Maura witnesses the violent nature of someone's mourning, and it certainly won't be the last. Patiently, she waits until the sergeant turns back around, his fingers clutching the bare metal that serves as O'Malley's temporary resting place. "She was found in an alley near Dorchester Avenue. They must have left her there at least four days ago."
Taking a deep breath, Holder studies the cold, battered body of his deceased team member and softly caresses her naked shoulder.
"Why did no one report her missing?" Maura wonders quietly. "We checked local reports as well as NCIC…"
"She was working undercover," he explains without taking his eyes off of Lindsay O'Malley. "It wasn't unusual that we wouldn't hear from her for one or two days. When we hadn't heard from her for almost five days, we knew something was wrong, but we didn't want to blow her cover too soon…"
"What was she working on?" Hoping to divert the sergeant's attention from the dead woman lying between them, Maura tries to keep him talking. "If you don't mind me asking…"
"She was keeping an eye on the mob in Southie." Even though Holder is gradually calming down, he still doesn't look up. "The situation there is pretty fucked up these days… with several families trying to rise to the top and take over. Ever since Paddy Doyle got busted, the scene has been pretty chaotic. I mean, he was a pain in the ass when he was still ruling the docks, but now that he's gone, he left an even greater mess behind."
At the mention of the man who has haunted her for the last few years, and at the thought of all the implications, Maura lets her eyes wander over O'Malley's lifeless features while absentmindedly fidgeting with a corner of the cloth in her hands.
When Holder notices her silence, he suddenly stiffens and finally looks up. "Oh, I'm sorry… I… I forgot… I didn't want to imply anything… It's not your fault."
But even though Maura acknowledges his apology with a faint nod, his words don't really reach her mind. Too often has she heard them before. Too often has she yearned to be able to simply believe them. But too often have her thoughts been hijacked by that voice crying out in the back of her head, reminding her of her origin, of the blame she inherited, of the consanguinity that will forever tie her to the mob. Guilty by default.
"You still in touch with him?" Holder's voice rips her from her thoughts.
"No, not really," Maura shakes her head. "I haven't talked to him since the trial."
For a moment, they both stand in silence, contemplating the entanglement of the mob and their lives.
"Detective Randall is handling this case," Maura finally says. "I will give you his number, so you can discuss how to proceed."
The sergeant nods, resolutely at first, but then his eyes land on Lindsay O'Malley's disfigured face, and once again, realization sets in. He slouches his shoulders in defeat. "What am I gonna tell her family?"
"She has family?" Maura's heart breaks a little more for the dead woman on her table.
"Yeah… husband, two kids…" Holder tiredly rubs his eyes. "I can't give 'em the usual shit… that she died in the line of duty… serving her community and her country and all… That stuff gets old once you've droned it out a few times. And those who remain behind don't give a fuck about this country. They just want their loved ones back."
And despite her aversion to this type of conversation, Maura feels an intuitive connection to the sergeant. Because she knows his dilemma. Because she is confronted with the very same question every time Jane rushes into danger. And even though she doesn't like the answer, it is the only one that makes sense. To herself, and to Jane, and maybe to Lindsay O'Malley as well. "Did she like her job?"
"Yeah, loved it," Holder confirms, admiration flashing over his face. "And she was really good at it… Was on her way up the ladder but still managed to spend enough time with her family. She had it all."
"Then maybe you should tell them that," Maura suggests. "That she died doing what she loved… Hopefully, one day they'll understand…"
The sergeant considers it, probably knows she is right, but then hangs his head in despair. "It's just not fair…"
"No, it is not," Maura agrees quietly, allowing him a moment of grief.
"Do you think—" Holder hesitates as if debating the appropriateness of the question. "Do you believe in life after death?"
Caught off guard, Maura raises her eyebrows in search for an answer. She is familiar with all the research in the field, but science is rarely able to comfort a mourning soul.
"I mean, all those people end up on your table," Holder sighs, sadness filling his voice. "They've been shot or stabbed or beaten to death. And there's nothing you or any of us can do for them anymore." He casts one last heavy glance at O'Malley. "You think they get another chance? In another life somewhere…?"
Still pondering her response, Maura lets her eyes roam over the dead woman's features. "I'd like to believe they do," she finally says and pulls the cloth back over Lindsay O'Malley's face.
As if to say goodbye, Holder gently squeezes his friend's lifeless arm under the cloth, then regains his composure. "I'm sorry… I'm just having a really bad day… a bad week actually…"
"There is no need to apologize," Maura objects with a sympathetic smile.
"Well, I should go," the sergeant decides, reluctantly turns away, and trudges out of the autopsy room.
"Let me give you Detective Randall's card," Maura reminds him as she follows him back into her office. She flips through several business cards in a small plastic box on her desk, then hands one of them to Holder.
He slides it into his jacket's pocket and politely shakes her hand. "Well… I hope next time we meet, it'll be under different circumstances…"
"Me too," Maura nods and watches him leave, his shoulders sagging under the burden of Lindsay O'Malley's death.
Exhausted but filled with an odd sense of relief, Maura sinks down on her office couch and leans back, the sergeant's words still echoing through her mind. About all those victims on her table… shot and stabbed and beaten to death… and nothing she could do… She tries to recall how many autopsies she has performed over the years, but by now, the number has gotten simply too high. She used to keep track and categorize all the details of the victims' demise — homicide or suicide, gunshot wound or strangulation, poison or brutal assault —, but when those numbers crossed the threshold between interesting stats and frightening facts about human nature, she decided to only store them on her computer and not in her mind.
But on days like this, she inevitably wonders. What if she had followed a different path in life, taken more courses in psychiatry, chosen a profession in another field? What if she could have prevented these victims' murders instead of just reconstructing their deaths? She always wanted her life to have meaning, but what if she should have searched for that meaning somewhere else?
While her mind is still reaching for answers, her eyes spot the box with the two muffins sitting on the table — organic tofu and chunky chocolate vying for her attention. Hoping for the chocolate's tryptophan to boost her serotonin levels and thereby stimulate the secretion of endorphins in her brain, Maura ignores the lighter muffin and decisively picks the darker one. A choice based purely on scientific facts.
But as soon as the sweet chocolate begins to melt on her tongue, reminding her of the taste of Jane's often chocolaty lips, she realizes that a different path in life might have never led her to BPD and to Jane. And so many outcomes might have changed. Maybe Hoyt and his apprentices would still be running free. Maybe Jane would have died during the siege. And maybe all of the killers they caught would have gotten away.
And as bite after bite of the muffin disappears in her mouth, she concludes that maybe she did save some people's lives. Maybe she did make the right choices. And maybe those darn delicious chocolate muffins aren't so bad after all.
Finally overcoming her early afternoon low, Maura heaves herself up from her couch and returns to her desk. With only a few hours left until Jane's arrival at Logan, she needs to get started with her paperwork of the day.
Without further distractions, she picks the first case file from the pile next to her computer and diligently handles the rather bureaucratic aspects of her job — releasing bodies to funeral homes, signing off autopsy reports, preparing court testimonials.
And the cases are as diverse as the victims landing on her morgue slabs. The thinnest case file details the routine examination of a 37-year-old male suicide victim to rule out any foul play. The thickest case file documents the autopsy of a 42-year-old woman who died during abdominal surgery, and whose wealthy family requested an investigation in hopes to find someone to blame — but in vain. And the saddest case file is filled with crime scene photos of a 19-year-old innocent kid who was struck down by a bullet in a gang-related drive-by shooting. Wrong time, wrong place. That's the way the story goes.
…
Three hours later, Maura prints out the final report for the last case of the day, tiredly rubs her eyes, and leans back. Once the printer is done rattling out the pages, she staples them to the other sheets in the case file, shuts down her computer, and heads for the elevator even though she isn't required to deliver the report herself. But although Jane's plane should have landed by now, her phone has been silent all afternoon. And some part of her wonders whether the brunette might already be upstairs. Maybe another detective saw her come in and dragged her into the homicide squad room for an urgent case…
But her hopes are dashed as soon as she spots Jane's empty desk, and thus, she simply hands in her file and strolls back downstairs. Nervously, she glances at her cell phone again. Still no message from Jane.
Familiar worries creeping up her spine, she reaches her office and absentmindedly passes her couch and her desk — but then stops dead in her tracks when she notices a small self-made paper box from the corner of her eyes. She squints at the object barely the size of a jewelry box waiting on her desk, then curiously looks around. But the autopsy room next door and the hallway are empty.
After another moment of hesitation, Maura carefully picks up the box, removes the tiny gift ribbon keeping it together, and opens it — only to find two meticulously folded pieces of paper in there, each of them held together by thin strips of gift wrap. All her senses tingling in anticipation, she unfolds the first note and is once again greeted by Jane's handwriting.
Small change of plans tonight. I won't pick you up but you'll have to come and meet me.
Now I could probably just tell you the location, but where's the fun in that, right?
So, let's hope that smart brain of yours can figure it out… because I'm waiting…
Love ya,
Jane
P.S.: Don't you dare use Google!
Intrigued, Maura unfolds the second piece of paper, finds another message.
Clue #1: G67
You'll get your next clue from the newsstand next to a famous building in this town. (Tell the guy I sent you.) It's the only building in Boston that's on the American Institute of Architects' list with the "10 Most Significant Buildings in the U.S." Some dude got famous for its Richardsonian Romanesque style. And I don't think the building's owners would approve of us doing certain things in your bedroom last Sunday instead of sitting around in that building.
Even though the memory of said bedroom activities temporarily distracts Maura's brain, it doesn't take her long to figure out the location of the building in question. Smiling to herself and eager to play whatever game Jane has decided to play, she grabs her purse and the little paper box with its clues, turns off the lights and locks her office, then hurries to the elevator.
Unnoticed by the medical examiner, Susie watches from around the corner, a satisfied grin filling her face. As soon as Maura has disappeared in the elevator, the young criminalist whips out her cell phone and sends off a quick text.
She's on her way…
…