A/N: Last one for the weekend. Of course, you've all seen this coming, haven't you?
The clock on the wall in the homicide squad room at Boston Police Headquarters showed 5 p.m. when Jane returned from a stressful afternoon filled with briefings and meetings without any time to breathe in between. After the inconclusive interview with Azarov and his lawyer, she had first updated Lieutenant Cavanaugh on the case before joining him and Korsak for a press conference with half a dozen reporters and journalists from Boston's major news outlets. As soon as the media had received all necessary information for a news alert, Jane had rushed back to her desk to get up to speed herself and then spent several hours calling and meeting with the crime lab and CSRU techs in hopes of finding the killer's latest victim before it would be too late. But despite all efforts, they still didn't know where the killer was hiding. And as the detective now sank back into her chair, Katherine Oliver's chances to be saved and reunited with her little daughter Sophia were diminishing with every passing minute.
Jane wearily glanced at her colleagues. At the desk across from hers, Frost was absorbed in various files and DMV databases on his computer trying to track down the killer's car. A few hours ago, they had spotted a silver Chevrolet Impala matching the bookstore owner's description in the footage from a public surveillance camera. But what had initially appeared to be that one decisive clue that could lead them to the killer had eventually become yet another dead end when the car's license plates had turned out to be stolen and the camera had only captured a very blurry picture of the driver that was of no use for BPD's facial recognition software. And if the sedan's tags had been stolen, it was very likely that the vehicle itself hadn't been obtained legally either. Thus, Frost's meticulous attempts to identify the killer via official registries was more difficult than the proverbial search for a needle in a haystack.
A few feet away, at his desk by the door, Korsak was going through the list of participants and guides from the photo walk again in order to check for any other potential links between the three victims. They hadn't found any connection between Katherine Oliver and Malcolm Azarov yet — neither had her name appeared in the photographer's studio appointments and receipts, nor had it been found in the official registration list for the photo walk. But it was possible that she had spontaneously decided to join the walk at the last minute without formally signing up. Thus, Korsak had begun a process of elimination to exclude everybody who was rather unlikely to be a serial-killer — children, senior photography enthusiasts, business people with full schedules and watertight alibis, tourists from out of town or overseas. The sergeant sighed in frustration as he crossed off another name on his seemingly endless list. As he was about to continue, his attention was caught by Jane reaching for the remote of a small TV set on the wall next to her desk. She turned up the volume just when a news segment about their case had started.
A gray-haired reporter standing in front of BPD Headquarters briefly summed up the case, his face filled with the usual blend of seriousness and sensationalism so typical for local TV. A marquee at the bottom of the screen informed viewers in bold letters about the latest news on the CHESTNUT HILL KILLER and provided an emergency number for people to call with any hints they might have.
"Police are particularly interested in a silver Chevrolet Impala," the reporter explained while a picture of the car as captured by the surveillance camera was filling the screen. "Witnesses are sought who have seen either this car or any other suspicious activity on the following dates and at these locations," the reporter continued as a listing of the approximate times and places of the three kidnappings was shown.
The news then switched to a recorded segment with Lieutenant Cavanaugh speaking into half a dozen microphones held right into his face, while Jane and Korsak tensely stood in the background. "We ask you to remain calm and observant," Cavanaugh pleaded. "There is no reason to panic, but we recommend you do not go out alone at night or in the morning if you don't have to, especially not in and around Chestnut Hill, Brookline, Roxbury and surrounding neighborhoods."
An overzealous young reporter shoved her microphone into the lieutenant's face. "Are we dealing with a serial killer here? Is it true that he assaults his victims and then lets them bleed to death?"
"I can't comment on that," Cavanaugh said in a calm, reserved voice.
As the lieutenant was about to be bombarded with the next series of questions, Jane turned off the TV and tossed the remote aside. She tiredly rubbed her nose, then got up and stared at the white board behind Frost's desk. For at least the tenth time this afternoon, she studied the printout of the killer's latest e-mail he had sent while she and Korsak had been interviewing Azarov. Aside from yet another two pictures of Katherine Oliver's silent torment and the usual TICK-TOCK, the killer had once again added a little teaser to challenge Jane's resolve: YOU'RE SO CLOSE, DETECTIVE RIZZOLI! DON'T LET LITTLE SOPHIA GROW UP WITHOUT HER MOMMY!
The killer's words painfully rang through Jane's mind. So close. So close? How can we be close? She agitatedly paced up and down in front of the white board. Why the hell doesn't he tell us where she is if he wants us to save her?! She's dying right now and we can't do anything! When a picture of Katherine Oliver and her little daughter Sophia in the upper half of the white board caught her eye, Jane unconsciously clenched her fist until her knuckles turned white. With every passing minute that she was unable to reunite the kidnapped mother with her daughter, the urge to ignore police protocol and to just go out there and hunt down this monster at all costs kept growing stronger inside of her. I have to do something! There's gotta be a way. I have to save her!
As Jane stood in front of the white board, angrily biting her lip and silently cursing her own perceived failure, Korsak stepped closer and studied the collection of evidence on the board before worriedly glancing at the brunette.
"Don't give me that look, Korsak," Jane grunted as she sensed the sergeant's eyes resting on her.
"We'll find him, Jane," her former partner promised.
Before Jane was able to retort, the sharp e-mail alert she had set on her computer to be notified of new messages from the killer rang out. Jane, Frost, and Korsak frowned at each other, then Jane wordlessly walked to her desk and opened her e-mail client. Even though she had known what to expect and had seen far more gruesome crime scenes before, the single image of Katherine Oliver's lifeless body and the realization that her little daughter was now all alone hit her at full tilt.
"Damn it!"
For a few seconds, Jane just stared at her screen and hung her head, the image of the dead woman forever etched in her mind. But as Korsak and Frost hesitantly approached her desk, Jane finally gave in to the fury raging through her veins and angrily swept a stack of papers off the table. Before anybody could hold her back, she bolted out of the bullpen just when Maura appeared in the door frame and instantly sensed that something was very wrong.
"Jane? What—" the medical examiner asked in confusion when the brunette stormed past her.
"Not now!" Jane shouted without even turning around.
As Maura was about to hurry after her friend, Korsak stopped her and emphatically shook his head. "Doc, no. Leave her alone for a while."
Helplessly, Maura let her eyes wander over the loose papers scattered on the floor and back towards the empty hallway. Jane was gone.
At the same time and just a few miles away, the man was having a similar fit of rage as he watched the same news report on his computer in his dimly lit living room. When the silver Chevy Impala was shown again and the gray-haired reporter repeated the main facts currently known about the Chestnut Hill Killer — about him —, the man furiously crumpled up the styrofoam cup in his right hand and threw it against the wall.
"Damn it!" he yelled in frustration.
His pulse reaching unhealthily high levels, the man angrily paced up and down and repeatedly glanced towards the dark empty corner that had seen three women die in vain over the past three days. This is not how it's supposed to happen! I have to find a way to make things right! There's gotta be a way!
After circling the table in the middle of the room a few more times, he anxiously sat down in front of his laptop. The computer's desktop was empty except for a single icon linking to a directory called DARLENE. Tiredly rubbing his eyes, the man double-clicked the lone icon and opened a folder with various documents and files. For a moment, he let his cursor hover over a video file called Darlene_2012_12_29 until he had mustered the strength to open it.
When the computer's multimedia software played the noisy recording of a scene from the exact same living room the man was sitting in at the very moment, he let out a sigh and began to cry. With teary eyes, he watched for the hundredth time how his beloved Darlene was lying in the dark corner of the living room, her shirt stained with her own blood, her blonde hair loosely framing her pale face. For a little more than a minute, the woman silently whimpered, then her body went limp and she let out her dying breath. With trembling fingers, the man gently touched the blonde on his screen and stroke her motionless body as if he could magically bring her back to life. Oh Darlene, my dear Darlene… Why did you leave me? I tried to save you…
Wiping the tears from his eyes and drowning his pain with a heavy draught from his beer, the man eventually heaved himself up and walked over to the corner opposite of the one in which the women had died. He climbed up a chair and carefully removed a ventilation cover to reveal a tiny camera hidden in the wall. After verifying that the camera's recording light was blinking rhythmically and everything was still functional, the man closed the ventilation cover, hopped off the chair, and returned to his desk.
Feeling that eerily familiar calmness finally taking control of his body and soothing his pain, he switched to another program folder on his computer and opened a live feed from the tiny camera high up in the wall behind him.
It's time to let Detective Rizzoli know that failure is not an option, the man thought as he double-checked his setup. Now more than ever.
Darkness had fallen when Maura stopped her blue Prius on the small parking lot next to the GRAND SLAM batting cage facility near Franklin Park. She stepped out of her car and looked around. The area was deserted except for a shabby old Ford that had been forgotten at the other end of the lot. The eerie silence was only broken by the rhythmic BANG of someone batting leathery balls into the night.
Maura followed the noise, took a few turns between locker rooms and an appliance building, and finally spotted a lone figure angrily swinging at balls that a creaky pitching machine incessantly fired at the batting cage. The blonde stepped closer, leaned against the cage, and worriedly watched the exasperated brunette on the other side of the fence.
Jane didn't notice her concerned observer and waited for the next pitch. The ball promptly shot out of the machine and spun towards the detective's face. She slammed it into the night with another loud BANG.
Five seconds passed until the next ball was fired at Jane. She swung her bat and missed by an inch.
"Damn it!" she cursed to herself and furiously kicked some dirt off the batter's plate. When the pitching machine had no more balls to offer, Jane slouched her shoulders and wearily turned around.
"Hi," Maura greeted her softly.
Jane insecurely averted her face. "How did you know I was here?"
"Sergeant Korsak told me. He said when you were partners, you used to come here after work when you had a really bad day," Maura explained.
"Gee, what makes you think I'm having a bad day?"
Jane's sarcastic tone didn't conceal the grief in her voice. It wasn't the first time that Maura saw her best friend struggle with a particularly difficult case, but a string of stressful, sleepless weeks with multiple homicides culminating in the Chestnut Hill killing spree seemed to have extinguished the detective's ability to shake off her worries and recover her spirit. Maura sighed and sat down on a weather-worn bench next to the cage.
Jane pulled a sweater over her BPD t-shirt and silently gathered her belongings, then shuffled to the bench and sank down.
For a little while, the two women just sat together in the dark until Maura reluctantly broke the silence. "They found her body about two hours ago… in a side road near Millennium Park."
Jane buried her head in her hands and let a few more moments pass before she finally peered at Maura. "You mad at me?"
The medical examiner seemed genuinely surprised. "Why would I be mad at you?"
"Because I walked out on you…," the detective offered apologetically.
Maura shook her head. "We lost three victims in three days. Your reaction is simply the epitome of who you are, Jane."
Jane arched her eyebrows. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you're not a 9-to-5 detective. You truly identify with your job, and you care about the people you vowed to protect."
"Yeah, I do," Jane admitted quietly. She rubbed her temples, searching for the right words. "It's just that… everything has been feeling so pointless lately… No matter what we do, people end up dead. I'm so… tired of it. And then Ma keeps telling me I should be doing something else for a living… I don't know, maybe she is right, and—"
"What? No!" Maura gasped. "No. I don't want to hear anything like that from you ever again." She took the worn-out detective's hands in her own. "Look at me."
Jane faced her best friend with sad eyes.
"You're a good detective, Jane," Maura assured her. "You can't save everyone, and sometimes you really just need to take a break. But you're not going to give up. People rely on you. They need you, Jane."
When Maura noticed the detective's stern features brighten up a little, her serious voice yielded to a more playful tone. "And I need you, too, because I couldn't deal with Detective Frost losing his stomach contents all over my table when he attends my autopsies instead of you."
Jane laughed at the thought. "Right. We don't want to contaminate all the other stomach contents you're collecting down there."
"Exactly," Maura agreed, pleased to see the detective regain her confidence. She supportively squeezed her friend's hands, then got up and took Jane's bag. "How about we grab some food and get you home?"
"Hmm, okay." The brunette picked up her bat and followed the blonde towards the parking lot.
After a few steps, Jane sheepishly glanced at Maura. "Can we have pizza?"
"If we must," Maura sighed.
"And beer?"
"Fine."
"And maybe an extra-large bacon burger for dessert?"
"Don't push it, Jane."
Jane chuckled at ease as they strolled back to Maura's car.
Two hours later, one last slice of mushroom pizza lay in an otherwise empty box on Jane's couch table amidst an assortment of police reports, crime scene photos, and handwritten notes. A half-emptied bottle of beer next to the pizza box was beginning to leave a wet stain on a stack of papers.
On the modest couch next to the table sat Jane, dressed in a fresh BPD t-shirt and jeans. Clearly tempted, she peered at the pizza box, then glanced towards her small kitchen, where Maura was getting herself some water. When the urge to silence her still rumbling stomach grew larger than her distaste for mushrooms, Jane inconspicuously snatched the last slice just before Maura came back to the couch.
"But… that was mine!" the blonde complained when she saw Jane devour the remains of her mushroom half of the pizza.
"Hey, I'm doing you a favor here," the detective muttered while taking another bite. "I mean, look at all this grease and… and there's no salad on it. Really, this isn't good for you."
"Neither is starving to death," Maura pointed out and plopped down on the couch.
"Sorry…," Jane grinned and gulped down the rest of the pizza.
The medical examiner playfully shook her head, then reached for Jane's laptop on the table. She opened a map of Boston with several digital pins marking all locations relevant to their current case and intently studied their distribution.
"What are you doing?" Jane asked and curiously leaned over.
"I'm trying to see if there's a pattern that could lead us to the killer's address," Maura explained. "Look, all three victims have been abducted somewhere north of Boylston Street, and every time, he has moved closer towards the city. The bodies, however, have all been found in the south, moving away from the city."
The detective squinted at the map. "He's going round in circles…"
"Yes," the medical examiner nodded. "It would also match his MO — he's sending you the same messages over and over again. Somehow, he is stuck…"
"Like a broken record…," Jane thought aloud and scratched her head. "Okay, but how does this help us find him?"
"I don't know yet," Maura admitted. "But maybe we can at least narrow down the area where he could be hiding. You said he's losing patience, which means he would take more risks and be less careful."
"So, he's kidnapping these women in more crowded neighborhoods, where the risk of getting caught is higher," the detective mused. "And when he dumps their bodies, he no longer bothers driving very far and instead picks more convenient locations closer to his house." She pointed at the two locations the farthest west and traced a vertical strip with her fingers. "Which means he could be hiding anywhere between Chestnut Hill, Oak Hill, and West Roxbury. That's still a lot of area."
"Yes," the medical examiner sighed.
"Hmm, I'll have a few extra units patrol the streets," Jane decided. "Maybe we can at least prevent another kidnapping."
"You think he'll try again?" Maura asked reluctantly.
"Yeah," the detective said. "As long as he doesn't get what he wants, he'll keep going."
The medical examiner checked her watch and got up. "Speaking of which… I gotta go. Are you gonna be alright?"
"Yeah, sure," the brunette assured her. "But you can stay over if you want. It's already late…"
"I can't," Maura regretted. "I have a meeting with the crime lab first thing in the morning, and—"
"And you can't possibly attend in a wrinkled dress…," Jane teased.
"Well, that and I have to look after Bass," the medical examiner explained. "He's been rather moody lately. Maybe it's because you keep ignoring him when you're at my house."
Jane chuckled at the thought of Maura's giant tortoise. "Fine. Next time I'm there, I'll race him around your couch if that helps." She got up and walked Maura to the door. "Alright, I'll see you tomorrow then."
"Good night, Jane."
"Night."
As Jane watched the blonde leave, she realized how much more relaxed she felt compared to just a few hours before when the photos of their third victim had almost broken her spirit.
"Hey, Maura…," she called after her.
Maura turned around and questioningly looked at her.
"Thank you," Jane smiled and meant it from the bottom of her heart.
"You're welcome," Maura returned her smile before disappearing down the stairs.
Twenty minutes later, the medical examiner pulled her blue Prius into the driveway of her Beacon Hill manor. The house lay dark, and only the brickstone pathway was dimly illuminated by the night light over the front door.
Maura glanced at her guest house, which was equally quiet and dark. Angela has probably gone out with Lieutenant Cavanaugh again, she thought. When she imagined Jane's reaction to the news, she couldn't help but chuckle to herself. First, Jane's brother had decided to follow her footsteps, then her mother had taken over the Division One Café, and now it appeared as if her boss might soon be joining the Rizzoli family fold. No wonder Jane is stressed out.
As she sat in her car and searched for her keys in her purse, Maura didn't notice the dark shadow of a man silently approaching the driveway.
When she finally found her keys and grabbed her belongings, the back door behind her was torn open and the bearded man slid into her car. In the blink of an eye, he wrapped his right arm around Maura's neck and held the ice-cold blade of his carpet knife against her face. The blonde froze in fear.
The intruder closed the door and threateningly hissed at Maura from behind. "Start the car. We're going for a ride."
