Chapter IX

(Maura)

Hi Maura. No problem. Casey is on another fishing trip from Friday to Monday. How about Saturday evening? I'll pick you up at 6:00 PM, okay? Good night! J

I hate surprises, and despite numerous texts and two calls, I'm still just as clueless as before and have no idea where Jane is taking me. When I asked what I should wear to avoid standing out, she only replied, "Maura, you always look great, no matter what you wear."

Do friends say that to each other? Do you take your best friend out without telling her where you're going?

I'm confused and understand Jane less and less. During our phone calls, she seemed playfully charming. Or did I just imagine that?

Jane shows up right at 6:00 PM, greeting me with that full, genuine smile that makes her eyes sparkle.

"Wow, Maura! You look stunning!"

"Thank you, I can only return the compliment," I reply with a wink as I get into the car.

We park in front of the New York Public Library, and I'm a bit surprised to see so many people coming in and out. At this time on a Saturday, the library should be closed, but instead, the windows of the grand, imposing building illuminate the mild October night.

I follow Jane to the entrance and immediately notice that it's a private event, only for those on the guest list.

"Jane Rizzoli, two."

Why is she using her maiden name?

"Aaaah, Miss Rizzoli, Olivier and Roberto are so delighted you could make it."

She thanks the doorman with a smile and takes my hand to lead me into the hall ahead.

I'm both amazed and overwhelmed. The library has been transformed into an art exhibition. Paintings and sculptures by well-known and lesser-known artists are displayed everywhere. The crowd is exquisite and very select. I love New York's public library in its "normal state," but this sight is indescribable. The high rooms with beige floors and beautiful wooden walls perfectly complement the art collections and are enhanced by the many well-dressed people. The atmosphere is peaceful, almost reverent. The library feels like a self-contained work of art.

"You're so quiet, Maura. Don't you like it? We can leave if you want to do something else…"

I look at Jane incredulously, who is nervously tugging at the collar of her blue silk blouse and has her eyes downcast.

"Don't like it? Jane, I LOVE it."

I grab her hand, now hanging loosely by her side, and squeeze it gently. She smiles at me and, to my utter astonishment, doesn't break eye or physical contact.

We are abruptly interrupted long seconds later.

"JANE, there you are!"

A handsome—REALLY handsome—young, elegantly dressed man with a distinctly Mediterranean look rushes over and immediately takes Jane into his arms.

"So glad you finally made it to one of our openings! OLIVIER, look who's here!"

Another young, well-dressed, and extremely attractive man approaches and embraces Jane just as enthusiastically. Olivier, I assume. Judging by the name and his slight accent, a Frenchman.

I watch Jane and see that she appears slightly tense at first but then reciprocates the hug just as warmly.

"And who did you bring with you?"

I don't like being the center of attention and nervously smooth out a few non-existent wrinkles from my pale blue Jean-Paul Gaultier dress. Jane must have sensed my unease because she lets her hand fall right next to mine, our knuckles touching.

"This is Dr. Maura Isles, she's the chief medical examiner for the state of New York. We are...friends."

A slight hesitation, barely audible to the average listener, but loud and clear to me. Before I can think about the significance of the short pause, Olivier speaks to me.

"Oh, Dr. Isles. We met your mère in Paris, at the Louvre, but it was a long time ago. I believe it was about five years ago, right, mon amour?"

"Yes, indeed. A wonderful woman. But where are our manners? I'm Roberto, and this is Olivier. He's from Paris, as you might have guessed. I, on the other hand, was born and raised in Boston."

I'm a bit overwhelmed by all the information. Of course, I introduce myself and then chat with Olivier—in French—about my mother's paintings and art in general. Meanwhile, Roberto and Jane talk about old times. Apparently, they went to school together.

Time flies by, and I enjoy my time with Olivier, Roberto, and Jane. It doesn't escape my notice that Jane keeps touching me repeatedly. Mostly just gentle and brief, barely noticeable to an uninvolved third party, but clear and somewhat confusing to me.

The ringing of my phone abruptly pulls me out of the prevailing harmony, and a glance at the display is enough to tell me that I'll indeed have to go to a crime scene tonight.

I step away from the small group to take down the address and initial details. Sighing, I return and say my heartfelt goodbyes.

Jane insists on accompanying me, despite my almost commanding her to stay. Nevertheless, she grabs our coats and gets into her car as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"I'll drive you, Maura."

"That's really not necessary, Jane. I'll take a cab."

And so, we argue back and forth until I'm so cold that I voluntarily, though not without a loud and clear sigh, get into Jane's now-warmed car.

"You look happy."

I note, and just as I finish the sentence, I could kick myself. How could I say something so stupid? Just when we were starting to talk and laugh normally again, and I had hoped we wouldn't have to have another one of those uncomfortable conversations.

"I am happy."

She turns her head to the side and gives me that sincere smile I've so helplessly fallen in love with. I smile back and relax into the seat. It's going to be a long and exhausting night, and I'll probably be working straight through to tomorrow evening. A little relaxation before arriving at the crime scene is well deserved.

xxx

There are days when I wish I had pursued an academic career like my father. Sure, a professorship at a university isn't a walk in the park either, but compared to days like this, with cases like this, it seems like a ride on a kiddie carousel at the fair.

I sigh and stretch my aching back with a few yoga exercises. The night was long, and a glance at the clock tells me I've been on my feet for 37 hours—last slept on Friday night, and now it's Sunday evening. What a weekend.

It's 7 PM, and I've just finished the last autopsy. The victims were four Asian girls between the ages of 5 and 9. Brutally beaten and disfigured, drugged, lynched, and then discarded like trash in bags thrown into Hudson River.

On days like these, it's hard to believe in the goodness of humanity. I struggle with the world, with people, and wonder where justice is. I battle with myself and often lose my positive outlook for a few days.

"Does it ever get easier?"

The deep voice of my assistant pulls me from my dark thoughts, and I have to ask him to repeat his question. He should have gone home long ago.

"Does it get easier, Dr. Isles? Does it ever become less burdensome?"

I ponder for a moment before giving him an adequate answer. I performed the four autopsies alone. First, because I didn't want to subject any of my staff to the sight of these four young, battered bodies, and second, because I personally want to ensure that the evidence is collected and documented as accurately as possible, no details forgotten or overlooked, and that we've done everything in our power to bring the perpetrators of such a heinous crime to justice.

Does it get easier? No, never. It's still just as bad as my first similar autopsy. Cases involving children will always haunt me for days, the particularly hard ones perhaps even for weeks.

But how do you wrap that in nice words to not discourage a young, talented aspiring doctor? I take a deep breath and gather my thoughts before responding with a sad smile. He's only 24 years old, doing one of his rotation years as a resident in forensic pathology, and seems so carefree.

"No, it doesn't get easier, Dr. Rast. And to be completely honest, I don't think it should. The day such an autopsy no longer affects me is the day I'll submit my resignation and seriously worry about my mental health. Death is omnipresent in our job, and we must accept it as part of life. But the cruelty with which some of our clientele met their end is something we must neither accept nor tolerate. If we lose our empathy and humanity, Dr. Rast, we lose the ability to speak for the dead."

My voice is gentle, and I can see from his face that I've found the right words. He nods silently, thanks me, and then takes his leave.

Lost in thought, I go to my office. Should I write the reports tonight or leave them for tomorrow?

I weigh the arguments. On one hand, I'm tired, and the error rate will probably be higher; on the other hand, the autopsies are still fresh in my mind. But my notes, coupled with the recorded report, should be enough to remind me of every little detail. Still, it would be better to write the reports today. 'Don't put off until tomorrow what you can do today,' my mother used to say.

While I wrestle with myself, I hear the slight vibration of my iPhone on the solid oak desk.

Hi Maura. How was your day? Are you home yet? J

Hi Jane. Exhausting, mentally and physically. No, I think I'll stay and write my reports. JayJay is in Quantico for a week, and I don't feel like going back to an empty house right now. How was your day? M

I set the phone aside and organize my files to start the first report.

I'll be at your office in 15 minutes. No arguments;-). J

Well, then, I guess my reports will have to wait until tomorrow. I quickly summarize the preliminary findings of the autopsies in an email for the detectives in charge and then decide just as spontaneously to take all the documents home and write the reports from there the next day. I rarely work from home, even though I have that privilege in my position. But tomorrow, I'll take advantage of it.

xxx

"You look tired, Maura."

I've barely spoken a word to Jane on the drive home. Not because I didn't want to talk to her, but because fatigue and exhaustion suddenly overwhelmed me, leaving my mind blank.

Jane squeezes my hand, which rests loosely on my thigh, and gives me a sympathetic smile.

"Tough day, huh?"

I nod and close my eyes.

I must have dozed off because when I open my eyes again, we're parked in my driveway. I sigh and get out of the car. All I want is to crawl under a blanket and sleep for many, many hours.

After entering the house, Jane takes charge in an unusually assertive manner. She guides me to the couch, brings me a glass of red wine, and orders me to relax.

"Come on, rest, Maura. You've been on your feet for almost 40 hours, and I don't know what case you've got, but it seems tough. Lie down, sleep a little while I cook dinner. Okay?"

I'm too drained to resist and gratefully accept the offer. I take off my shoes, lie down—without a second thought about the wrinkles in my dress—on the couch, and pull the blanket over me while Jane moves around in the kitchen.

The steady clinking and clattering of pots and dishes lull me into a warm, cozy sleep, and within seconds of my head hitting the pillow, I'm out.