“And the condition of his body? Would you describe it for us?” Aguilar prodded.
“There were multiple bruises over the chest, the left flank, and the upper abdomen. Both eyes were swollen shut, and there were lacerations of the lip and scalp. Two of his teeth—the upper front incisors—were missing.”
“Objection.” The defense attorney stood. “There’s no way of knowing when he lost those teeth. They could have been missing for years.”
“One tooth showed up on X-ray. In his stomach,” said Maura.
“The witness should refrain from commenting until I’ve ruled,” the judge cut in severely. He looked at the defense attorney. “Objection overruled. Ms. Aguilar, proceed.”
The ADA nodded, her lips twitching into a smile, and she refocused on Maura. “So Mr. Dixon was badly bruised, he had lacerations, and at least one of his teeth had recently been knocked out.”
“Yes,” said Maura. “As you’ll see from the morgue photographs.”
“If it please the court, we would like to show those morgue photos now,” said Aguilar. “I should warn the audience, these are not pleasant to look at. If any visitors in the courtroom would prefer not to see them, I suggest they leave at this point.” She paused and looked around.
No one left the room.
As the first slide went up, revealing Fabian Dixon’s battered body, there were audible intakes of breath. Maura had kept her description of Dixon’s bruises understated, because she knew the photos would tell the story better than she could. Photos couldn’t be accused of taking sides or lying. And the truth staring from that image was obvious to all: Fabian Dixon had been savagely battered before being placed in the backseat of the police cruiser.
Other slides appeared as Maura described what she had found on autopsy. Multiple broken ribs. A swallowed tooth in the stomach. Aspirated blood in the lungs. And the cause of death: a splenic rupture, which had led to massive intraperitoneal hemorrhage.
“And what was the manner of Mr. Dixon’s death, Dr. Isles?” Aguilar asked.
This was the key question, the one that she dreaded answering, because of the consequences that would follow.
“Homicide,” said Maura. It was not her job to point out the guilty party. She restricted her answer to that one word, but she couldn’t help glancing at Wayne Graff. The accused police officer sat motionless, his face as unreadable as granite. For more than a decade, he had served the city of Boston with distinction. A dozen character witnesses had stepped forward to tell the court how Officer Graff had courageously come to their aid. He was a hero, they said, and Maura believed them.
But on the night of October 31, the night that Fabian Dixon murdered a police officer, Wayne Graff and his partner had transformed into angels of vengeance. They’d made the arrest, and Dixon was in their custody when he died. Subject was agitated and violent, as if under the influence of PCP or crack, they wrote in their statement. They described Dixon’s crazed resistance, his superhuman strength. It had taken both officers to wrestle the prisoner into the cruiser. Controlling him required force, but he did not seem to notice pain. During this struggle, he was making grunts and animal sounds and trying to take off his clothes, even though it was forty degrees that night. They had described, almost too perfectly, the known medical condition of excited delirium, which had killed other cocaine-addled prisoners.
But months later, the toxicology report showed only alcohol in Dixon’s system. It left no doubt in Maura’s mind that the manner of death was homicide. And one of the killers now sat at the defense table, staring at Maura.
“I have no further questions,” said Aguilar and she sat down, looking confident that she had successfully made her case.
Morris Whaley, the defense attorney, rose for the cross-examination, and Maura felt her muscles tense. Whaley appeared cordial enough as he approached the witness stand, as if he intended only to have a friendly chat. Had they met at a cocktail party, she might have found him pleasant company, an attractive enough man in his Brooks Brothers suit.
“I think we’re all impressed by your credentials, Dr. Isles,” he said. “So I won’t take up any more of the court’s time reviewing your academic achievements.”
She said nothing, just stared at his smiling face, wondering from which direction the attack would come.
“I don’t think anyone in this room doubts that you’ve worked hard to get where you are today,” Whaley continued. “Especially taking into account some of the challenges you’ve faced in your personal life in the past few months.”
“Objection.” Aguilar heaved an exasperated sigh and stood. “This is not relevant.”
“It is, your honor. It goes to the witness’s judgment,” said Whaley.
“How so?” the judge countered.
“Past experiences can affect how a witness interprets the evidence.”
“What experiences are you referring to?”
“If you’ll allow me to explore that issue, it will become apparent.”
The judge stared hard at Whaley. “For the moment, I’ll allow this line of questioning. But only for the moment.”
Aguilar sat back down, scowling.
Whaley turned his attention back to Maura. “Dr. Isles, do you happen to recall the date that you examined the deceased?”
Maura paused, taken aback by the abrupt return to the topic of the autopsy. It did not slip past her that he’d avoided using the victim’s name.
“You are referring to Mr. Dixon?” she said, and saw irritation flicker in his eyes.
“Yes.”
“The date of the postmortem was November first of last year.”
“And on that date, did you determine the cause of death?”
“Yes. As I said earlier, he died of massive internal hemorrhage secondary to a ruptured spleen.”
“On that same date, did you also specify the manner of death?”
She hesitated. “No. At least, not a final—”
“Why not?”
She took a breath, aware of all the eyes watching her. “I wanted to wait for the results of the toxicology screen. To see whether Mr. Dixon was, in fact, under the influence of cocaine or other pharmaceuticals. I wanted to be cautious.”
“As well you should. When your decision could destroy the careers, even the lives, of two dedicated peace officers.”
“I don’t concern myself with consequences, Mr. Whaley. I only concern myself with the facts. Wherever they may lead.”
He didn’t like that answer; she could see it in the twitch of his jaw muscle. All semblance of cordiality had vanished; this was now a battle.
“So you performed the autopsy on November first,” he said.
“Yes.”
“What happened after that?”
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
“Did you take the weekend off? Did you spend the following week performing other autopsies?”
She stared at him, anxiety coiling like a serpent in her stomach. She didn’t know where he was taking this, but she didn’t like the direction. “I attended a pathology conference,” she said.
“In Wyoming, I believe.”
“Yes.”
“Where you had something of a traumatic experience. You were assaulted by a rogue police officer.”
Aguilar shot to her feet. “Objection! Not relevant!”
“Overruled,” the judge said.
Whaley smiled, his path now cleared to ask the questions that Maura dreaded. “Is that correct, Dr. Isles?” Whaley asked. “Were you attacked by a police officer?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I’m afraid I didn’t hear that.”
“Yes,” she repeated, louder.
“And how did you survive that attack?”
The room was dead silent, waiting for her story. A story she didn’t even want to think about, because it still gave her nightmares. She remembered the lonely hilltop in Wyoming. She remembered the thud of the deputy’s vehicle do
or as it closed, trapping her in the backseat behind the prisoner gate. She remembered her panic as she’d futilely battered her hands against the window, trying to escape from a man she knew was about to kill her.
“Dr. Isles, how did you survive? Who came to your aid?”
She swallowed. “A boy.”
“Julian Perkins, age sixteen, I believe. A young man who shot and killed that police officer.”
“He had no choice!”
Whaley cocked his head. “You’re defending a boy who killed a cop?”
“A bad cop!”
“And then you came home to Boston. And declared Mr. Dixon’s death a homicide.”
“Because it was.”
“Or was it merely a tragic accident? The unavoidable consequence after a violent prisoner fights back and has to be subdued?”
“You saw the morgue photos. The police used far more force than was necessary.”
“So did that boy in Wyoming, Julian Perkins. He shot and killed a sheriff’s deputy. Do you consider that justifiable force?”
“Objection,” said Aguilar. “Dr. Isles isn’t the one on trial here.”
Whaley barreled ahead with the next question, his gaze fixed on Maura. “What happened out there in Wyoming, Dr. Isles? While you were fighting for your life, was there an epiphany? A sudden realization that cops are the enemy?”
“Objection!”
“Or have cops always been the enemy? Members of your own family seem to think so.”
The gavel banged down. “Mr. Whaley, you will approach the bench now.”
Maura sat stunned as both attorneys huddled with the judge. So it had come to this, the dredging up of her family. Every cop in Boston probably knew about her mother, Amalthea, now serving a life sentence in a women’s prison in Framingham. The monster who gave birth to me, she thought. Everyone who looks at me must wonder if the same evil has seeped into my blood as well. She saw that the defendant, Officer Graff, was staring at her. Their gazes locked, and a smile curled his lips. Welcome to the consequences, she read in his eyes. This is what happens when you betray the thin blue line.
“The court will take a recess,” the judge announced. “We’ll resume at two this afternoon.”
As the jury filed out, Maura sagged back against the chair and didn’t notice that Aguilar was standing beside her.
“That was dirty pool,” said Aguilar. “It should never have been allowed.”
“He made it all about me,” said Maura.
“Yeah, well, that’s all he has. Because the autopsy photos are pretty damn convincing.” Aguilar looked hard at her. “Is there anything else I should know about you, Dr. Isles?”
“Other than the fact that my mother’s a convicted murderer and I torture kittens for fun?”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You said it earlier. I’m not the one on trial.”
“No, but they’ll try to make it about you. Whether you hate cops. Whether you have a hidden agenda. We could lose this case if that jury thinks you’re not on the level. So tell me if there’s anything else they might bring up. Any secrets that you haven’t mentioned to me.”
Maura considered the private embarrassments that she guarded. The illicit affair that she’d just ended. Her family’s history of violence. “Everyone has secrets,” she said. “Mine aren’t relevant.”
“Let’s hope not,” said Aguilar.
Rizzoli & Isles, In Their Own Words…
JANE RIZZOLI
Detective, homicide unit, Boston Police Department
I’m just a girl from Boston who hunts monsters for a living. Yeah, I know I’m not supposed to call ’em that, but that’s what some of them are. Monsters. If you saw what they’ve done, the lives they’ve ruined, you’d want to take them down, too.
I’ve wanted to be a cop since a police officer came to my school for career day. I saw how the other kids looked up to him, and I knew that was the job for me. I wanted the gun, the badge.
Most of all, I wanted the respect.
Felt like I didn’t get a lot of that when I was growing up. My mom’s a housewife and my dad’s a plumber–we’re blue collar all the way. I had an okay childhood, but I have to admit we were a noisy household. Lots of yelling.
After my training at Boston PD academy, I worked my way up from beat patrolman to detective (vice and narcotics) and finally ended up where I am now: the homicide unit. It’s a boy’s club. I get it.
Still, it gets old, having to prove myself again and again. I hate whiners, so you’ll never hear me complain. Whining doesn’t get you anywhere, not with the guys in my unit. Not with guys anywhere, for that matter.
My philosophy for success? Make every perp hunt personal. Get angry, never give up, and for god’s sake, wear flats to a scene. You’ll never catch anyone if you’re wearing high heels.
DR. MAURA ISLES
Forensic pathologist, Medical Examiner’s office, Commonwealth of Massachusetts
I want to believe that there is a scientific explanation for everything that happens. It isn’t fate that sends a bicyclist flying over the handlebars to her death; it’s because her front tire hit a frost heave and kinetic energy took over. Fate has nothing to do with it. Death is not a mystical process; it is organic. I find that comforting.
I knew, from an early age, that I was something of an odd duck. I was the child who hid out in her room for hours, reading, the child who dissected her dead pet mouse. I was the scholar, the accomplished pianist, the honor student. My parents understood that I was different, and although they were not people who’d crow loudly about anything, I always knew they were proud of me.
My devotion to logic and science drew me to the study of medicine. But soon after I began medical school, I realized that I wasn’t meant to work with living patients. I wasn’t good at holding their hands, at ferreting out the unspoken emotional clues in their voices when they told me of their aches and pains. I can analyze x-rays and blood chemistries, I can slice open muscles and organs, but I possess no scalpel with which to dissect human emotions.
So I became a forensic pathologist.
Boston is my home now. These cold New England winters suit me, as does my job as medical examiner. But I have little in common with the Boston PD detectives with whom I work. I think some of them may even be afraid of me, because I see their wary glances and hear their whispers as I walk past. And I know what they call me behind my back:
“The Queen of the Dead.”
The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle Page 247
