“Which Detective Rizzoli here is going to get for us,” said Crowe.
“How do you know I’ll do any better with the boy?” said Jane. “I can’t work magic.”
“We’re counting on you, because we don’t have much to work with. Just a few fingerprints on the kitchen doorknob. No sign of forced entry. And the security system was switched off.”
“Off?” Jane looked down at the body. “It sounds like Mr. Ackerman admitted his own killer.”
“Or maybe he just forgot to turn it on. Then he heard a noise and came downstairs to check.”
“Robbery? Is anything missing?”
“Mrs. Ackerman’s jewelry box upstairs looks untouched,” said Crowe. “His wallet and her purse are still on the bedroom dresser.”
“Did the killer even go into their bedroom?”
“Oh yeah. He went into the bedroom. He went into all the bedrooms.” She heard the ominous note in Crowe’s voice. Knew that what waited upstairs was far worse than this blood-splattered library.
Maura said, quietly: “I can take you upstairs, Jane.”
Jane followed her back into the foyer, neither one of them speaking, as if this was an ordeal best borne in silence. As they ascended the grand staircase, Jane glimpsed treasures everywhere she looked. An antique clock. A painting of a woman in red. These details she automatically registered even as she braced herself for what waited on the upper floors. In the bedrooms.
At the top of the stairs, Maura turned right and walked to the room at the end of the hall. Through the open doorway, Jane glimpsed her partner Detective Barry Frost, his hands gloved in lurid purple latex. He stood with elbows hugging his sides, the position every cop instinctively assumes at a crime scene to avoid cross-contamination. He saw Jane and gave a sad shake of his head, a look that said: This is not where I want to be on this beautiful day, either.
Jane stepped into the room and was momentarily dazzled by the sunlight streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows. This bedroom needed no curtains for privacy, as the windows looked out over a walled courtyard where a Japanese maple tree was leafed in brilliant burgundy, where blooming roses were in their full flush. But it was the woman’s body that demanded Jane’s attention. Cecilia Ackerman, clothed in a beige nightgown, lay on her back in bed, the covers pulled up to her shoulders. She appeared to be younger than her age of forty-eight, her hair artfully streaked with blond highlights. Her eyes were closed, and her face was eerily serene. The bullet had entered just above her left eyebrow, and the powder ring on her skin showed it was a contact wound, the barrel pressed to her forehead at the time the trigger was pulled. You were asleep when the killer pulled the trigger, thought Jane. You did not scream or resist, you posed no threat. Yet the invader walked into this room, crossed to the bed, and fired a bullet into your head.
“It gets worse,” said Frost.
She looked at her partner, who appeared haggard in the harsh morning light. This was more than mere fatigue she saw in his eyes; whatever he’d seen had left him shaken.
“The children’s bedrooms are on the third floor,” Maura said, a statement so matter-of-fact that she might have been a Realtor describing the features of this grand house. Jane heard creaking overhead, the footsteps of other team members moving in the rooms above them, and she suddenly thought of the year she’d helped plan her high school’s Halloween house of horrors. They’d splashed around fake blood and staged garishly gruesome scenes, far more gruesome than what she saw in this bedroom with its serenely reposing victim. Real life required little gore to horrify.
Maura headed out of the room, indicating that they’d seen what was significant here and it was time to move on. Jane followed her back to the staircase. Golden light shone down through the skylight, as if they were climbing a stairway to heaven, but these steps led to quite a different destination. To a place Jane did not want to go. Maura’s uncharacteristically summery blouse seemed as glaringly incongruous as wearing hot pink to a funeral. It was a minor detail, yet it bothered Jane, even annoyed her, that of all days that Maura would choose to wear such cheerful colors, it would be on a morning when three children had died.
They reached the third floor and Maura made a graceful sidestep, maneuvering one paper-covered shoe over some obstacle on the landing. Only when Jane cleared the top step did she see the heartbreakingly small form, covered with a plastic sheet. Crouching down, Maura lifted a corner of the shroud.
The girl was lying on her side, curled up into a fetal position, as though trying to retreat to the dimly remembered safety of the womb. Her skin was coffee-colored, her black hair woven into cornrows decorated with bright beads. Unlike the Caucasian victims downstairs, this child appeared to be African American.
“Victim number three is Kimmie Ackerman, age eight,” said Maura, speaking in a flatly clinical voice, a voice that Jane found more and more grating as she stared down at the child on the landing. Just a baby. A baby who wore pink pajamas with little dancing ponies. On the floor near the body was the imprint of a slender bare foot. Someone had stepped in this child’s blood, had left that footprint while fleeing the house. It was too small to be a man’s footprint. Teddy’s.
“The bullet penetrated the girl’s occipital bone, but didn’t exit. The angle is consistent with a shooter who was taller and firing from behind the victim.”
“She was moving,” said Jane softly. “Trying to run away.”
“Judging by her position here, it appears she was fleeing toward one of these bedrooms on the third floor when she was shot.”
“In the back of the head.”
“Yes.”
“Who the fuck does something like that? Kills a baby?”
Maura replaced the sheet and stood up. “She may have witnessed something downstairs. Seen the killer’s face. That would be a motive.”
“Don’t go all logical on me. Whoever did this walked into the house prepared to kill a kid. To wipe out a whole family.”
“I can’t speak to motive.”
“Just the manner of death.”
“Which would be homicide.”
“You think?”
Maura frowned at her. “Why are you angry with me?”
“Why doesn’t this seem to bother you?”
“You think this doesn’t bother me? You think I can look at this child and not feel what you’re feeling?”
They stared at each other for a moment, the child’s body lying between them. It was yet another reminder of the gulf that had split their friendship since Maura’s recent damaging testimony against a Boston cop, testimony that had sent that cop to prison. Although betrayals of the thin blue line are not quickly forgotten, Jane had had every intention of healing the rift between them. But apologies were not easy, and too many weeks had passed, during which their rift had hardened to concrete.
“It’s just …” Jane sighed. “I hate it when it’s kids. It makes me want to strangle someone.”
“That makes two of us.” Though the words were said quietly, Jane saw the glint of steel in Maura’s eyes. Yes, the rage was there, but better masked and under tight control, the way Maura strove to control almost everything else in her life.
“Rizzoli,” called out Detective Thomas Moore from a doorway. Like Frost, he looked beaten down, as if this day’s toll had aged him a decade. “Have you talked to the boy yet?”
“Not yet. I wanted to see what we’re dealing with first.”
“I spent an hour with him. He hardly said a word to me. Mrs. Lyman, the next-door neighbor, said that when he showed up at her house around eight this morning, he was almost catatonic.”
“It sounds like what he really needs is a shrink.”
“We have a call in to Dr. Zucker, and the social worker’s on her way. But I thought maybe Teddy might talk to you. Someone who’s a mother.”
“What did the boy see? Do you know?”
Moore shook his head. “I just hope he didn’t see what’s in this room.”
That warning was enough to make Jane’s fingers feel chilled inside the latex gloves. Moore was a tall man, and his shoulders blocked her view into the bedroom, as if he was trying to protect her from the sight that awaited her. In silence, he stepped aside to let her pass.
Two crime scene techs were crouched in a corner, and they looked up as Jane walked in. Both were young women, part of the new wave of female criminalists who now dominated the field. Neither one looked old enough to have children, to know what it was like to press worried kisses to a feverish cheek or to panic at the sight of an open window, an empty crib. With motherhood came a whole host of nightmares. In this room, one of those nightmares had come true.
“We believe these victims are the Ackermans’ daughters Cassandra, age ten, and Sarah, age nine. Both adopted,” said Maura. “Since they’re out of their beds, something must have awakened them.”
“Gunshots?” said Jane softly.
“There were no reports of gunfire heard in the neighborhood,” said Moore. “A suppressor must have been used.”
“But something alarmed these girls,” said Maura. “Something that made them climb out of bed.”
Jane had not moved from her spot near the door. For a moment no one spoke, and she realized that they were all waiting for her to approach the bodies, to do her cop thing. Exactly what she had no wish to do. She forced herself to move toward the huddled bodies and knelt down. They died holding each other.
“Judging by their positions,” said Maura, “it appears that Cassandra tried to shield her younger sister. Two of the bullets passed through Cassandra’s body first, before they penetrated Sarah’s. Single coup de grâce shots were fired into the heads of each girl. Their clothing doesn’t appear disturbed, so I see no obvious evidence of sexual assault, but I’ll need to confirm that at autopsy. That will be later this afternoon, if you’d like to observe, Jane.”
“No. I would not like to observe. I’m not even supposed to be here today.” Abruptly she turned and walked out of the room, paper shoes crackling as she fled the sight of the two girls coiled together in death. But as she moved toward the stairwell, she again saw the body of the youngest child. Kimmie, eight years old. Everywhere I look in this house, she thought, there’s heartbreak.
“Jane, are you all right?” said Maura.
“Aside from wanting to rip this bastard limb from limb?”
“I feel exactly the same way.”
Then you do a better job of hiding it. Jane stared down at the draped body. “I look at this kid,” she said softly, “and I can’t help seeing my own.”
“You’re a mom, so it’s only natural. Look, Crowe and Moore will attend the autopsy. There’s no need for you to be there.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s going to be a long day. And I haven’t even packed yet.”
“Is this the week you’re visiting Julian’s school?”
“Come hell or high water, tomorrow I leave for Maine. Two weeks with a teenage boy and his dog. I have no idea what to expect.”
Maura had no children of her own, so how could she possibly know? She and sixteen-year-old Julian Perkins had nothing in common beyond their shared ordeal last winter, fighting to survive in the Wyoming wilderness. She owed her life to the boy, and now she was determined to be the mother he had lost.
“Let’s see, what can I tell you about teenage boys?” said Jane, trying to be helpful. “My brothers had stinky shoes. They slept till noon. And they ate about twelve times a day.”
“Male pubertal metabolism. They can’t help it.”
“Wow. You’ve really turned into a mom.”
Maura smiled. “It’s a good feeling, actually.”
But motherhood comes with nightmares, Jane reminded herself as she turned away from Kimmie’s body. She was glad to retreat down the staircase, glad to escape this house of horrors. When at last she stepped outside again, she breathed in deeply, as though to wash the scent of death from her lungs. The media horde had grown even thicker, TV cameras lined up like battering rams around the crime scene perimeter. Crowe stood front and center, Detective Hollywood playing to his audience. No one noticed Jane as she slipped past and walked to the house next door.
A patrolman stood guard on the front porch, grinning as he watched Crowe perform for the cameras. “So who do you think’s gonna play him in the movie?” he asked. “Is Brad Pitt pretty enough?”
“No one’s pretty enough to play Crowe,” she snorted. “I need to talk to the boy. He’s inside?”
“With Officer Vasquez.”
“We’re waiting for the shrink, too. So if Dr. Zucker shows up, send him in.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jane suddenly realized she was still wearing gloves and shoe covers from the crime scene. She peeled them off, stuffed them into her pocket, and rang the bell. A moment later a handsome silver-haired woman appeared at the door.
“Mrs. Lyman?” said Jane. “I’m Detective Rizzoli.”
The woman nodded and waved her inside. “Hurry. I don’t want those awful TV cameras to see us. It’s such an invasion of privacy.”
Jane stepped into the house, and the woman quickly closed the door.
“They told me to expect you. Although I’m not sure how you’ll be able to do much better with Teddy. That nice Detective Moore was so patient with him.”
“Where is Teddy?”
“He’s in the garden conservatory. Poor boy’s hardly said a word to me. Just showed up at my front door this morning still wearing his PJs. I took one look at him and knew something awful had happened.” She turned. “It’s this way.”
Jane followed Mrs. Lyman into the entrance hall and looked up at a staircase that was the mirror image of the Ackermans’ residence. And like the Ackermans’, this house featured exquisite—and expensive-looking—artwork.
“What did he say to you?” asked Jane.
“He said, ‘They’re dead. They’re all dead.’ And that was about all he could get out. I saw blood on his bare feet, and I immediately called the police.” She stopped outside the door to the conservatory. “They were good people, Cecilia and Bernard. And she was so happy because she finally had what she wanted, a house full of children. They were already in the process of adopting Teddy. Now he’s all alone again.” She paused. “You know, I don’t mind keeping him here. He’s familiar with me, and he knows this house. It’s what Cecilia would have wanted.”
“That’s a generous offer, Mrs. Lyman. But Social Services has foster families who are specially trained to deal with traumatized children.”
“Oh. Well, it was just a thought. Since I already know him.”
“Then you can tell me more about him. Is there anything that might help me connect with Teddy? What are his interests?”
“He’s very quiet. Loves his books. Whenever I visited next door, Teddy was always in Bernard’s library, surrounded by books about Roman history. You might try breaking the ice by talking about that subject.”
Roman history. Yeah, my specialty. “What else is he interested in?”
“Horticulture. He loves the exotic plants in my conservatory.”
“What about sports? Could we talk about the Bruins? The Patriots?”
“Oh, he has no interest in that. He’s too refined.”
Which would make me a troglodyte.
Mrs. Lyman was about to open the conservatory door when Jane said, “What about his birth family? How did he end up with the Ackermans?”
Mrs. Lyman turned back to Jane. “You don’t know about that?”
“I’m told he’s an orphan, with no living relatives.”
“That’s why this is such a shock, especially for Teddy. Cecilia wanted so badly to give him a fresh start, with a real chance at happiness. I don’t think there’ll ever be a chance. Now that it’s happened again.”
“Again?”
“Two years ago, Teddy and his family were anchored aboard their sailboat, off Saint Thomas. In the night, while the family was sleeping, someone came aboard.
Teddy’s parents and his sisters were murdered. Shot to death.”
In the pause that followed, Jane suddenly realized how quiet the house was. So quiet that she asked her next question in a hushed voice. “And Teddy? How did he survive?”
“Cecilia told me he was found in the water, floating in his life jacket. And he didn’t remember how he got there.” Mrs. Lyman looked at the closed door to the conservatory. “Now you understand why this is so devastating for him. It’s awful enough to lose your family once. But to have it happen again?” She shook her head. “It’s more than any child should have to endure.”
FIVE
They could not have chosen a more soothing place for a traumatized child than Mrs. Lyman’s garden conservatory. Enclosed in glass, the room’s windows faced a private walled garden. Morning sunlight streamed in through the windows, nourishing a humid jungle of vines and ferns and potted trees. In that lush overgrowth Jane did not spot the boy, but saw only the female police officer who quickly rose from a rattan garden chair.
“Detective Rizzoli? I’m Officer Vasquez,” the woman said.
“How’s Teddy?” said Jane.
Vasquez glanced at a corner, where the vines had grown over to form a thick canopy, and whispered: “He hasn’t said a word to me. Just kind of hides away and whimpers.”
Only then did Jane locate the spindly figure crouched beneath the bower of vines. He was folded into himself, arms hugging his legs to his chest. Although they’d told her he was fourteen, he looked much younger, clothed in powder-blue pajamas, a forelock of light brown hair hiding his face.
Jane dropped down to her knees and crawled toward him, ducking beneath vines as she moved deeper into the leafy shadows. The boy didn’t move as she settled down beside him in his jungle hiding place.
“Teddy,” she said. “My name is Jane. I’m here to help you.”
He didn’t look up, didn’t respond.
“You’ve been sitting here awhile, haven’t you? You must be hungry.”
Was that a shake of the head she saw? Or was it a shudder, a seismic quake from all the pain bottled up inside that fragile body?
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle Page 280
