The Apprentice: A Novel

by Tess Gerritsen

  “He use a cell phone?”

  “No, ma’am. Went to a phone booth down at the Thompson Center. I got here around two-twenty. I was careful not to touch anything. Just walked into the woods far enough to confirm it was a body. About fifty yards in, I could already smell it. Then, after another fifty yards, I saw it. Backed right out and secured the scene. Closed off both ends of the Boundary Road trail.”

  “And when did everyone else get here?”

  “Detectives Sleeper and Crowe got here around three. The M.E. arrived around three-thirty.” He paused. “I didn’t realize you were coming in, too.”

  “Dr. Isles called me. I guess we’re all parking on the golf course for now?”

  “Detective Sleeper ordered it. Doesn’t want any vehicles visible from Enneking Parkway. Keeps us out of the public’s eye.”

  “Any media turned up yet?”

  “No, ma’am. I was careful not to radio it in. Used the call box down the road instead.”

  “Good. Maybe we’ll get lucky and they won’t turn up at all.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Doud. “Could this be our first jackal arriving?”

  A dark-blue Marquis rolled across the golf course grass and pulled up beside the M.E.’s van. A familiar overweight figure hauled himself out and smoothed his sparse hair over his scalp.

  “He’s not a reporter,” said Rizzoli. “This guy I’m expecting.”

  Korsak lumbered toward them. “You really think it’s her?” he asked.

  “Dr. Isles says it’s a strong possibility. If so, your homicide just moved into Boston city limits.” She looked at Doud. “Which way do we approach it, so we don’t contaminate things?”

  “You’re okay going from the east. Sleeper and Crowe have already videoed the site. The footprints and drag marks all come from the other direction, starting at Enneking Parkway. Just follow your nose.”

  She and Korsak slipped under the police tape and headed into the woods. This section of second-growth trees was as dense as any deep forest. They ducked beneath spiky branches that scratched their faces, and snagged their trouser legs on brambles. They emerged on the East Boundary jogging trail and spotted a strand of police tape, fluttering from a tree.

  “The jogger was running along this path when his dog got away from him,” she said. “Looks like Sleeper left us a trail of tape.”

  They crossed the jogging path and plunged once again into the woods.

  “Oh man. I think I can smell it already,” said Korsak.

  Even before they saw the body, they heard the ominous hum of flies. Dry twigs snapped beneath their shoes, the sound as startling as gunfire. Through the trees ahead, they saw Sleeper and Crowe, faces contorted in disgust as they waved away insects. Dr. Isles was crouched near the ground, a few diamonds of sunlight dappling her black hair. Drawing closer, they saw what Isles was doing.

  Korsak uttered an appalled groan. “Ah, shit. That I didn’t need to see.”

  “Vitreous potassium,” said Isles, and the words sounded almost seductive in her smoky voice. “It’ll give us another estimate for the postmortem interval.”

  The time of death would be difficult to determine, Rizzoli thought, gazing down at the nude corpse. Isles had rolled it onto a sheet, and it lay faceup, eyes bulging from the heat-expanded tissues inside the cranium. A necklace of disk-shaped bruises ringed the throat. The long blond hair was a stiff mat of straw. The abdomen was bloated, and the belly was tinted a liverish green. Blood vessels had been stained by the bacterial breakdown of blood, and the veins were startlingly visible, like black rivers flowing beneath the skin. But all these horrors paled in view of the procedure Isles was now performing. The membranes around the human eye are the most sensitive surface of the body; a single eyelash or the tiniest grain of sand caught beneath an eyelid can cause immense discomfort. So it made both Rizzoli and Korsak wince to watch Isles pierce the corpse’s eye with a twenty-gauge needle. Slowly she sucked the vitreous fluid into a 10 cc syringe.

  “Looks nice and clear,” said Isles, sounding pleased. She placed the syringe in an ice-filled cooler, then rose to her feet and surveyed the site with a regal gaze. “Liver temp is only two degrees cooler than ambient temp,” she said. “And there’s no insect or animal damage. She hasn’t been lying here very long.”

  “It’s just a dump?” asked Sleeper.

  “Lividity indicates she died while lying faceup. See how it’s darker on the back, where the blood’s pooled? But she was found lying here facedown.”

  “She was moved here.”

  “Less than twenty-four hours ago.”

  “Looks like she’s been dead a lot longer than that,” said Crowe.

  “Yes. She’s flaccid, and there’s significant bloating. Skin’s already slipping off.”

  “Is that a nosebleed?” asked Korsak.

  “Decomposed blood. She’s starting to purge. Fluids are being forced out by the internal buildup of gases.”

  “Time of death?” asked Rizzoli.

  Isles paused, her gaze fixed for a moment on the grotesquely swollen remains of a woman they all believed was Gail Yeager. Flies buzzed, filling the silence with their greedy hum. Except for the long blond hair, there was little about the corpse that resembled the woman in the photographs, a woman who once had surely turned men’s heads with just a smile. It was a disturbing reminder that both the beautiful and the homely are reduced by bacteria and insects to the grim equality of moldering flesh.

  “I can’t answer that,” said Isles. “Not yet.”

  “More than a day?” pressed Rizzoli.

  “Yes.”

  “The abduction was Sunday night. Could she have been dead since then?”

  “Four days? It depends on the ambient temperature. The absence of insect damage makes me think the body was kept indoors until just recently. Protected from the environment. An air-conditioned room would slow down decomposition.”

  Rizzoli and Korsak exchanged glances, both of them wondering the same thing. Why would the unsub wait so long to dispose of a decomposing body?

  Detective Sleeper’s walkie-talkie crackled, and they heard Doud’s voice: “Detective Frost just arrived. And the CSU van’s here. You ready for ’em?”

  “Stand by,” said Sleeper. Already he looked exhausted, drained from the heat. He was the oldest detective in the unit, no more than five years from retirement, and he had no need to prove himself. He looked at Rizzoli. “We’re coming in on the tail end of this case. You been working with Newton P.D. on it?”

  She nodded. “Since Monday.”

  “So you gonna be lead?”

  “Right,” said Rizzoli.

  “Hey,” protested Crowe. “We were first on the scene.”

  “Abduction was in Newton,” said Korsak.

  “But the body’s now in Boston,” retorted Crowe.

  “Jesus,” said Sleeper. “Why the hell are we fighting over this?”

  “It’s mine,” said Rizzoli. “I’m lead.” She stared at Crowe, daring him to challenge her. Expecting their usual rivalry to flare up, as it always did. She saw one side of his mouth turn up in the beginning of an ugly sneer.

  Then Sleeper said, into his walkie-talkie, “Detective Rizzoli is now lead investigator.” He looked at her again. “You ready for CSU to come in?”

  She glanced up at the sky. It was already five P.M., and the sun had dipped below the trees. “Let’s get them in here while they can still see what they’re doing.”

  An outdoor death scene, in fading daylight, was not a scenario she welcomed. In wooded areas, wild animals were always poised to descend, scattering remains and dragging off evidence. Rainstorms wash away blood and semen, and the winds scatter fibers. There were no doors to lock out trespassers, and perimeters were easily breached by the curious. So she felt a sense of urgency as the crime scene unit began its grid search. They brought with them metal detectors and sharp eyes and evidence sacks waiting to be filled with grotesque treasures.

  By the tim
e Rizzoli tramped back out of the woods and onto the golf course, she was sweating and filthy and tired of swatting at mosquitoes. She paused to brush twigs from hair and pluck burrs from her slacks. Straightening, she suddenly focused on a sandy-haired man in a suit and tie, who stood beside the M.E.’s van, a cell phone pressed to his ear.

  She went to Patrolman Doud, who was still manning the perimeter. “Who’s the suit over there?” she asked.

  Doud glanced in the man’s direction. “Him? Says he’s FBI.”

  “What?”

  “Flashed his badge and tried to talk his way past me. I told him he’d have to clear it with you first. Didn’t seem too happy about that.”

  “What’s a fibbie doing here?”

  “You got me.”

  She stood watching the man for a moment, disturbed by the arrival of a federal agent. As lead investigator, she wanted no blurring of the lines of authority, and this man, with his military bearing and businessman’s suit, already looked as though he owned the scene. She walked toward him, but he did not acknowledge her presence until she was standing right beside him.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I understand you’re FBI?”

  He snapped his cell phone shut and turned to face her. She saw strong, clean-cut features and a coolly impervious gaze.

  “I’m Detective Jane Rizzoli, the lead on this case,” she said. “May I see your I.D.?”

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out the badge. As she studied it, she could feel him watching her, sizing her up. She resented his silent appraisal, resented the way he put her on guard, as though he was the one in control.

  “Agent Gabriel Dean,” she said, handing back the badge.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “May I ask what the FBI’s doing here?”

  “I wasn’t aware we were on opposing teams.”

  “Did I say we were?”

  “You’re giving me the distinct feeling I shouldn’t be here.”

  “The FBI doesn’t usually turn up at our crime scenes. I’m just curious what brings you to this one.”

  “We received an advisory from Newton P.D. about the Yeager homicide.” It was an incomplete answer; he was leaving out too much, forcing her to fish. Withholding information was a form of power, and she understood the game he was playing.

  “I imagine you guys get a lot of routine advisories,” she said.

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Every homicide, isn’t that right?”

  “We’re notified.”

  “Is there something about this one that’s special?”

  He simply gazed at her with that impenetrable expression. “I think the victims would say so.”

  Her anger was working its way like a splinter to the surface. “This body was found only a few hours ago,” she said. “Are these advisories now instantaneous?”

  There was a faint twitch of a smile on his lips. “We’re not entirely out of the loop, Detective. We’d appreciate it if you kept us apprised of your progress. Autopsy reports. Trace evidence. Copies of all witness statements—”

  “That’s a lot of paperwork.”

  “I realize that.”

  “And you want it all?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “A murder and abduction shouldn’t interest us? We’d like to follow this case.”

  As imposing as he was, she didn’t hesitate to challenge him by stepping closer. “When do you plan to start calling the shots?”

  “It remains your case. I’m only here to assist.”

  “Even if I don’t see the need for it?”

  His gaze shifted to the two attendants who’d emerged from the woods and were now loading the stretcher with the remains into the M.E.’s van. “Does it really matter who works the case?” he asked quietly. “As long as this unsub is caught?”

  They watched the van drive away, carrying the already desecrated corpse to further indignities beneath the bright lights of the autopsy suite. Gabriel Dean’s response had reminded her, with punishing clarity, just how unimportant were matters of jurisdiction. Gail Yeager did not care who took credit for the capture of her killer. All she demanded was justice, whoever might deliver it. Justice was what Rizzoli owed her.

  But she’d known the frustration of watching her own hard work claimed by her colleagues. More than once, she had seen men step forward and arrogantly assume command of cases she herself had painstakingly built from scratch. She would not allow it to happen here.

  She said, “I appreciate the Bureau’s offer of help. But at the moment, I think we’ve got all bases covered. I’ll let you know if we need you.” With that, she turned and walked away.

  “I’m not sure you understand the situation,” he said. “We’re part of the same team now.”

  “I don’t recall asking for FBI assistance.”

  “It’s been cleared through your unit commander: Lieutenant Marquette. Would you like to confirm it with him?” He held out his cell phone.

  “I have my own cell phone, thank you.”

  “Then I urge you to call him. So we don’t waste time on turf battles.”

  She was stunned by how easily he had stepped aboard. And by how accurately she had sized him up. This was a man who’d not stand quietly on the sidelines.

  She took out her own phone and began punching in numbers. But before Marquette answered, she heard Patrolman Doud call out her name.

  “Detective Sleeper’s on comm for you,” said Doud, and handed her his walkie-talkie.

  She pressed the transmit button. “Rizzoli.”

  Through a burst of static, she heard Sleeper say: “You might want to get back here.”

  “What have you got?”

  “Uh . . . you’d better see for yourself. We’re about fifty yards north of where the other one was found.”

  The other one?

  She thrust the walkie-talkie back at Doud and charged into the woods. She was in such a hurry, she did not immediately notice that Gabriel Dean was following her. Only when she heard the snap of a twig did she turn and see that he was right behind her, his face grim and implacable. She didn’t have the patience to argue with him, so she ignored him and plunged on.

  She spotted the men standing in a grim circle beneath the trees, like silent mourners with heads bowed. Sleeper turned and met her gaze.

  “They’d just finished their first sweep with the metal detector,” he said. “Crime scene tech was heading back to the golf course when the alarm went off.”

  She moved into the circle of men and crouched down to inspect what they had found.

  The skull had been separated from the body and lay isolated from the rest of the nearly skeletonized remains. A gold crown glinted like a pirate’s tooth from the row of dirt-stained teeth. She saw no clothing, no remnants of fabric, only exposed bones with leathery bits of decomposing flesh still adhering. Clumps of long brown hair were matted to leaves, suggesting that these remains were a woman’s.

  She straightened, her gaze scanning the forest floor. Mosquitoes lit on her face and fed off her blood, but she was oblivious to their sting. She focused only on the layers of dead leaves and twigs, the dense underbrush. A deeply sylvan retreat that she now regarded with horror.

  How many women are lying in these woods?

  “It’s his dump site.”

  She turned and looked at Gabriel Dean, who had just spoken. He was crouched a few feet away, sifting through the leaves with gloved hands. She had not even seen him pull on gloves. Now he stood up, his gaze meeting hers.

  “Your unsub has used this place before,” said Dean. “And he’ll probably use it again.”

  “If we don’t scare him off.”

  “And that’s the challenge. Keeping it quiet. If you don’t alarm him, there’s a chance he’ll come back. Not just to dump another body, but to visit. To recapture the thrill.”

  “You’re from the behavioral unit. Aren’t you?”

  He didn’t answer
her question but turned to survey the array of personnel standing around in the woods. “If we can keep this out of the press, we might have a chance. But we’ve got to clamp down on it now.”

  We. With that one word, he had stepped into a partnership with her that she had never sought, had never consented to. Yet here he was, issuing edicts. What made it especially galling was the fact that everyone else was listening to their conversation and understood that her authority was now being challenged.

  Only Korsak, with his customary bluntness, dared step into the dialogue. “Excuse me, Detective Rizzoli,” he said. “Who is this gentleman?”

  “FBI,” she said, her gaze still fixed on Dean.

  “So could someone explain to me when this turned into a federal case?”

  “It hasn’t,” she said. “And Agent Dean is about to leave the site. Could somebody show him the way?”

  She and Dean gazed at each other for a moment. Then he tipped his head to her, a silent acknowledgment that he was conceding this round. “I can find my own way out,” he said. He turned and walked back toward the golf course.

  “What is it with these fibbies?” said Korsak. “Always think they’re king of the hill. What’s the Bureau doing here?”

  Rizzoli stared at the woods into which Gabriel Dean had just vanished, a gray figure blending into the dusk. “I wish I knew.”

  Lieutenant Marquette arrived on the scene a half hour later.

  The presence of brass was usually the last thing Rizzoli welcomed. She disliked having a superior officer look over her shoulder as she worked. But Marquette did not interfere and simply stood among the trees, silently appraising the situation.

  “Lieutenant,” she said.

  He responded with a curt nod. “Rizzoli.”

  “What’s with the Bureau? They had an agent here, expecting full access.”

  He nodded. “Request came through OPC.”

  So it had been approved at the top—the Office of the Police Commissioner.

  She watched as the CSU crew packed up their kits and headed back toward the van. Though they were standing within Boston city limits, this dark corner of Stony Brook Reservation felt as isolated as the deep woods. The wind tossed leaves into the air and stirred the smell of decay. Through the trees she saw Barry Frost’s flashlight bobbing in the darkness as he untied the crime scene tape, removing all traces of police activity. Tonight, the stakeout would begin, for an unsub whose craving for a whiff of decay might draw him back to this lonely park, to this silent grove of trees.