Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

paused. Here was where things got uncomfortable. Although she avoided looking at the audience and the defendant, she could feel their eyes on her.
    “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