Rizzoli & Isles Story 01 - Freaks

for autopsy.” She began dialing her cell phone. “This is Dr. Isles. We have a body to transport …”
    One of the criminalists muttered: “Maybe we should drive a stake through her heart first. Just to be sure.”
    The chill had deepened, and Jane could see her own breath in the darkness, aghostly cloud that dissipated into the shadows. Kimberly Rayner should be in high school, thought Jane, looking down at the body. A seventeen-year-old girl should be flirting with boys and applying to college and dreaming about her future. Not lying dead on an icy stone floor.
    “Detective Rizzoli?” one of the criminalists called out. “I found a shoe print.” Jane crossed to where he was crouched, his flashlight aimed at the muddy track. “Looks like a man’s size eight or nine. Too big to be the victim’s.”
    With her flashlight pointed to the floor, Jane followed the tracks backward until she reached a door—not the one the responding patrolman had entered. No, someone else had entered the building this way. The door hung ajar, and she felt icy wind seep through the opening.
    Pushing through, she found herself outside, in an overgrown side yard littered with the debris of autumn leaves. The crack of a branch made her head snap up. She aimed her flashlight toward the sound.
    A pair of eyes glowed back at her.

Chapter Three
    In an instant Jane had her weapon out and pointed. “Boston PD! Identify yourself!” she commanded.
    A black-clad figure sprang out of the bushes and fled.
    “Halt!”
Jane yelled, but the figure hurtled away. Jane took off after it, her shoes cracking through ice-encrusted mud. Her quarry was a spidery shadow, swooping in and out of sight, like something not quite solid.
Not quite human
.
    Behind her, she heard Frost yell: “Rizzoli?”
    She didn’t stop to answer him but kept up the pursuit. The figure ahead was moving fast—too fast. Her legs pumped harder, muscles burning. The air was so cold, it seemed to sear her throat. She saw the figure clamber over a fence and drop out of sight.
    She scrambled over it, too, felt wood splinters bite into her hand. She dropped hard on the other side, and pain shot up her shins. She was standing in an enclosed yard.
Where is he, where
? Frantically she scanned the shadows, looking for some telltale flicker of movement.
    Did something just slink into that shed?
    Clutching her weapon in both hands, she approached the shed doorway. Inside was only blackness, so thick it seemed solid. She inched forward and stood on the threshold, trying to peer inside. Seeing nothing.
    A sound in the darkness raised the hairs on the back of her neck. The sound of quick, desperate breaths. They didn’t come from the shed, but
behind
her.
    She swung around and spotted her quarry, crouched and cowering in the shadows. It was garbed all in black. As she shone her flashlight in the eyes, the arms came up, shielding the face from the glare.
    “Who are you?” she demanded.
    “I’m nobody.”
    “Show yourself! Stand up!”
    Slowly, the figure rose to its feet and lowered its spindly arms. The face that stared back at her was an unearthly white; the hair gleamed jet black. The same color as the hairs they’d found on the coffin pillow.

Chapter Four
    “Man, he sure
looks
like a vampire,” said Barry Frost, staring through the one-way mirror at the pale young man sitting in the interview room.
    The subject was eighteen years old and his name was Lucas Henry. Transpose the first and last names and it became ominously familiar:
Henry Lucas
. Did his mother realize she’d named her kid after one of the most prolific serial killers of all time? But the boy in the next room looked more frightened than dangerous. He sat huddled at the table, a black forelock drooping over his white brow. With his jutting cheekbones, his deeply sunken eyes, he looked like a living skeleton. Multiple studs pierced his lips, nose, and God knew what other parts of his body—so many studs that he’d set off the metal detector when they’d brought him into Boston PD headquarters.
    “Why the heck do kids poke holes in their skin?” said Frost. “I never understood that.”
    “It’s a Goth thing. You know, death, pain, oblivion.” Jane snorted. “All that fun stuff.”
    “He’s sure not having any fun.”
    “Let’s go make his night even more enjoyable.”
    As Jane and Frost walked in, Lucas snapped straight in his chair, eyes wide with apprehension. Despite his grotesque piercings