The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

room down the hall from Oxton’s office, Rizzoli and Dean pulled on latex gloves and spread the envelopes addressed to Warren Hoyt on the table. She saw a variety of stationery, a few pastels and florals, and one imprinted with
Jesus saves.
Most absurd of all was the stationery decorated with images of frolicking kittens. Yes, just the thing to send to the Surgeon. How amused he must have been to receive that.
    She opened the envelope with the kittens and found a photo inside, of a smiling woman with hopeful eyes. Also enclosed was a letter, written in a girlish hand, the
i
s dotted with cheery little circles:

    To: Mr. Warren Hoyt,Prisoner
Massachusetts Correctional Institute
Dear Mr. Hoyt,
    I saw you on TV today, as they were walking you to the courthouse. I believe I am an excellent judge of character, and when I looked at your face, I could see so much sadness and pain. Oh, such a great deal of pain! There is goodness in you; I know there is. If only you had someone to help you find it within yourself . . .

    Rizzoli suddenly realized she was clenching the letter in rage. She wanted to reach out and shake the stupid woman who had written those words. Wanted to force the woman to look at the autopsy photos of Hoyt’s victims, to read the M.E.’s account of the agony they had suffered before death mercifully ended their ordeals. She had to make herself read the rest of the letter, a saccharine appeal to Hoyt’s humanity and the “goodness that’s inside us all.”
    She reached for the next envelope. No kittens on this stationery, just a plain white envelope containing a letter written on lined paper. Once again, it was from a woman who had enclosed her photo, an overexposed snapshot of a squinting bleached blonde.

    Dear Mr. Hoit,
    Can I have you’re autograph? I have collect many signitures from people like you. I even have Jeffry Dahmer’s. If you like to keep writing to me, that would be cool. Your friend, Gloria.

    Rizzoli stared at words she could not believe any sane human being would write.
That would be cool. Your friend.
“Jesus Christ,” she said. “These people are nuts.”
    “It’s the lure of fame,” said Dean. “They have no lives of their own. They feel worthless, nameless. So they try to get close to someone who does have a name. They want the magic to rub off on them, too.”
    “Magic?” She looked at Dean. “Is that what you call it?”
    “You know what I mean.”
    “No, I don’t get any of it. I don’t get why women write to monsters. Are they looking for romance? A hot time with a guy who’d turn around and gut them? Is that supposed to bring excitement into their pathetic lives?” She shoved back her chair, stood up, and paced over to the wall of slit-shaped windows. There she stood with arms tightly crossed, staring out at a narrow strip of sunlight, a blue bar of sky. Any view, even this meager one, was preferable to gazing at Warren Hoyt’s fan mail. Surely Hoyt had enjoyed the attention. He would have considered each letter fresh proof that he still held power over women, that even here, locked away, he could twist minds, manipulate them. Turn them into his possessions.
    “It’s a waste of time,” she said bitterly as she watched a bird flit past buildings where men were the ones in cages, where bars held monsters, not birdsong. “He isn’t stupid. He would have destroyed anything linking him to the Dominator. He’d protect his new partner. He certainly wouldn’t leave behind anything useful for us to track.”
    “Maybe not useful,” said Dean, rustling papers behind her. “But definitely illuminating.”
    “Oh yeah. Like I want to read what these nutty women have written to him? It makes me sick.”
    “Could that be the point?”
    She turned and looked at him. A bar of light through the slit window slashed down his face, illuminating one bright blue eye. She had always thought his features striking, but never more so than at that moment, facing him across the table. “What do you mean?”
    “It upsets you, reading his fan mail.”
    “It ticks me off. Isn’t that obvious?”
    “To him, as well.” Dean nodded to the stack of letters. “He knew it would upset you.”
    “You think this is all to screw around with my head? These letters?”
    “It’s a mind game, Jane. He left these behind for you. This nice collection of mail from his most ardent admirers. He knew that eventually you’d be right here, where you are now, reading what they had to