The Keepsake: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

that young woman to survive. We want Boston PD to find her. That means we have to understand exactly why this killer took her.”
    “The police have a forensic psychologist consulting on the case. They’re already covering that territory.”
    “And they’re using the conventional approach.
He behaved this way before, so that’s the way he’ll behave again.
But this abduction is completely different from the earlier ones, the ones we know about.”
    “Different how? He started by crippling this woman, and that’s precisely his pattern.”
    “But then he deviated from that pattern.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Both Lorraine Edgerton and Kelsey Thacker vanished without a trace. Neither abductions were followed by taunts of
find me.
There were no notes or souvenirs sent to law enforcement. Those women simply disappeared. This victim is different. With Ms. Pulcillo, the killer seems to be begging for your attention.”
    “Maybe he’s asking to be caught. Maybe it’s a plea for someone to finally stop him.”
    “Or he has another reason to want all this publicity. You have to admit, courting publicity is exactly what he’s done by staging high-profile incidents. Putting the bog body in the trunk. Committing the murder and abduction in the museum. And now the latest—leaving a souvenir in your backyard. Did you notice how quickly the press showed up in your neighborhood?”
    “Reporters often monitor police radios.”
    “They were tipped off, Maura. Someone called them.”
    She stared at him. “You think this killer’s that desperate for attention?”
    “He’s certainly getting it. Now the question is, whose attention is he seeking?” He paused. “I’m concerned it’s yours he wants.”
    She shook her head. “He already has mine, and he knows it. If this is attention-seeking behavior, it’s directed at a far larger audience. He’s telling the whole world,
Look at me. Look at what I’ve done.
”
    “Or he’s aiming it at one person in particular. Someone who’s meant to see these news stories and react to them. I think he’s communicating with someone, Maura. Maybe it’s another killer. Or maybe it’s a future victim.”
    “It’s his current victim we need to worry about.”
    Sansone shook his head. “He’s had her for three days now. That’s not a good milestone.”
    “He kept his other victims alive far longer than this.”
    “But he didn’t cut off
their
hair. He didn’t play games with the police and the press. This abduction is moving along its own unique time line.” The look he gave her was chillingly matter-of-fact. “This time, things are different. The killer’s pattern has changed.”

THIRTY
     
    The Cape Elizabeth neighborhood where Dr. Gavin Hilzbrich lived was a prosperous suburb outside Portland, Maine, but unlike the well-kept properties on the street, Hilzbrich’s house was set back on a lot overgrown with trees, and the patchy lawn was slowly dying for want of sunlight. Standing in the driveway of the large Colonial-style house, Jane noticed peeling paint and the green sheen of moss on the shake roof, clues to the ailing health of the doctor’s finances. His house, like his bank account, had almost certainly seen better days.
    At first glance, the silver-haired man who answered the door had the appearance of prosperity. Though he was in his late sixties, he stood unbowed by either age or economic travails. Despite the warm day he wore a tweed jacket, as though on his way out to teach a university class. Only when she looked more closely did Jane notice that the collar tips were frayed and the jacket hung several sizes too large on his bony shoulders. Nevertheless he regarded her with disdain, as though nothing his visitor might say could possibly interest him.
    “Dr. Hilzbrich?” she said. “I’m Detective Rizzoli. We spoke on the phone.”
    “I have nothing more to tell you.”
    “We don’t have a lot of time to save this woman.”
    “I can’t discuss my former patients.”
    “Last night, your former patient sent us a souvenir.”
    He frowned. “What do you mean, what souvenir?”
    “The victim’s hair. He hacked it off her head, stuffed it into a grocery bag, and hung it on a tree, like a trophy. Now, I don’t know how a psychiatrist like you would interpret that. I’m just a cop. But I hate to think of what he might cut off next. And if the next thing we find is a piece of her flesh, I fucking promise you I will be back on this doorstep.