The Silent Girl

head. “It’s like what happened on the roof. I was the only one who saw it, and you didn’t believe me.”
    She focused again on the body. On the gun that was still clutched in the headless corpse’s hand. “I believe you now.”

F ROM HER PARKED CAR, MAURA SAW THREE POLICE OFFICERS STANDING by the barrier of crime scene tape. They all glanced her way and almost certainly recognized her black Lexus, so they knew the medical examiner had just arrived. But as she climbed out of her car and walked toward them, they turned their backs and continued chatting among themselves. Only when she formally announced herself did they finally deign to meet her gaze.
    “Is Detective Rizzoli in the residence?” she asked.
    “I don’t know, ma’am,” one of the patrolmen answered. “Why don’t you check inside?”
    Was he being intentionally unhelpful? It was impossible to tell from his coolly neutral expression. As she ducked under the tape and walked toward the front door, she heard them laugh and wondered if that was directed at her. Wondered if this was what she’d face at every future death scene. The looks, the whispers, the thinly disguised hostility. She stopped at the front door to pull booties over her shoes, careful not to lose her balance and give them one more thing to snicker about. As she straightened, the front door opened and Detective Tam stood looking at her.
    “Dr. Isles. Sorry to drag you out this time of night.”
    “Are both victims in the house?”
    “One of them’s in the kitchen. The second victim’s a few blocks away, in an alley.”
    “How did number two end up so far away from number one?”
    “He was trying to get away from Rizzoli. I guess she’s a hard gal to shake.”
    Tam led her from the foyer and down the hall. Booties rustling over the floor, she followed him into the kitchen and was surprised to see the commander of Boston PD’s homicide unit standing next to Barry Frost. It was rare to encounter Lieutenant Marquette at a crime scene, and his appearance here told her that something was very different about this homicide.
    The victim lay on his side on the tiled floor, his face resting in a congealing pool of blood. He was a heavyset white man in his seventies, dressed in tan trousers, a knit shirt, and dark socks. One slipper was still on his foot. The bullet wound in his left temple left little doubt about the cause of death. Maura did not immediately move toward the body but remained where she stood for a moment, scanning the floor for a weapon. She saw no gun anywhere near the body.
Not a suicide
.
    “He was a cop,” said Jane quietly.
    Maura had not heard her approach. She turned and stared at Jane’s blood-splattered blouse. Instead of her usual dark trouser suit, Jane was wearing baggy sweatpants, obviously an emergency change of clothes.
    “My God, Jane.”
    “Things got a little rough out there.”
    “Are you all right?”
    Jane nodded and looked down at the dead man. “I can’t say the same for him.”
    “Who is he?”
    Lieutenant Marquette answered. “Detective Lou Ingersoll. He retiredfrom the homicide unit sixteen years ago. He was one of ours, Dr. Isles. He deserves our very best effort.”
    Was he implying that she would give this victim any less than her best? That an ME who’d betray the thin blue line would betray this cop as well? Cheeks burning, she crouched down by the body. It took her a few seconds to register the name. Lou Ingersoll.
    She glanced up at Tam. “This was the man who worked the Red Phoenix massacre.”
    “You already know about him?” asked Jane.
    “Detective Tam and I discussed it when he brought me the autopsy reports.”
    Jane turned to Tam: “I didn’t know you consulted her.”
    Tam shrugged. “I just wanted Dr. Isles’s opinion. Whether something might have been missed nineteen years ago.”
    “Detective Rizzoli?” One of the criminalists stood in the kitchen doorway, a set of headphones looped around his neck. “We swept the room with a radio frequency scanner, and you’re right. There’s definitely a signal coming from his landline phone.”
    “A signal?” Marquette looked at Jane.
    “Ingersoll thought someone was monitoring his phone calls,” said Jane. “To be honest, I’m kind of surprised we actually found anything.”
    “Why would anyone bug his phone?”
    “It wouldn’t be for the usual reason. He’s been widowed for eighteen years, so there’s no divorce war. He’s got one daughter, and