The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

off the capelet, folded it, and set it onto a plastic sheet.
    “Somehow, that’s really disappointing. Nuns using Velcro.”
    “You want to keep ’em in the Middle Ages?” said Rizzoli.
    “I just kind of figured they’d be more traditional or something.”
    “I hate to disillusion you, Detective Frost,” said Maura, as she removed the chain and crucifix. “But some convents even have their own Web sites these days.”
    “Oh, man. Nuns on the Internet. That blows my mind.”
    “The scapular looks like it comes off next,” said Maura, indicating the sleeveless overgarment that draped from shoulders to hem. Gently she lifted the scapular over the victim’s head. The fabric was soaked with blood, and stiff. She laid this on a separate plastic sheet, followed by the leather belt.
    They were down to the final layer of wool—a black tunic, draped loosely over Camille’s slim form. Her last barrier of modesty.
    In all her years of undressing corpses, Maura had never felt such reluctance to strip a victim nude. This was a woman who had chosen to live hidden from the eyes of men; now she would be cruelly revealed, her body probed, her orifices swabbed. The prospect of such an invasion brought a bitter taste to Maura’s throat and she paused to regain her composure. She saw Yoshima’s questioning glance. If he was disturbed, he did not show it. His impassive face was a calming influence in that room, where the very air seemed charged with emotion.
    She refocused on the task. Together, she and Yoshima lifted the tunic, sliding it up over the thighs and hips. It was loosely fitted, and they were able to remove it without breaking rigor mortis of the arms. Beneath it were yet more garments—a white cotton hood that had slid down around her neck, the front flaps safety-pinned to a bloodstained T-shirt. The same pins that had appeared on the X ray. Heavy black tights covered her legs. They removed the tights first, revealing white cotton panties beneath. They were absurdly modest briefs, designed to cover as much skin as possible, the underwear of an old lady, not a nubile young woman. A sanitary pad bulged beneath the cotton. As Maura had suspected earlier, from the bloodstained bed sheets, the victim was menstruating.
    Next Maura tackled the T-shirt. She unfastened a safety pin, peeled apart more Velcro flaps, and slid off the hood. The T-shirt, however, would not come off so easily due to rigor mortis. She reached for scissors and cut straight up the center of the shirt. The fabric parted, revealing yet another layer.
    This one took her aback. She stared at the band of cloth wrapped tightly around the chest, fastened at the front with two safety pins.
    “What’s that for?” asked Frost.
    “It looks like she bound her breasts,” said Maura.
    “Why?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “Substitute for a bra?” Rizzoli suggested.
    “I can’t imagine why she’d choose to wear this instead of a bra. Look how tightly it’s wrapped. It had to be uncomfortable.”
    Rizzoli snorted. “Yeah, like a bra’s comfortable?”
    “It’s not some kind of religious thing, is it?” said Frost. “Part of their habit?”
    “No, this is just standard Ace wrap. The same wrapping you’d buy at a drugstore to bind a sprained ankle.”
    “But how do we know what nuns usually wear? I mean, for all we know, under all those robes, they could be dressed in black lace and fishnet.”
    No one laughed.
    Maura gazed down at Camille, and was suddenly struck by the symbolism of bound breasts. Womanly features disguised, suppressed. Squeezed into submission. What had gone through Camille’s mind as she’d wound the cloth around her chest, pulling the elastic taut against her skin? Had she felt disgust about these reminders of womanhood? Had she felt cleaner, purer, as her breasts vanished beneath the strips of bandage, her curves flattened, her sexuality denied?
    Maura undid the two safety pins and set them on the tray. Then, with Yoshima’s assistance, she began to unwrap the binding, baring successive bands of skin. But even smothering elastic could not make healthy flesh shrivel away. The last strip came off, revealing ripe young breasts, the skin stippled with the imprint of the fabric. Other women would have been proud of those breasts; Camille Maginnes had concealed them, as though ashamed.
    There was one last item of clothing to remove. The cotton briefs.
    Maura slid the elastic waistband down over the hips and peeled it past