The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

scopes and cameras and fingerprint powders. That night, she had not been afraid.
    Now she found herself breathing hard. Found herself staying close behind Rizzoli, acutely conscious of the fact that she had no one to watch her own back. She felt her neck hairs rise, her attention focused with exquisite sensitivity on any sounds, any hint of movement behind her.
    Rizzoli halted, flashlight veering to the right. “This is the hallway?”
    “The bathroom’s at that end.”
    Rizzoli moved forward, light bouncing from one wall to the other. At the last doorway she paused, as though already knowing that what came next would be disturbing. She cast her light into the room and stood staring at smears of blood on the tile floor. Her light briefly slid across the walls, past the bathroom stall and porcelain urinals and rust-stained sinks. Then it returned, as though pulled by magnetic force, to the floor where the corpse had lain.
    A place of death has a power all its own. Long after the body is removed and the blood scrubbed away, such a place still retains the memory of what has happened there. It holds echoes of screams, the lingering scent of fear. And like a black hole, it sucks into its vortex the rapt attention of the living, who cannot turn away, cannot resist a glimpse into hell.
    Rizzoli crouched down to look at the blood-smeared tiles.
    “It was a clean shot, into her heart,” said Maura, squatting down beside her. “Pericardial tamponade, leading to rapid cardiac arrest. That’s why there’s so little blood on the floor. She had no heartbeat, no circulation. When he performed the amputations, he was cutting into a corpse.”
    They fell silent, their gazes on the brown stains. Here in this bathroom, there were no windows. A light shining in this room wouldn’t be visible from the street. Whoever wielded the knife could take his time, lingering undisturbed over the object of his butchery. There were no screams to muffle, no threat of discovery. He could cut at his leisure, through skin and joint, harvesting his prizes in flesh.
    And when he was done, he left the body in this place where vermin reigned, where rats and roaches would feast, obliterating whatever flesh remained.
    Maura rose to her feet, breathing hard. Though the building was frigid, her hands were sweating inside her gloves, and she felt her heart pounding.
    “Can we go now?” she said.
    “Wait. Let me look around some more.”
    “There’s nothing more to see here.”
    “We just got here, Doc.”
    Maura glanced toward the dark hallway and shivered. She felt an odd shift in the air, a chill breath that raised the hairs on her neck. The door, she thought suddenly. We left the door to the alley unlocked.
    Rizzoli was still crouched over the bloodstains, her Maglite slowly skimming the floor, her attention focused only on the blood. She’s not rattled, thought Maura. Why should I be? Calm down, calm down.
    She edged toward the doorway. Wielded her light like a saber, slashing it swiftly into the dark hallway.
    Saw nothing.
    The hairs on the back of her neck were standing straight up.
    “Rizzoli,” she whispered. “Can we get out of here now?”
    Only then did Rizzoli hear the tension in Maura’s voice. She asked, just as quietly: “What is it?”
    “I want to leave.”
    “Why?”
    Maura stared into the dark hallway. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
    “Did you hear anything?”
    “Let’s just get out of here, okay?”
    Rizzoli rose to her feet. Said, softly: “Okay.” She stepped past Maura into the hallway. Paused, as though sniffing the air for any hint of a threat. Fearless Rizzoli, always in the lead, thought Maura, as she followed the detective back up the hallway and through the dining room. They stepped into the kitchen, flashlights beaming. Perfect targets, she realized. And here we come, creaking across the floor, our beams like two bull’s-eyes.
    Maura felt a whoosh of cold air and stared at the silhouette of a man, standing in the open doorway. She froze, a stunned observer, as voices suddenly exploded in the shadows.
    Rizzoli, already in a combat crouch, screamed: “Freeze!”
    “Drop your weapon!”
    “I said
freeze
, asshole!” Rizzoli commanded.
    “Boston PD! I’m Boston PD!”
    “Who the hell . . .”
    Rizzoli’s flashlight suddenly lit on the intruder’s face. He raised his arm against the glare, his eyes narrowed. There was a long silence.
    Rizzoli gave a snort of disgust. “Oh shit.”
    “Yeah,