The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

from the clinic—both of them Americans.”
    “The same clinic where Ursula worked.”
    Dean nodded. “Now here’s the really interesting detail,” he said.
    She looked up, her attention suddenly sharpened by the change in his voice. “Yes?”
    “That factory, near the village.”
    “What about it?”
    “It was owned by Octagon Chemicals.”
    She stared at him. “Octagon? That’s the company Howard Redfield worked for?”
    He nodded. “The one under SEC investigation. There are so many lines connecting these three victims, it’s starting to look like a giant spiderweb. We know Howard Redfield was a VP of foreign operations for Octagon, which owned the factory near Bara village. We know Sister Ursula worked in Bara village. We know that Jane Doe suffered from Hansen’s disease, so she may have lived in Bara village as well.”
    “It all goes back to that village,” she said.
    “To that massacre.”
    Her gaze dropped to the photographs. “What are you hoping I’ll find in these autopsy reports?”
    “Tell me if there’s something the Indian pathologists missed. Something that might shed light on that attack.”
    She looked at the burned corpses and shook her head. “It’s going to be difficult. Incineration destroys too much. Whenever fire’s involved, the cause of death may be impossible to determine, unless there’s other evidence. Bullets, for instance, or fractures.”
    “A number of the skulls were crushed, according to those postmortem reports. They concluded the victims were most likely bludgeoned while asleep. The bodies were then dragged from the huts to form several different piles, for incineration.”
    She turned to another photo. Another view of hell. “All these victims,” she murmured. “And no one was able to escape?”
    “It must have happened very quickly. Many of the victims were probably crippled by disease and unable to run. It was, after all, a sanctuary for the sick. The village was cut off from society, isolated in a valley at the dead end of a road. A large group of attackers could swoop in and easily slaughter a hundred people. And no one would hear the screams.”
    Maura turned to the last photograph in the folder. It showed a small whitewashed building with a tin roof, the walls scorched by fire. Lying just outside the doorway was another jumble of corpses, limbs intertwined, features burned beyond recognition.
    “That clinic was the only building still standing, because it was built of cinder blocks,” said Dean. “The remains of the two American nurses were found in that pile there. A forensic anthropologist had to identify them. He said the burning was so complete, he believed the attackers must have used an accelerant. Would you agree with that, Dr. Isles?”
    Maura didn’t answer. She was no longer focused on the bodies. She stared, instead, at something she found far more disturbing. Something that made her forget, for a few seconds, to breathe.
    Over the clinic doorway hung a sign with a distinctive insignia: a dove in flight, its wings spread in loving protection over a blue globe. An insignia she recognized at once.
    It was a One Earth clinic.
    “Dr. Isles?” said Dean.
    She looked up, startled. Realized that he was still waiting for her response. “Bodies . . . aren’t all that easy to incinerate,” she said. “There’s too high a water content.”
    “These bodies were charred down to bone.”
    “Yes. That’s true. So an accelerant—you’re right, an accelerant was probably used.”
    “Gasoline?”
    “Gasoline would work. And it’s the most readily available.” Her gaze dropped back to the photos of the scorched clinic. “Also, you can clearly see the remains of a pyre, which later collapsed. These charred branches . . .”
    “Does that make a difference? Using a pyre?” he asked.
    She cleared her throat. “Raising the bodies off the ground allows melting fat to drip into the flames. It . . . keeps the fire hot.” Abruptly she swept up the photos and slid them back into the folder. Sat with her hands clasped atop the manila file, its surface smooth beneath her skin, its contents gnawing a hole in her heart. “If you don’t mind, Agent Dean, I’d like some time to review these autopsy reports. I’ll get back to you. May I keep the entire file?”
    “Of course.” Dean rose from his chair. “You can reach me in Washington.”
    She was still staring down at the folder, and did not see him head for the door. Nor did she