Vanish: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

pruners. With each squeeze, he snapped through a rib. A man could spend years developing his physique, as this victim surely had, straining against pulleys and barbells. But all bodies, muscular or not, yield to a knife and a pruner.
    Abe cut through the last rib and lifted off the triangle containing the sternum. Deprived of its bony shield, the heart and lungs now lay exposed to his blade, and he reached in to resect them, his arm sinking deep into the chest cavity.
    “Dr. Bristol?” said Yoshima, hanging up the phone. “I just spoke to Ballistics. They said that CSU only turned in one cartridge.”
    Abe straightened, his gloves streaked with blood. “They didn’t find the second one?”
    “That’s all they received in the lab. Just one.”
    “That’s what I heard, Abe,” said Maura. “One gunshot.”
    Gabriel crossed to the light box. He stared at the films with a growing sense of dismay. One shot, two bullets, he thought. This may change everything. He turned and looked at Abe. “I need to look at those bullets.”
    “Anything in particular you’re expecting to find?”
    “I think I know why there are two of them.”
    Abe nodded. “Let me finish here first.” Swiftly his blade sliced through vessels and ligaments. He lifted out the heart and lungs, to be weighed and inspected later, then moved on to the abdomen. All looked normal. These were the healthy organs of a man whose body would have served him well for decades to come.
    He moved, at last, to the head.
    Gabriel watched, unflinching, as Abe sliced through the scalp and peeled it forward, collapsing the face, exposing cranium.
    Yoshima turned on the saw.
    Even then, Gabriel remained focused, through the whine of the saw, the grinding of bone, moving even closer to catch his first glimpse of the cavity. Yoshima pried off the skullcap and blood trickled out. Abe reached in with the scalpel to free the brain. As he pulled it from the cranial cavity, Gabriel was right beside him, holding a basin to catch the first bullet that tumbled out.
    He took one glance at it under the magnifying lens, then said: “I need to see the other one.”
    “What are you thinking, Agent Dean?”
    “Just find the other bullet.” His brusque demand took everyone by surprise, and he saw Abe and Maura exchange startled glances. He was out of patience; he needed to know.
    Abe set the resected brain on the cutting board. Studying the X-rays, he pinpointed the second bullet’s location, and with the first slice, he found it, buried within a pocket of hemorrhaged tissue.
    “What are you looking for?” Abe asked, as Gabriel rotated the two bullets beneath the magnifying lens.
    “Same caliber. Both about eighty grams . . .”
    “They should be the same. They were fired from the same weapon.”
    “But these are not identical.”
    “What?”
    “Look at how the second bullet sits on its base. It’s subtle, but you can see it.”
    Abe leaned forward, frowning through the lens. “It’s a little off-kilter.”
    “Exactly. It’s at an angle.”
    “The impact could have deformed it.”
    “No, it was manufactured this way. At a nine-degree cant, to send it in a slightly different trajectory from the first. Two missiles, designed for controlled dispersion.”
    “There was only one cartridge.”
    “And only one entrance wound.”
    Maura was frowning at the skull X-rays hanging on the light box. At the two bullets, glowing brightly against the fainter glow of cranium. “A duplex round,” she said.
    “That’s why you only heard one shot fired,” said Gabriel. “Because there
was
only one shot.”
    Maura was silent for a moment, her gaze on the skull films. Dramatic as they were, the X-rays did not reveal the track of devastation those two bullets had left in soft tissue. Ruptured vessels, mangled gray matter. A lifetime’s worth of memories atomized.
    “Duplex rounds are designed to inflict maximum damage,” she said.
    “That’s their selling point.”
    “Why would a security guard arm himself with bullets like these?”
    “I think we’ve already established this man was not a hospital employee. He walked in with a fake uniform, a fake name tag, armed with bullets designed not just to maim, but to kill. There’s only one good explanation I can come up with.”
    Maura said, softly: “The woman was meant to die.”
    For a moment no one spoke.
    It was the voice of Maura’s secretary that suddenly broke the silence. “Dr. Isles?” she said, over the