Vanish: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

horrified even Gabriel, she thought, do I really want to see it? She gave herself no time to consider, but simply opened the folder and confronted the first crime scene photograph. This isn’t so bad, she thought. She had seen far worse. A slender brown-haired woman lay facedown on a stairway, as though she had dived from the top step. A river of her blood had streamed down, collecting in a pool at the bottom of the stairs.
    “That’s Jane Doe number one,” said Moore.
    “You don’t have ID on her?”
    “We don’t have ID on any of the victims in that house.”
    She turned to the next photograph. It was a young blonde this time, lying on a cot, the blanket pulled up to her neck, hands still clutching the fabric, as though it might protect her. A trickle of blood oozed from the bullet wound in her forehead. A swift kill, rendered with the stunning efficiency of a single bullet.
    “That’s Jane Doe number two,” said Moore. At her troubled glance, he added: “There are still others.”
    Jane heard the note of caution in his voice. Once again she was on edge as she turned to the next image. Staring at the third crime scene photo, she thought: This is getting harder, but I can still deal with it. It was a view through a closet doorway, into the blood-splattered interior. Two young women, both of them only partially clothed, sat slumped together in a tangle of arms and long hair, as though caught in a final embrace.
    “Jane Does number three and number four,” said Moore.
    “
None
of these women have been identified?”
    “Their fingerprints aren’t in any database.”
    “You’ve got four attractive women here. And no one reported them missing?”
    Moore shook his head. “They don’t match anyone on NCIC’s missing persons list.” He nodded at the two victims in the closet. “The cartridge that popped up in the IBIS match was found in that closet. Those two women were shot with the same weapon that the guard carried into Olena’s hospital room.”
    “And the other vics in this house? Also the same gun?”
    “No. A different weapon was used on them.”
    “Two guns? Two killers?”
    “Yes.”
    So far, none of the images had truly upset her. She reached without trepidation for the last photo, of Jane Doe number five. This time, what she saw made her rock back against the booth. Yet she could not drag her gaze from the image. She could only stare at the expression of mortal agony still etched on the victim’s face. This woman was older and heavier, in her forties. Her torso was tied to a chair with loops of white cord.
    “That’s the fifth and final victim,” said Moore. “The other four women were dispatched quickly. A bullet to the head, and that was that.” He looked at the open folder. “This one was eventually finished off with a bullet to the brain as well. But not until . . .” Moore paused. “Not until
that
was done to her.”
    “How long . . .” Jane swallowed. “How long was she kept alive?”
    “Based on the number of fractures in her hands and wrists, and the fact that all the bones were essentially pulverized, the medical examiner felt there were at least forty or fifty separate blows of the hammer. The hammerhead wasn’t large. Each blow would crush only a small area. But there was not one bone, one finger, that escaped.”
    Abruptly Jane closed the folder, unable to stomach the image any longer. But the damage was done, the memory now indelible.
    “It would have taken at least two attackers,” said Moore. “Someone to immobilize her while she was tied to the chair. Someone to hold her wrist to the table while
that
was being done to her.”
    “There would have been screams,” she murmured. She looked up at Moore. “Why didn’t anyone hear her screaming?”
    “The house is on a private dirt road, some distance from its neighbors. And remember, it was January.”
    When people keep their windows shut. The victim must have realized that no one would hear her cries. That there would be no rescue. The best she could hope for was the mercy of a bullet.
    “What did they want from her?” she asked.
    “We don’t know.”
    “There must have been a reason for doing this. Something she knew.”
    “We don’t even know who she was. Five Jane Does. None of these victims match any missing persons report.”
    “How can we not know
anything
about them?” She looked at her husband.
    Gabriel shook his head. “They’re ghosts, Jane. No names, no identities.”
    “What