light through the window. The only imperfection is the scar on her chin, the consequence of an instant’s inattention during sparring practice. It was a mistake that she has never repeated. She stands straight and unafraid and confident. Perhaps too confident; on the battlefield, arrogance can prove fatal.
“Why did they come here?” she asks.
“They’re detectives. It’s their job to ask questions.”
“Did you learn anything else about the woman? Who she was, who sent her?”
“No.” I look out the window again, at passersby walking down Harrison Avenue. “But whoever she was, she knew how to find me.”
“She won’t be the last,” says Bella darkly.
She does not need to warn me; we both know the match has been struck and the fuse is lit.
In my office, I sink into my chair and stare at the framed photo that sits on my desk. It is a photo that I do not even need to look at, the image is so thoroughly burned into my memory. I pick it up and smile at the faces. I know the exact date the picture was taken, because it was my daughter’s birthday. Mothers may forget many things, but we always remember the day our children were born. In the picture, Laura is fourteen. She and I stand together in front of the Boston Symphony Hall, where we went to hear Joshua Bell perform. For a month before that concert, all Laura talked about was Joshua Bell this, Joshua Bell that.
Isn’t he handsome, Mommy? Doesn’t his violin practically
sing? In the photo, Laura is still aglow from watching her idol’s performance. My husband, James, was also with us that evening, but he is not in the photo; he does not appear in any of our photos because he was always the one holding the camera. How I wish I had thought, just once, to take that camera from his handsand snap a picture of his sweet, owlish face. But it never occurred to me that the opportunity, so precious, would suddenly vanish. That his smile would survive only in my memory, his image frozen at age thirty-seven. Forever, my young husband. A tear plops onto the frame, and I set the photo back on the desk.
They are both gone now. First my daughter, then my husband, ripped from my arms. How do you go on living when your heart has been cut out not just once, but twice? Yet here I am, still alive, still breathing.
For the moment.
I REMEMBER THE RED PHOENIX MASSACRE VERY WELL. IT WAS A CLASSIC case of
amok.
” Criminal psychologist Dr. Lawrence Zucker leaned back in his chair, looking across his desk at Jane and Frost with the penetrating stare that had always made Jane feel uneasy. Although Frost sat right beside her, Zucker seemed to look only at her, his gaze crawling into her mind, probing for secrets, as if she were the sole object of his curiosity. Zucker already knew too many of her secrets. He had witnessed her rocky start with the homicide unit, when she had still been battling for acceptance as the lone woman among twelve detectives. He knew about the nightmares that haunted her after a series of particularly brutal murders by a killer named the Surgeon. And he knew about the scars she would always carry on her hands, where that same killer had plunged scalpels through her flesh. With just one look, Zucker saw through all her defenses to the raw wounds beneath, and Jane resented how vulnerable that made her feel.
She focused instead on the folder lying open on his desk. It contained his nineteen-year-old report on the Red Phoenix, including the psychological profile of Wu Weimin, the Chinese cook responsible for the shootings. She knew Zucker to be a painstakingly thoroughclinician whose analyses sometimes ran dozens of pages long, so she was surprised by how thin the file appeared.
“This is your complete report?” she asked.
“It’s everything I contributed to the investigation. It includes the psychological postmortem of Mr. Wu, as well as the four victim reports. There should be a copy of all this in the Boston PD file. Detective Ingersoll was the
“Why did they come here?” she asks.
“They’re detectives. It’s their job to ask questions.”
“Did you learn anything else about the woman? Who she was, who sent her?”
“No.” I look out the window again, at passersby walking down Harrison Avenue. “But whoever she was, she knew how to find me.”
“She won’t be the last,” says Bella darkly.
She does not need to warn me; we both know the match has been struck and the fuse is lit.
In my office, I sink into my chair and stare at the framed photo that sits on my desk. It is a photo that I do not even need to look at, the image is so thoroughly burned into my memory. I pick it up and smile at the faces. I know the exact date the picture was taken, because it was my daughter’s birthday. Mothers may forget many things, but we always remember the day our children were born. In the picture, Laura is fourteen. She and I stand together in front of the Boston Symphony Hall, where we went to hear Joshua Bell perform. For a month before that concert, all Laura talked about was Joshua Bell this, Joshua Bell that.
Isn’t he handsome, Mommy? Doesn’t his violin practically
sing? In the photo, Laura is still aglow from watching her idol’s performance. My husband, James, was also with us that evening, but he is not in the photo; he does not appear in any of our photos because he was always the one holding the camera. How I wish I had thought, just once, to take that camera from his handsand snap a picture of his sweet, owlish face. But it never occurred to me that the opportunity, so precious, would suddenly vanish. That his smile would survive only in my memory, his image frozen at age thirty-seven. Forever, my young husband. A tear plops onto the frame, and I set the photo back on the desk.
They are both gone now. First my daughter, then my husband, ripped from my arms. How do you go on living when your heart has been cut out not just once, but twice? Yet here I am, still alive, still breathing.
For the moment.
I REMEMBER THE RED PHOENIX MASSACRE VERY WELL. IT WAS A CLASSIC case of
amok.
” Criminal psychologist Dr. Lawrence Zucker leaned back in his chair, looking across his desk at Jane and Frost with the penetrating stare that had always made Jane feel uneasy. Although Frost sat right beside her, Zucker seemed to look only at her, his gaze crawling into her mind, probing for secrets, as if she were the sole object of his curiosity. Zucker already knew too many of her secrets. He had witnessed her rocky start with the homicide unit, when she had still been battling for acceptance as the lone woman among twelve detectives. He knew about the nightmares that haunted her after a series of particularly brutal murders by a killer named the Surgeon. And he knew about the scars she would always carry on her hands, where that same killer had plunged scalpels through her flesh. With just one look, Zucker saw through all her defenses to the raw wounds beneath, and Jane resented how vulnerable that made her feel.
She focused instead on the folder lying open on his desk. It contained his nineteen-year-old report on the Red Phoenix, including the psychological profile of Wu Weimin, the Chinese cook responsible for the shootings. She knew Zucker to be a painstakingly thoroughclinician whose analyses sometimes ran dozens of pages long, so she was surprised by how thin the file appeared.
“This is your complete report?” she asked.
“It’s everything I contributed to the investigation. It includes the psychological postmortem of Mr. Wu, as well as the four victim reports. There should be a copy of all this in the Boston PD file. Detective Ingersoll was the
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