across the strong angles of his cheek.
“These
blows were meant to kill.”
----
F OUR
C AMILLE M AGINNES HAD YOUNG BONES ,
thought
Maura, gazing at the X rays hanging on the morgue light box. The years had not
yet
chewed away at the novice’s joints, nor collapsed her vertebrae or
calcified
the costal cartilage of her ribs. Now the years never would. Camille would be
placed
into the earth, her bones forever arrested in a state of youth.
Yoshima had x-rayed the body while it was fully dressed, a
standard
precaution to locate loose bullets or other metal fragments that might be lodged
in clothing. Except for the crucifix, and what were clearly safety pins over the
chest, no other pieces of metal were visible on the X rays.
Maura pulled down the torso views, and the stiff X rays made a
musical boing as they bent in her hands. She reached for the skull films, and slid them under
the
light box clips.
“Jesus,” Detective Frost murmured.
The damage to the cranium was appalling. One of the blows had been
heavy enough to drive bone fragments deep below the level of surrounding skull.
Although
Maura had not yet made a single incision, she could already envision the damage
inside
the cranium. The ruptured vessels, the taut pockets of hemorrhage. And the
brain,
herniating under the mounting pressure of blood.
“Talk to us, Doc,” said Rizzoli, crisp and to the point.
She was looking healthier this morning, had walked into the morgue that morning
with
her usual brisk stride, the warrior woman back in action. “What are you
seeing?”
“Three separate blows,” said Maura. “The first one
hit
here, on the crown.” She pointed to a single fracture line, running
diagonally
forward. “The other two blows followed, at the back of the head. My guess
is,
she was facedown by that time. Lying helpless and prone. That’s when the
last
blow crushed through the skull.”
It was a finale so brutal that she and the two detectives fell
silent
for a moment, imagining the fallen woman, her face pressed to the stone floor.
The
attacker’s arm rising, hand gripping the death weapon. The sound of
shattering
bone breaking the silence of that chapel.
“Like clubbing a baby seal,” said Rizzoli. “She
didn’t
have a chance.”
Maura turned to the autopsy table, where Camille Maginnes lay,
still
clothed in her blood-soaked habit. “Let’s undress her.”
A gloved and gowned Yoshima stood waiting, the ghost of the
autopsy
room. With silent efficiency, he had assembled the tray of instruments, angled
lights
and readied specimen containers. Maura scarcely needed to speak; with only a
look,
he could read her mind.
First they removed the black leather shoes, ugly and practical.
Then
they paused, eyeing the victim’s many layers of clothing, preparing for a
task
they had never before attempted: the disrobing of a nun.
“The guimpe should come off first,” said Maura.
“What’s that?” asked Frost.
“The shoulder capelet. Only I don’t see any fasteners on
the front. And I didn’t see any zippers on X ray. Let’s turn her onto
her
side, so I can check the back.”
The body, now stiff in rigor mortis, was light as a child’s.
They
logrolled her sideways, and Maura peeled apart the edges of the capelet.
“Velcro,” she said.
Frost gave a startled laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“The medieval meets the modern age.” Maura slid off the
capelet,
folded it, and set it onto a plastic sheet.
“Somehow, that’s really disappointing. Nuns using
Velcro.”
“You want to keep ’em in the Middle Ages?” said
Rizzoli.
“I just kind of figured they’d be more traditional or
something.”
“I hate to disillusion you, Detective Frost,” said
Maura,
as she removed the chain and crucifix. “But some convents even have their
own
Web sites these days.”
“Oh, man. Nuns on the Internet. That blows my mind.”
“The scapular looks like it comes off next,” said Maura,
indicating the sleeveless overgarment that
“These
blows were meant to kill.”
----
F OUR
C AMILLE M AGINNES HAD YOUNG BONES ,
thought
Maura, gazing at the X rays hanging on the morgue light box. The years had not
yet
chewed away at the novice’s joints, nor collapsed her vertebrae or
calcified
the costal cartilage of her ribs. Now the years never would. Camille would be
placed
into the earth, her bones forever arrested in a state of youth.
Yoshima had x-rayed the body while it was fully dressed, a
standard
precaution to locate loose bullets or other metal fragments that might be lodged
in clothing. Except for the crucifix, and what were clearly safety pins over the
chest, no other pieces of metal were visible on the X rays.
Maura pulled down the torso views, and the stiff X rays made a
musical boing as they bent in her hands. She reached for the skull films, and slid them under
the
light box clips.
“Jesus,” Detective Frost murmured.
The damage to the cranium was appalling. One of the blows had been
heavy enough to drive bone fragments deep below the level of surrounding skull.
Although
Maura had not yet made a single incision, she could already envision the damage
inside
the cranium. The ruptured vessels, the taut pockets of hemorrhage. And the
brain,
herniating under the mounting pressure of blood.
“Talk to us, Doc,” said Rizzoli, crisp and to the point.
She was looking healthier this morning, had walked into the morgue that morning
with
her usual brisk stride, the warrior woman back in action. “What are you
seeing?”
“Three separate blows,” said Maura. “The first one
hit
here, on the crown.” She pointed to a single fracture line, running
diagonally
forward. “The other two blows followed, at the back of the head. My guess
is,
she was facedown by that time. Lying helpless and prone. That’s when the
last
blow crushed through the skull.”
It was a finale so brutal that she and the two detectives fell
silent
for a moment, imagining the fallen woman, her face pressed to the stone floor.
The
attacker’s arm rising, hand gripping the death weapon. The sound of
shattering
bone breaking the silence of that chapel.
“Like clubbing a baby seal,” said Rizzoli. “She
didn’t
have a chance.”
Maura turned to the autopsy table, where Camille Maginnes lay,
still
clothed in her blood-soaked habit. “Let’s undress her.”
A gloved and gowned Yoshima stood waiting, the ghost of the
autopsy
room. With silent efficiency, he had assembled the tray of instruments, angled
lights
and readied specimen containers. Maura scarcely needed to speak; with only a
look,
he could read her mind.
First they removed the black leather shoes, ugly and practical.
Then
they paused, eyeing the victim’s many layers of clothing, preparing for a
task
they had never before attempted: the disrobing of a nun.
“The guimpe should come off first,” said Maura.
“What’s that?” asked Frost.
“The shoulder capelet. Only I don’t see any fasteners on
the front. And I didn’t see any zippers on X ray. Let’s turn her onto
her
side, so I can check the back.”
The body, now stiff in rigor mortis, was light as a child’s.
They
logrolled her sideways, and Maura peeled apart the edges of the capelet.
“Velcro,” she said.
Frost gave a startled laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“The medieval meets the modern age.” Maura slid off the
capelet,
folded it, and set it onto a plastic sheet.
“Somehow, that’s really disappointing. Nuns using
Velcro.”
“You want to keep ’em in the Middle Ages?” said
Rizzoli.
“I just kind of figured they’d be more traditional or
something.”
“I hate to disillusion you, Detective Frost,” said
Maura,
as she removed the chain and crucifix. “But some convents even have their
own
Web sites these days.”
“Oh, man. Nuns on the Internet. That blows my mind.”
“The scapular looks like it comes off next,” said Maura,
indicating the sleeveless overgarment that
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