Last to Die

way Maura strove to control almost everything else in her life.
    “Rizzoli,” called out Detective Thomas Moore from a doorway. Like Frost, he looked beaten down, as if this day’s toll had aged him a decade. “Have you talked to the boy yet?”
    “Not yet. I wanted to see what we’re dealing with first.”
    “I spent an hour with him. He hardly said a word to me. Mrs. Lyman, the next-door neighbor, said that when he showed up at her house around eight this morning, he was almost catatonic.”
    “It sounds like what he really needs is a shrink.”
    “We have a call in to Dr. Zucker, and the social worker’s on her way. But I thought maybe Teddy might talk to you. Someone who’s a mother.”
    “What did the boy see? Do you know?”
    Moore shook his head. “I just hope he didn’t see what’s in this room.”
    That warning was enough to make Jane’s fingers feel chilled inside the latex gloves. Moore was a tall man, and his shoulders blocked her view into the bedroom, as if he was trying to protect her from the sight that awaited her. In silence, he stepped aside to let her pass.
    Two crime scene techs were crouched in a corner, and they looked up as Jane walked in. Both were young women, part of the new wave of female criminalists who now dominated the field. Neither one looked old enough to have children, to know what it was like to press worried kisses to a feverish cheek or to panic at the sight of an open window, an empty crib. With motherhood came a whole host of nightmares. In this room, one of those nightmares had come true.
    “We believe these victims are the Ackermans’ daughters Cassandra, age ten, and Sarah, age nine. Both adopted,” said Maura. “Since they’re out of their beds, something must have awakened them.”
    “Gunshots?” said Jane softly.
    “There were no reports of gunfire heard in the neighborhood,” said Moore. “A suppressor must have been used.”
    “But something alarmed these girls,” said Maura. “Something that made them climb out of bed.”
    Jane had not moved from her spot near the door. For a moment no one spoke, and she realized that they were all waiting for her to approach the bodies, to do her cop thing. Exactly what she had no wish to do. She forced herself to move toward the huddled bodies and knelt down.
They died holding each other
.
    “Judging by their positions,” said Maura, “it appears that Cassandra tried to shield her younger sister. Two of the bullets passed through Cassandra’s body first, before they penetrated Sarah’s. Single coup de grâce shots were fired into the heads of each girl. Their clothing doesn’t appear disturbed, so I see no obvious evidence of sexual assault, but I’ll need to confirm that at autopsy. That will be later this afternoon, if you’d like to observe, Jane.”
    “No. I would
not
like to observe. I’m not even supposed to be here today.” Abruptly she turned and walked out of the room, paper shoes crackling as she fled the sight of the two girls coiled together in death. But as she moved toward the stairwell, she again saw the body of the youngest child. Kimmie, eight years old. Everywhere I look in this house, she thought, there’s heartbreak.
    “Jane, are you all right?” said Maura.
    “Aside from wanting to rip this bastard limb from limb?”
    “I feel exactly the same way.”
    Then you do a better job of hiding it
. Jane stared down at the draped body. “I look at this kid,” she said softly, “and I can’t help seeing my own.”
    “You’re a mom, so it’s only natural. Look, Crowe and Moore will attend the autopsy. There’s no need for you to be there.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s going to be a long day. And I haven’t even packed yet.”
    “Is this the week you’re visiting Julian’s school?”
    “Come hell or high water, tomorrow I leave for Maine. Two weeks with a teenage boy and his dog. I have no idea what to expect.”
    Maura had no children of her own, so how could she possibly know? She and sixteen-year-old Julian Perkins had nothing in common beyond their shared ordeal last winter, fighting to survive in the Wyoming wilderness. She owed her life to the boy, and now she was determined to be the mother he had lost.
    “Let’s see, what can I tell you about teenage boys?” said Jane, trying to be helpful. “My brothers had stinky shoes. They slept till noon. And they ate about twelve times a day.”
    “Male pubertal metabolism. They can’t help