feel invaded and vulnerable. But he was one of the few who had truly understood Hoyt; perhaps he would understand a copycat as well.
Rizzoli said, “It’s not just the folded nightclothes. There are other similarities. Duct tape was used to bind this victim.”
“Again, not unique. Did you ever watch the TV show
MacGyver
? He showed us a thousand and one uses for duct tape.”
“Nocturnal entry through a window. The victims surprised in bed—”
“When they’re most vulnerable. It’s a logical time to attack.”
“And the single slash, across the neck.”
Zucker shrugged. “A quiet and efficient way to kill.”
“But add it all together. The folded nightgown. The duct tape. The method of entry. The coup de grâce—”
“And what you get is an unknown subject who is choosing rather common strategies. Even the teacup on the victim’s lap—it’s a variation on what’s been done before, by serial rapists. They set a plate or other dishes on the husband. If he moves, the falling chinaware alerts the perp. These are common strategies because they work.”
In frustration, Rizzoli pulled out the Newton crime scene photos and laid them across his desk. “We’re trying to find a missing woman, Dr. Zucker. So far we have no leads. I don’t even want to think about what she’s going through right now—if she’s still alive. So you take a good long look at these. Tell me about this unsub. Tell me how we can find him. How we can find
her
.”
Dr. Zucker slipped on his glasses and picked up the first photo. He said nothing, just stared for a moment, then reached for the next in the series of images. The only sounds were the creak of his leather chair and his occasional murmur of interest. Through his office window Rizzoli could see the campus of Northeastern University, nearly deserted on this summer’s day. Only a few students were lolling on the grass outside, backpacks and books spread around them. She envied those students, envied their carefree days and their innocence. Their blind faith in the future. And their nights, uninterrupted by dark dreams.
“You said you found semen,” said Dr. Zucker.
Reluctantly she turned from the view of sunning students and looked at him. “Yes. On that oval rug in the photo. The lab confirms it’s a different blood type from the husband’s. The DNA’s been entered into the CODIS database.”
“Somehow, I doubt this unsub is careless enough to be identified by a national database match. No, I’m betting his DNA isn’t in CODIS.” Zucker looked up from the photo. “And I’ll bet he left no fingerprints.”
“Nothing that popped up on AFIS. Unfortunately, the Yeagers had at least fifty visitors at the house following the funeral for Mrs. Yeager’s mother. Which means we’re looking at a lot of unidentified prints.”
Zucker gazed down at the photo of Dr. Yeager, slumped against the blood-splattered wall. “This homicide was in Newton.”
“Yes.”
“Not an investigation you’d normally take part in. Why are you involved?” He looked up again, his gaze holding hers with discomforting intensity.
“I was asked by Detective Korsak—”
“Who is nominally in charge. Right?”
“Right. But—”
“Aren’t there enough homicides in Boston to keep you busy, Detective? Why do you feel the need to take this on?”
She stared back, feeling as though he had somehow crawled inside her brain, that he was poking around, searching for just the tender spot to torment. “I told you,” she said. “The woman may still be alive.”
“And you want to save her.”
“Don’t you?” she shot back.
“I’m curious, Detective,” said Zucker, unruffled by her anger. “Have you talked to anyone about the Hoyt case? I mean, about its impact on you, personally?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“Have you received any counseling?”
“Are you asking if I’ve seen a shrink?”
“It must have been a pretty awful experience, what happened
Rizzoli said, “It’s not just the folded nightclothes. There are other similarities. Duct tape was used to bind this victim.”
“Again, not unique. Did you ever watch the TV show
MacGyver
? He showed us a thousand and one uses for duct tape.”
“Nocturnal entry through a window. The victims surprised in bed—”
“When they’re most vulnerable. It’s a logical time to attack.”
“And the single slash, across the neck.”
Zucker shrugged. “A quiet and efficient way to kill.”
“But add it all together. The folded nightgown. The duct tape. The method of entry. The coup de grâce—”
“And what you get is an unknown subject who is choosing rather common strategies. Even the teacup on the victim’s lap—it’s a variation on what’s been done before, by serial rapists. They set a plate or other dishes on the husband. If he moves, the falling chinaware alerts the perp. These are common strategies because they work.”
In frustration, Rizzoli pulled out the Newton crime scene photos and laid them across his desk. “We’re trying to find a missing woman, Dr. Zucker. So far we have no leads. I don’t even want to think about what she’s going through right now—if she’s still alive. So you take a good long look at these. Tell me about this unsub. Tell me how we can find him. How we can find
her
.”
Dr. Zucker slipped on his glasses and picked up the first photo. He said nothing, just stared for a moment, then reached for the next in the series of images. The only sounds were the creak of his leather chair and his occasional murmur of interest. Through his office window Rizzoli could see the campus of Northeastern University, nearly deserted on this summer’s day. Only a few students were lolling on the grass outside, backpacks and books spread around them. She envied those students, envied their carefree days and their innocence. Their blind faith in the future. And their nights, uninterrupted by dark dreams.
“You said you found semen,” said Dr. Zucker.
Reluctantly she turned from the view of sunning students and looked at him. “Yes. On that oval rug in the photo. The lab confirms it’s a different blood type from the husband’s. The DNA’s been entered into the CODIS database.”
“Somehow, I doubt this unsub is careless enough to be identified by a national database match. No, I’m betting his DNA isn’t in CODIS.” Zucker looked up from the photo. “And I’ll bet he left no fingerprints.”
“Nothing that popped up on AFIS. Unfortunately, the Yeagers had at least fifty visitors at the house following the funeral for Mrs. Yeager’s mother. Which means we’re looking at a lot of unidentified prints.”
Zucker gazed down at the photo of Dr. Yeager, slumped against the blood-splattered wall. “This homicide was in Newton.”
“Yes.”
“Not an investigation you’d normally take part in. Why are you involved?” He looked up again, his gaze holding hers with discomforting intensity.
“I was asked by Detective Korsak—”
“Who is nominally in charge. Right?”
“Right. But—”
“Aren’t there enough homicides in Boston to keep you busy, Detective? Why do you feel the need to take this on?”
She stared back, feeling as though he had somehow crawled inside her brain, that he was poking around, searching for just the tender spot to torment. “I told you,” she said. “The woman may still be alive.”
“And you want to save her.”
“Don’t you?” she shot back.
“I’m curious, Detective,” said Zucker, unruffled by her anger. “Have you talked to anyone about the Hoyt case? I mean, about its impact on you, personally?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“Have you received any counseling?”
“Are you asking if I’ve seen a shrink?”
“It must have been a pretty awful experience, what happened
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