The Apprentice

“It’s a match?”

Dr. Isles nodded. “I have no doubt these are the remains of Gail Yeager.”

Rizzoli turned back to the body on the table, her gaze falling on the ring of bruises around the throat. “Did you X-ray the neck?”

“Yes. There are bilateral thyroid horn fractures. Consistent with manual strangulation.” Isles turned to Yoshima, whose silent and ghostly efficiency sometimes made one forget he was even in the room. “Let’s get her into position for the vaginal swabs.”

What followed next struck Rizzoli as the worst indignity that could befall a woman’s mortal remains. It was worse than the gutting open of the belly, worse than the resection of heart and lungs. Yoshima maneuvered the flaccid legs into a froglike position, spreading the thighs wide for the pelvic exam.

“Excuse me, Detective?” Yoshima said to Korsak, who was standing closest to Gail Yeager’s left thigh. “Could you hold that leg in position?”

Korsak stared at him in horror. “Me?”

“Just keep the knee flexed like that, so we can collect the swabs.”

Reluctantly Korsak reached for the corpse’s thigh, then jerked back as a layer of skin peeled off in his gloved hand. “Christ. Aw, Christ.”

“The skin’s going to slip, no matter what you do. If you could just hold the leg open, okay?”

Korsak let out a sharp breath. Through the stench of the room, Rizzoli caught a whiff of Vicks menthol. Korsak, at least, had not been too proud to dab it on his upper lip. Grimacing, he grabbed the thigh and rotated it sideways, exposing Gail Yeager’s genitalia. “Like this is go

Dr. Isles directed the exam light onto the perineum. Gently she spread apart the swollen labia to reveal the introitus. Rizzoli, stoic as she was, could not bear to watch this grotesque invasion, and she turned away.

Her gaze met Gabriel Dean’s.

Up till that moment, he had been observing the proceedings with quiet detachment. But at that instant, she saw anger in his eyes. It was the same rage she now felt toward the man who had brought Gail Yeager to this ultimate degradation. Staring at each other in shared outrage, their rivalry was temporarily forgotten.

Dr. Isles inserted a cotton swab into the vagina, smeared it across a microscope slide, and set the slide on a tray. Next she took a rectal swab, which would also be analyzed for the presence of sperm. When she’d completed the collection and Gail Yeager’s legs were once again lying straight on the table, Rizzoli felt as though the worst was over. Even as Isles started the Y incision, cutting diagonally from the right shoulder down to the lower end of the sternum, Rizzoli thought that nothing could surpass the indignity of what had already been done to this victim.

Isles was just about to cut a matching incision from the left shoulder when Dean said, “What about the vaginal smear?”

“The slides will go to the crime lab,” said Dr. Isles.

“Aren’t you going to do a wet prep?”

“The lab can identify sperm perfectly well on a dry slide.”

“This is your only chance to examine the fresh specimen.”

Dr. Isles paused, scalpel tip poised over the skin, and gave Dean a puzzled look. Then she said to Yoshima, “Put a few drops of saline on that slide and slip it under the microscope. I’ll take a look in just a second.”

The abdominal incision came next, Dr. Isles’s scalpel slicing into the bloated belly. The stench of decomposing organs was suddenly more than Rizzoli could bear. She lurched away and stood gagging over the sink, regretting that she had so foolishly tried to prove her own fortitude. She wondered if Agent Dean was watching her now and feeling any sense of superiority. She had not seen Vicks glistening on his upper lip. She kept her back turned to the table and listened, rather than watched, as the autopsy proceeded behind her. She heard the air blowing steadily through the ventilation system and water gurgling and the clang of metal instruments.

Then she heard Yoshima call out, in a startled voice, “Dr. Isles?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve got the slide under the scope, and…”

“Is there sperm?”

“You really need to see this for yourself.”

Her nausea fading, Rizzoli turned to watch as Isles peeled off her gloves and sat down at the microscope. Yoshima hovered over her as she gazed into the eyepiece.

“Do you see them?” he asked.

“Yes,” she murmured. She sat back, looking stu

“About then.”

“And it’s now nine P.M.-”

“Well, is there sperm or not?” cut in Korsak.

“Yes, there’s sperm,” said Isles. “And it’s motile.”

Korsak frowned. “Meaning what? Like it’s moving?”

“Yes. It’s moving.”

A silence dropped over the room. The significance of this finding had startled them all.

“How long does sperm stay motile?” asked Rizzoli.

“It depends on the environment.”

“How long?”

“After ejaculation, they can remain motile for one or two days. At least half of the sperm under that microscope are moving. This is fresh ejaculate. Probably no more than a day old.”

“And how long has the victim been dead?” asked Dean.

“Based on her vitreous potassium levels, which I drew about five hours ago, she’s been dead at least sixty hours.”

Another silence passed. Rizzoli saw the same conclusion register on everyone’s faces. She looked at Gail Yeager, who now lay with torso split open, organs bared. Hand clapped to her mouth, Rizzoli spun toward the sink. For the first time in her career as a cop, Jane Rizzoli was sick.

“He knew,” said Korsak. “That son of a bitch knew.”

They stood together in the parking lot behind the M.E.‘s building, the tip of Korsak’s cigarette glowing orange. After the chill air of the autopsy room, it almost felt good to be bathed in the steam of a summer night, to escape the harsh procedure lights and retreat into this cloak of darkness. She had been humiliated by her display of weakness, humiliated most of all that Agent Dean was there to see it. At least he’d been considerate enough to make no comment and had regarded her with neither sympathy nor ridicule, merely indifference.

“Dean’s the one who asked for that test on the sperm,” said Korsak. “Whatever he called it-”

“The wet prep.”

“Yeah, the wet prep thing. Isles wasn’t even go

“You did the background on the Yeagers. What’s there to attract the FBI?”

“Not a thing.”

“Were they into something they shouldn’t have been?”

“You make it sound like the Yeagers got themselves killed.”

“He was a doctor. Are we talking about drug deals here? A federal witness?”

“He was clean. His wife was clean.”

“That coup de grâce-like an execution. Maybe that’s the symbolism. A slice across the throat, to silence him.”

“Jesus, Rizzoli. You’ve made a hundred-eighty-degree turn here. First we’re thinking sex perp who kills for the thrill of it. Now you’re into conspiracies.”

“I’m trying to understand why Dean’s involved. The FBI never gives a shit about what we’re doing. They stay out of our way, we stay out of theirs, and that’s how everybody likes it. We didn’t ask for their help with the Surgeon. We handled it all in-house, used our own profiler. Their behavioral unit’s too busy kissing up to Hollywood to give us the time of day. So what’s different about this case? What makes the Yeagers special?”

“We didn’t find a thing on them,” said Korsak. “No debts, no financial red flags. No pending court cases. No one who’d say boo about either one of them.”