Perplexed by the question, Maura only stared at her.
“You could have gone into any field of medicine. Obstetrics, pediatrics. You could be working with live patients, but you chose pathology. Specifically, forensic pathology.”
“What’s the point of your question?”
“The point is, you’re somehow attracted to the dead.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Then why did you choose your field?”
“Because I like definitive answers. I don’t like guessing games. I like to see the diagnosis under my microscope lens.”
“You don’t like uncertainty.”
“Does anyone?”
“Then you could have chosen mathematics or engineering. So many other fields involve precision. Definitive answers. But there you are in the M.E.’s office, communing with corpses.” O’Donnell paused. Asked, quietly: “Do you ever enjoy it?”
Maura met her gaze head-on. “No.”
“You chose an occupation you don’t enjoy?”
“I chose the challenge. There’s satisfaction in that. Even if the task itself isn’t pleasant.”
“But don’t you see what I’m getting at? You tell me you don’t see anything familiar about Amalthea Lank. You look at her, and probably see someone horrifying. Or at least a woman who committed horrifying acts. There are people who look at you, Dr. Isles, and probably think the same thing.”
“You can’t possibly compare us.”
“Do you know what your mother was convicted of?”
“Yes, I’ve been told.”
“But have you seen the autopsy reports?”
“Not yet.”
“I have. During the trial, the defense team asked me to consult on your mother’s mental status. I’ve seen the photos, reviewed the evidence. You do know that the victims were two sisters? Young women stranded at the side of the road.”
“Yes.”
“And the younger one was nine months pregnant.”
“I know all this.”
“So you know that your mother picked up those two women on the highway. She drives them thirty miles away, to a shed in the woods. Crushes their skulls with a tire iron. And then she does something surprisingly-weirdly-logical. She drives to a service station and fills a can with gas. Returns to the shed and sets it on fire, with the two bodies inside.” O’Donnell cocked her head. “Don’t you find that interesting?”
“I find it sickening.”
“Yes, but on some level, maybe you’re feeling something else, something you don’t even want to acknowledge. That you’re intrigued by these actions, not just as an intellectual puzzle. There’s something about it that fascinates you, even excites you.”
“The way it obviously excites you?”
O’Donnell took no offense at that retort. Instead she smiled, easily acknowledging Maura’s remark. “My interest is professional. It’s my job to study acts of murder. I’m just wondering about the reasons for your interest in Amalthea Lank.”
“Two days ago, I didn’t know who my mother was. Now I’m trying to come to grips with the truth. I’m trying to understand-”
“Who you are?” O’Donnell asked softly.
Maura met her gaze. “I know who I am.”
“Are you sure?” O’Donnell leaned closer. “When you’re in that autopsy lab, examining a victim’s wounds, describing a killer’s knife thrusts, don’t you ever feel just a whisper of a thrill?”
“What makes you think I would?”
“You are Amalthea’s daughter.”
“I’m an accident of biology. She didn’t raise me.”
O’Donnell settled back in the chair and studied her with coldly appraising eyes. “You’re aware there’s a genetic component to violence? That some families carry it in their DNA?”
Maura remembered what Rizzoli had told her about Dr. O’Donnelclass="underline" She’s beyond curious. She wants to know what it’s like to cut skin and watch a victim bleed. What it’s like to enjoy that ultimate power. She’s hungry for details, the way a vampire’s hungry for blood. Maura could now see that glint of hunger in O’Donnell’s eyes. This woman enjoys communing with monsters, thought Maura. And she’s hoping she’s found another one.
“I came to talk about Amalthea,” said Maura.
“Isn’t that who we’ve been discussing?”
“According to MCI-Framingham, you’ve been to see her at least a dozen times. Why so often? Surely not for her benefit.”
“As a researcher, I’m interested in Amalthea. I want to understand what drives people to kill. Why they take pleasure from it.”
“You’re saying she did it for pleasure?”
“Well, do you know why she killed?”
“She’s clearly psychotic.”
“The vast majority of psychotics don’t kill.”
“But you do agree that she is?”
O’Donnell hesitated. “She would appear to be.”
“You don’t sound sure. Even after all the visits you’ve made?”
“There’s more to your mother than just psychosis. And there’s more to her crime than meets the eye.”
“What do you mean?”
“You say you already know what she did. Or at least, what the prosecution claims she did.”
“The evidence was solid enough to convict her.”
“Oh, there was plenty of evidence. Her license plate caught on camera at the service station. The women’s blood on the tire iron. Their wallets in the trunk. But you probably haven’t heard about this.” O’Donnell reached for one of the files on the coffee table and handed it to Maura. “It’s from the crime lab in Virginia, where Amalthea was arrested.”
Maura opened the folder and saw a photo of a white sedan with a Massachusetts license plate.
“That’s the car Amalthea was driving,” said O’Donnell.
Maura turned to the next page. It was a summary of the fingerprint evidence.
“There were a number of prints found inside that car,” said O’Donnell. “Both victims, Nikki and Theresa Wells, left their prints on the rear seat belt buckles, indicating they climbed into the backseat and strapped themselves in. There were fingerprints left by Amalthea, of course, on the steering wheel and gearshift.” O’Donnell paused. “And then, there’s the fourth set of fingerprints.”
“A fourth set?”
“It’s right there, in that report. They were found on the glove compartment. On both doors, and on the steering wheel. Those prints were never identified.”
“It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe a mechanic worked on her car and left behind his fingerprints.”
“A possibility. Now look at the hair and fiber report.”
Maura turned to the next page and saw that blond hairs had been found on the back seat. The hairs matched Theresa and Nikki Wells. “I see nothing surprising about this. We know the victims were in the car.”
“But you’ll notice that none of their hairs appear in the front seat. Think about it. Two women stranded at the side of the road. Someone pulls over, offers to give them a lift. And what do the sisters do? They both climb into the backseat. It seems a little rude, doesn’t it? Leaving the driver all alone up in front. Unless…”
Maura looked up at her. “Unless someone else was already sitting in that front seat.”
O’Donnell sat back, a satisfied smile on her lips. “That’s the tantalizing question. A question that was never answered at trial. It’s the reason I keep going back, again and again, to see your mother. I want to learn what the police never bothered to find out: Who was sitting in the front seat with Amalthea?”
“She hasn’t told you?”
“Not his name.”
Maura stared at her. “His?”
“I’m only guessing the sex. But I do believe that someone was in the car with Amalthea at the moment she spotted those two women on the road. Someone helped her control those victims. Someone who was strong enough to help her stack those bodies in the shed and helped her set them on fire.” O’Donnell paused. “He’s the one I’m interested in, Dr. Isles. He’s the one I want to find.”