“I can’t even talk about Hoyt anymore,” she said. “Can’t mention him without people giving me that pitying look. Yesterday, I tried to point Out the parallels between the Surgeon and our new boy, and I could see Dean thinking: She’s still got the Surgeon on the brain. He thinks I’m obsessed.” She sighed. “Maybe I am. Maybe that’s how it’ll always be. I’ll walk onto any crime scene and I’ll see his handiwork. Every perp will have his face.”
They both glanced at the radio as Dispatch said, “We have a request for a premises check, Fairview Cemetery. Any units in the area?”
No one responded.
Dispatch repeated the request: “We have a call for a premises check, Fairview Cemetery. Possible unauthorized entry. Unit Twelve, are you still in the area?”
“Unit Twelve. We’re on the ten-forty, River Street. It’s a code one. We’re unable to respond.”
“Roger that. Unit Fifteen? What’s your ten-ten?”
“Unit Fifteen. West Roxbury. Still on that Missile six. These folks are not calming down. Estimate at least a half hour, hour till we can get to Fairview.”
“Any units?” said Dispatch, trolling the radio waves for an available patrol car. On a warm Saturday night, a routine premises check of a cemetery was not a high-priority call. The dead are beyond caring about frolicking couples or teenage vandals. It is the living who must command a cop’s first attention.
Radio silence was broken by a member of Rizzoli’s stakeout team. “Uh, this is Watcher Five. We’re situated on Enneking Parkway. Fairview Cemetery’s in our immediate vicinity-”
Rizzoli grabbed the mike and hit the transmit button. “Watcher Five, this is Watcher One,” she cut in. “Do not abandon your position. You copy?”
“We have five vehicles on stakeout-”
“The cemetery is not our priority.”
“Watcher One,” said Dispatch. “All units are on calls right now. Any chance you could release one?”
“Negative. I want my team to hold position. Copy, Watcher Five?”
“Ten-four. We are holding. Dispatch, we can’t respond to that premises-check call.”
Rizzoli huffed out a sigh. There might be complaints about this come morning, but she was not going to release a single vehicle from her surveillance team, not for a trivial call.
“It’s not like we’re swamped with action,” said Korsak.
“When it happens, it’ll be fast. I’m not going to let anything foul this up.”
“You know that thing we were talking about earlier? About you being obsessed?”
“Don’t start in now.”
“No, I’m not gonna go there. You’ll bite off my head.” He shoved open his door.
“Where you going?”
“Take a leak. I need permission?”
“Just asking.”
“That coffee’s going right through me.”
“No wonder. Your coffee’d burn a hole through cast iron.”
He stepped out of the car and walked into the woods, his hands already fumbling at his fly. He didn’t bother to step behind any tree but just stood there, urinating into the bushes. This she didn’t need to see, and she averted her gaze. Every class has its gross-out kid, and Korsak was it, the boy who openly picked his nose and belched with gusto and wore his lunch on the front of his shirt. The kid whose moist and pudgy hands you avoided touching at all costs, because you were sure to catch his cooties. She felt both repelled by him and sorry for him. She looked down at the coffee he’d poured for her, and she tossed what was left out the window.
Fresh chatter erupted over the radio, startling her.
“We got a vehicle moving east on Dedham Parkway. Looks like a Yellow Cab.”
Rizzoli responded, “A taxicab at three A.M.?”
“That’s what we got.”
“Where’s he going?”
“Just turned north onto Enneking.”
“Watcher Two?” said Rizzoli, calling the next unit on the route.
“Watcher Two,” said Frost. “Yeah, we see him. Just went past us…” A silence. Then, with sudden tension: “He’s slowing down…”
“Doing what?”
“Braking. Looks like he’s about to pull over-”
“Location?” snapped Rizzoli.
“The dirt parking area. He’s just pulled into the parking area!”
It’s him.
“Korsak, we’re hot!” she hissed out the window. As she slipped on her personal comm unit and adjusted the earpiece, every nerve was singing with excitement.
Korsak zipped up his fly and scrambled back into the car. “What? What?”
“Vehicle just pulled off Enneking-Watcher Two, what’s he doing?”
“Just sitting there. Lights are off.”
She hunched forward, pressing the headset to her ear in concentration. The seconds ticked by, transmissions silent, everyone waiting for the suspect’s next move.
He’s checking out the area. Confirming that it’s safe to proceed.
“It’s your call, Rizzoli,” said Frost. “We move on him?”
She hesitated, weighing their options. Afraid to spring the trap too soon.
“Wait,” said Frost. “He just turned his headlights back on. Ah, shit, he’s backing out. He’s changed his mind.”
“Did he spot you? Frost, did he spot you?”
“I don’t know! He’s pulled back onto Enneking. Proceeding north-”
“We’ve spooked him!” In that split second, the only possible decision was crystal clear to her. She barked into her comm unit: “All units, go, go, go! Box him in now!”
She started the car, jammed the gear into drive. Her tires spun, digging a trough through soft dirt and fallen leaves, branches whipping at the windshield. She heard her team’s rapid-fire transmissions and the far-off blare of multiple sirens.
“Watcher Three. We now have Enneking north blocked off-”
“Watcher Two. In pursuit-”
“Vehicle is approaching! He’s braking-”
“Box him in! Box him in!”
“Do not confront without backup!” Rizzoli ordered. “Wait for backup!”
“Roger that. Vehicle has halted. We are holding position.”
By the time Rizzoli screeched to a halt, Enneking Parkway was a knot of cruisers and throbbing blue lights. Rizzoli felt temporarily blinded as she stepped out of her car. The surge of adrenaline had excited them all to fever pitch and she could hear it in their voices, the crackling tension of men on the edge of violence.
Frost yanked open the suspect’s door, and half a dozen weapons were pointed at the driver’s head. The cabbie sat blinking and disoriented, blue lights pulsing on his face.
“Step out of the vehicle,” Frost ordered.
“What-what’d I do?”
“Step out of the vehicle.” On this adrenaline-drenched night, even Barry Frost had transformed into someone frightening.
The cabbie slowly emerged, hands held high. The instant both his feet touched the ground, he was spun around and shoved facedown against the hood of the cab.
“What’d I do!” he cried as Frost patted him down.
“State your name!” said Rizzoli.
“I don’t know what this is all about-”
“Your name!”
“Wilensky.” He gave a sob. “Vernon Wilensky-”
“Check,” said Frost, reading the cabbie’s I.D. “Vernon Wilensky, white male, born 1955.”
“Matches the carriage permit,” said Korsak, who’d leaned into the cab to check the I.D. clipped to the visor.
Rizzoli glanced up, eyes narrowing against the glare of oncoming headlights. Even at three A.M., there was traffic moving along the parkway, and with the road now blocked by police vehicles, they’d soon have cars backing up in both directions.
She focused again on the cabbie. Grabbing his shirt, she turned him around to face her and aimed her flashlight in his eyes. She saw a middle-aged man, blond hair gone thin and scraggly, skin sallow in the harsh beam of ight. This was not the face she’d envisioned as their unsub. She had looked into the eyes of evil more times than she cared to count and carried, in her memory, all the faces belonging to the monsters she had encountered in her career. This scared man did not belong in that gallery.