The Sinner Read Free Page A

at
the
front of the chapel, an enormous crucifix hanging above the altar. It was a
coldly
austere room, its gloom deepened by the stained glass windows, which admitted
only
a murky smear of light.
    “Hold it right there. Be careful where you step,” said
the
photographer.
    Maura looked down at the stone floor and saw blood. And
footprints—a
confusing jumble of them, along with medical debris. Syringe caps and torn
wrappings.
The leavings of an ambulance crew. But no body.
    Her gaze moved in a wider circle, taking in the piece of trampled
white
cloth lying in the aisle, the splashes of red on the pews. She could see her own
breath in this frigid room, and the temperature seemed to drop even colder, her
chill
deepening as she read the bloodstains, saw the successive splashes moving up the
rows of benches, and understood what had happened here.
    The photographer began to click off more shots, each one a visual
assault
on Maura’s eyes.
    “Hey Doc?” At the front of the chapel, a mop of dark
hair
popped up as Detective Jane Rizzoli rose to her feet and waved. “The
vic’s
up here.”
    “What about this blood here, by the door?”
    “That’s from the other victim, Sister Ursula. Med-Q boys
took her to St. Francis. There’s more blood along that center aisle, and
some
footprints we’re trying to preserve, so you’d better circle around to
your
left. Stick close to the wall.”
    Maura paused to pull on paper shoe-covers, then edged along the
perimeter
of the room, hugging the wall. Only as she cleared the front row of pews did she
see the nun’s body, lying faceup, the fabric of her habit a black pool
blending
into a larger lake of red. Both hands had already been bagged to preserve
evidence.
The victim’s youth took Maura by surprise. The nun who had let her in the
gate,
and those she had seen through the window, had all been elderly. This woman was
far
younger. It was an ethereal face, her pale blue eyes frozen in a look of eerie
serenity.
Her head was bare, the blond hair shorn to barely an inch long. Every terrible
blow
was recorded in the torn scalp, the misshapen crown.
    “Her name’s Camille Maginnes. Sister Camille. Hometown,
Hyannisport,”
said Rizzoli, sounding Dragnet-cool and businesslike. “She was the first
novice
they’ve had here in fifteen years. Planned to take her final vows in
May.”
She paused, then added: “She was only twenty,” and her anger cracked
through
the facade.
    “She’s so young.”
    “Yeah. Looks like he beat the shit out of her.”
    Maura pulled on gloves and crouched down to study the destruction.
The death instrument had left raggedly linear lacerations on the scalp.
Fragments
of bone protruded through torn skin, and a clump of gray matter had oozed out.
Though
the facial skin was largely intact, it was suffused a dark purple.
    “She died facedown. Who turned her onto her back?”
    “The sisters who found her,” said Rizzoli. “They
were
looking for a pulse.”
    “What time were the victims discovered?”
    “About eight this morning.” Rizzoli glanced at her
watch.
“Nearly two hours ago.”
    “Do you know what happened? What did the sisters tell
you?”
    “It’s been hard getting anything useful out of them.
There
are only fourteen nuns left now, and they’re all in a state of shock. Here
they
think they’re safe. Protected by God. And then some lunatic breaks
in.”
    “There are signs of forced entry?”
    “No, but it wouldn’t be all that hard to get into the
compound.
There’s ivy growing all over the walls—you could hop right over
without
too much trouble. And there’s also a back gate, leading to a field, where
they
have their gardens. A perp could get in that way, too.”
    “Footprints?”
    “A few in here. But outside, they’d be pretty much
buried
under snow.”
    “So we don’t know that he actually broke in. He could
have
been admitted through that front gate.”
    “It’s a cloistered order, Doc. No one’s allowed
inside
the gates