The woman’s eyes locked on Dean’s. “Agent Dean and I have met.”

And obviously made an impression on each other- not a favorable one, thought Rizzoli.

Clearly not pleased about the visit, O’Donnell was mechanical and unsmiling as she ushered them through the large foyer and into a formal sitting room. The couch was white silk on a rosewood frame, and Oriental carpets in rich shades of red accented the teak floors. Rizzoli knew little about art, but even she recognized that the paintings hanging on the walls were originals, and probably quite valuable. More bones of victims, she thought. She and Dean sat on the couch, facing O’Donnell. No coffee or tea or even water had been offered to them, a not-so-subtle clue that their hostess wanted this to be a brief conversation.

O’Donnell got right to the point and addressed Rizzoli. “You said this was about Warren Hoyt.”

“You’ve corresponded with him.”

“Yes. Is there a problem with that?”

“What was the nature of that correspondence?”

“Since you know about it, I assume you’ve read it.”

“What was the nature of that correspondence?” Rizzoli repeated, her tone unyielding.

O’Donnell stared at her a moment, silently gauging the opposition. By now she understood Rizzoli was the opposition, and she responded accordingly, her posture stiffening into a suit of armor.

“First I should ask you a question, Detective,” countered O’Donnell. “Why is my correspondence with Mr. Hoyt of any concern to the police?”

“You know that he’s escaped custody?”

“Yes. I saw it on the news, of course. And then, the State Police contacted me to ask if he had tried to reach me. They contacted everyone who corresponded with Warren.”

Warren. They were on a first-name basis.

Rizzoli opened the large manila envelope she’d brought with her and removed the three Polaroids, encased in Ziploc bags. These she handed to Dr. O’Donnell. “Did you send these photos to Mr. Hoyt?”

O’Donnell merely glanced at the images. “No. Why?”

“You hardly looked at them.”

“I don’t need to. I never sent Mr. Hoyt any photos of any kind.”

“These were found in his cell. In an envelope with your return address.”

“Then he must have used my envelope to store them.” She handed the Polaroids back to Rizzoli.

“What, exactly, did you send him?”

“Letters. Release forms for him to sign and return.”

“Release forms for what?”

“His school records. Pediatric records. Any information that might help me evaluate his history.”

“How many times did you write him?”

“I believe it was four or five times.”

“And he responded?”

“Yes. I have his letters on file. You can have copies.”

“Has he tried to reach you since his escape?”

“Don’t you think I would tell the authorities if he had?”

“I don’t know, Dr. O’Donnell. I don’t know the nature of your relationship with Mr. Hoyt.”

“It was a correspondence. Not a relationship.”

“Yet you wrote him. Four or five times.”

“I visited him, as well. The interview’s on videotape, if you’d like to have it.”

“Why did you talk to him?”

“He has a story to tell. Lessons to teach us.”

“Like how to butcher women?” The words were out of Rizzoli’s mouth before she could think about it, a dart of bitter emotion that failed to pierce the other woman’s armor.

Unruffled, O’Donnell replied: “As law enforcement, you see only the end result. The brutality, the violence. Terrible crimes that are the natural consequence of what these men have experienced.”

“And what do you see?”

“What came before, in their lives.”

“Now you’re going to tell me it’s all due to their unhappy childhoods.”

“Do you know anything about Warren’s childhood?”

Rizzoli could feel her blood pressure rising. She had no desire to talk about the roots of Hoyt’s obsessions. “His victims don’t give a damn about his childhood. And neither do I.”

“But do you know about it?”

“I’m told it was perfectly normal. I know he had a better childhood than a lot of men who don’t cut up women.”

“Normal.” O’Donnell seemed to find this word amusing. She looked at Dean for the first time since they’d all sat down. “Agent Dean, why don’t you give us your definition of normal?”

A look passed between them, hostile echoes of an old battle not fully resolved. But whatever emotions Dean was now feeling did not register in his voice. He said, calmly: “Detective Rizzoli is asking the questions. I suggest you answer them, Doctor.”

That he had not already wrestled away control of the interview surprised Rizzoli. Dean struck her as a man accustomed to taking control, yet in this he had ceded to her and had chosen instead the role of observer.

She had allowed her anger to scattershoot the conversation. Now it was time to reclaim command, and for that she would need to keep her anger in check. To proceed calmly and methodically.

She asked, “When did you start writing to each other?”

O’Donnell responded, just as businesslike: “About three months ago.”

“And why did you decide to write him?”

“Wait a minute.” O’Donnell gave a startled laugh. “You have it wrong. I didn’t initiate this correspondence.”

“Are you saying Hoyt did?”

“Yes. He wrote me first. He said he’d heard of my work on the neurology of violence. He knew I’d been a defense witness in other trials.”

“He wanted to hire you?”

“No. He knew there was no chance his sentence could be altered. Not at this late date. But he thought I’d be interested in his case. I was.”

“Why?”

“Are you asking why was I interested?”

“Why would you waste any time writing to someone like Hoyt?”

“He’s exactly the sort of person I want to know more about.”

“He’s been seen by half a dozen shrinks. There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s perfectly normal, except for the fact he likes to kill women. He likes to tie them down and slice open their abdomens. It turns him on to play surgeon. Except he does it while they’re wide awake. While they know exactly what he’s doing to them.”

“Yet you called him normal.”

“He’s not insane. He knew what he was doing, and he enjoyed it.”

“So you believe he was simply born evil.”

“That’s exactly the word I’d use for him,” said Rizzoli.

O’Donnell regarded her for a moment with a gaze that seemed to bore straight into her. How much did she see? Did her psychiatric training enable her to peer through one’s public mask, to see the traumatized flesh below?

Abruptly O’Donnell rose to her feet. “Why don’t you come into my office?” she said. “There’s something you should see.”

Rizzoli and Dean followed her down a hallway, shoes muffled by the wine-red carpet running the length of the corridor. The room she led them into was a stark contrast to the richly decorated sitting room. O’Donnell’s office was devoted strictly to business: white walls, bookshelves lined with reference texts, and standard metal filing cabinets. Walking into this room, thought Rizzoli, would snap one instantly into work mode. And it seemed to have precisely that effect on O’Donnell. With grim purpose, she crossed to her desk, snatched up an X-ray envelope, and carried it to a viewing box mounted on the wall. She thrust a film into the clips and flipped a switch.

The viewing box flickered on, backlighting an image of a human skull.

“Frontal view,” said O’Donnell. “A twenty-eight-year-old white male construction worker. He was a law-abiding citizen described as considerate, a good husband. A loving father to his six-year-old daughter. Then he was hurt at a work site when a beam swung into his head.” She looked at her two visitors. “Agent Dean probably sees it already. How about you, Detective?”

Rizzoli moved closer to the light box. She did not often study X-rays, and she could only focus on the broader picture: the dome of the cranium, the twin hollows of the eye sockets, the picket fence of teeth.