Chapter Text
Dr. Maura Isles, Chief Medical Examiner for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, was already on the scene of a violent death in a posh, suburban garage when Detectives Jane Rizzoli and Barry Frost arrived. Despite the ridiculously early hour, Maura's hair was perfectly coifed and her makeup expertly applied. Jane, on the other hand, looked like she'd fallen out of bed on her curly head. Frost looked sick to his stomach, an appearance that proved telling when he made a U-turn at the door and was heard distantly to be retching in the backyard bushes.
“Poor Barry,” Maura murmured to Jane as they both bent over the corpse that Maura's gloved hands were attempting to examine without contaminating any more of the blood-soaked clothing than necessary. It was a messy death, as beheadings normally are.
“That immersion therapy you've been doing with him doesn't seem to be helping control his gag reflex,” Jane murmured back, ostensibly leaning over Maura's shoulder to view the corpse, but the nearness making it possible for them to communicate without being heard by the others. Sure, Jane told herself, that's why you're hovering over her. Has nothing to do with her smelling so damned good.
“This one is a bit more of a challenge than most, wouldn't you say, Detective?” Maura murmured back. “Decapitation, culturally speaking, triggers a particularly strong sense of revulsion.”
Jane straightened and peered about the large four-car garage swarming with crime scene technicians. The photographer had come, done her thing, and was standing by outside for any further photo requests the detectives or the ME might raise. “Yeah. Movies like Omen and Friday 13th may have had something to do with that cultural thing. Have you examined the head?” Jane asked as she carefully stepped over a wide stream of blood congealing on the finished cement floor and stood near the prodigal part.
“No apparent wounds,” Maura intoned, her attention still fixed on the body. She looked up, tilted her face toward Jane, and amended, “Well, except for the obvious one...”
Jane grimaced, but it could have been a smirk. “Yeah, got that, Maura.”
“I won't know for sure until we get back to the Morgue, but on preliminary examination I couldn't even find an impact site for where the head landed on the floor.”
“So,” Jane asked, frowning at the head as she shined a penlight flashlight over it, “he wasn't standing or up very high when it happened?”
“I wouldn't care to make that assumption at this time, Detective,” Maura shot back, with the slightest hint of exasperation in her voice—but it could have simply been from the exertion of standing after crouching for so long over the body.
“Of course, you wouldn't, Doctor,” Jane grinned over at the beautiful blonde in the impeccably tailored trench coat that Jane estimated would have cost more than she could get for her own car, if she could imagine any sucker buying that bucket of bolts.
“But,” Maura continued as though she'd not been rudely interrupted, and stepped gracefully over the gore-slathered area to where Jane squatted by the head, “I can see from the blood spatter patterns—especially where it sprayed on the underside of the bumper—that he could have been kneeling to look under the car.”
Jane nodded her agreement as her gaze followed Maura's hand pointing along the bumper. Jane had noticed the blood on the bumper already. Now she was just watching Maura's expressive hand move through the air.
She was brought back to reality by the raspy voice of a post-sick Barry Frost: “No weapon yet?”
Maura, removing her gloves, stepped back over to Frost and gently patted his arm. “Not yet, Detective.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice, “How are you?”
“Okay,” he croaked. This one was going to be a particularly difficult one for Barry. Still, he soldiered on, “Jane, uniforms ID'd him already. His housekeeper found him. Name's Glen Beckdahl. Lives here alone except for the housekeeper.”
“Is the housekeeper here now?”
“She's in the kitchen. Pretty shook up. She found him when she came to see why the lights were still on.”
Jane nodded. “Okay, I guess we should go talk to her.” Jane looked over to Maura, who had wandered over to the wall next to the nearest of the four garage doors and was donning a fresh pair of gloves. “Maura, this looks like a really clean cut, don't you think? What would it take to slice off a grown man's head this neatly?”
Maura shook her head without turning back to the detective. She was obviously engrossed with something on the wall. “At this stage, I don't think I could accurately conjecture, Detective. I agree it appears to be the result of high force and keen blade, but I need to wait until I can examine the body under good lighting and with appropriate instruments.” She tilted her head and called over to her technician, “Ann, ask the photographer to come in for a shot of this in context, will you? Then let's get some swabs of it.”
“Good eye, Maura,” Jane grinned as she walked over to stand by Maura. “This blood's far enough away from the rest that it might not be his, but it's just as fresh. Could be our perp hurt himself?”
“You're assuming this is blood, aren't you.” It was a flat statement, not a question really. Maura was practically glaring at the excited Detective.
Jane took a deep breath and murmured to herself, “Do we have to do this every time?” Turning to Maura, Jane immediately found her irritation devolving to something with an evil tickle in it as those hazel eyes continued to flash back at Jane. “Right, Maura, it's a bright red splat of something in a garage full of bright red goo but let's not assume it's the same kind of bright red goo that's everywhere else!” Jane just couldn't help herself. If she were less professional, she'd have reached over and tweaked Maura's nose.
“Exactly, Detective, let's not assume that,” Maura growled low enough that the photographer couldn't hear their argument. Barry was close enough to pick up on the exchange, however, and he was grinning ear-to-ear, his dyspepsia vanishing with the glee of watching the two spar.
“Okay,” Jane leaned in toward Maura and, her voice matching the quiet tone, egged her on further. “How much you wanna bet it's not blood, Maura?”
“Are you serious? Jane, this is a crime scene.”
“Oh, come on, just a little wager?” Jane's voice dipped to an even deeper register than usual, a sound that could have even been called sultry.
Maura's face changed from mild shock to something else, something that made those hazel eyes focus on Jane's dark eyes like a pair of laser beams. “Fine, Detective. If that substance is blood, I'll get us the best seats to a Red Sox game you've ever had.”
Jane's expression immediately altered. “No, wait, Maura. I'm just messing with you. I don't want you to have to lay out that kind of money!”
Maura's eyebrows raised and her perfect lips slid sideways into a smirk that she could have only learned from hanging out with the Rizzolis. “Backing out, Jane? Chicken?”
“No, but Maura, we both know it's blood. I'm not gonna sucker you like that.” Jane looked so serious when she was being righteous. It made Maura smile all the wider.
“You're making an assumption, Detective, something I have repeatedly tried to discourage in your technique for some time now. This might be my chance to make the lesson stick. Put up or shut up.”
Jane stared down at the blonde and a slow flush spread up her neck to her cheeks. Oh, be careful, Rizzoli, don't let her see what that smile is doing to you. But, fuck, she is so cute when she's riled!
Maura, observing Jane's expression, turned to Frost with, “Barry, did I say that incorrectly?”
“No, Doc, you said it just right. But, you have neglected one part of the action. What's Jane going to pay out if it's not blood?”
“Hmmm. If it is not blood,” Maura's eyes narrowed as she considered and Jane's expression changed again to one that might have displayed a hint of trepidation. “If it isn't blood, Jane must accompany me to the opera on a night of my choosing.”
“Those aren't exactly even stakes, Doc, unless the opera's gotten a lot more expensive,” Frost noted.
“Oh, it won't cost Jane a thing, Barry, I have season tickets,” Maura smiled. “You can't turn down a wager like that, Detective Rizzoli, can you?”
“Fine. But I don't want you getting the best Fenway seats for us, Maura. That's just too much,” Jane capitulated.
“Fine. But in that case, we're elevating your stakes. I get to pick what you wear to the opera.”
There was no sense bringing up the fact that Maura wasn't structuring this bet along traditional lines—the detective knew what kind of frustration that would bring on and that capitulation was the saner path. “Whatever. Never happen.”
Jane turned away to watch Ann carefully pack the now bright red swab into the sample bag. She was beginning to get an unfamiliar, sinking sensation. Something was trying to remind her that, where red stains were concerned, Maura was far more knowledgeable. Hell, Maura was far more knowledgeable about almost everything outside of pop culture, sports and how to lie without getting hives or fainting.
“Aren't we supposed to spit into our palms and shake?” Maura winked at Barry with a mischievous grin.
“What? No!” Jane shook her head adamantly. “Bet's on. Let's get back to work.” And it seemed like, since she'd been hanging around with Jane, Maura was catching up too quickly on the pop culture knowledge.
“Fine,” Maura grinned, almost evilly, Jane thought, and turned to her technician. “Ann, can you hand me a hemastick?”
Ann grinned just as evilly, glancing at the detectives, and handed Maura a stick that, once Maura swiped it through the red goo on the wall, quite obviously did not turn green. Is it blood if I turn green? Jane's sinking feeling was intensifying.
“Let's see one of the swabs, too,” Maura asked the technician. Ann pulled out a swab, ran it through what was left of the red goo on the wall, and sprayed the swab. When there was no change in color, Ann picked up another spray and tried that. If it had been blood, they all knew it should have turned pink.
Her head tilted in what was obviously faux sympathy (or sheer cockiness), Maura simply whispered, “Voila.”