“Certainly middle class, at the very least.”

“Hey, I never got braces.” Jane bared her teeth, revealing an irregular bottom row. “These, Doc, are middle-class teeth.” She pointed to the X-ray. “My dad couldn’t afford to pay for something like that.”

“Madam X had good teeth, too,” said Frost.

Maura nodded. “Both women had what I’d guess were privileged childhoods. Privileged enough to pay for good dental care and orthodontics.” She pulled down the dental film and reached for a new set, which twanged as she shoved them under the clips. The bones of the lower extremities now glowed on the light box.

“And here’s what else the two victims had in common.”

Jane and Frost simultaneously sucked in startled breaths. They needed no radiologist to interpret the damage they saw on those X-rays.

“It was done to both of her tibias,” said Maura. “With a blunt instrument of some kind. A hammer maybe, or a tire iron. We’re not talking about mere glancing blows on her shins. These were brutal and purposeful, meant to shatter bone. Both tibias have transverse diaphyseal fractures, with scattered fragments embedded in the soft tissue. The pain would have been excruciating. She certainly couldn’t have walked. I can’t imagine how she must have suffered over the days that followed. Infection probably set in, spreading from open wounds into soft tissues. Bacteria would have infiltrated bone, and eventually blood.”

Jane looked at her. “Did you say days?”

“These fractures wouldn’t have been fatal. Not immediately.”

“Maybe she was killed first. These could be postmortem mutilations.” Please make them postmortem, and not what I’m imagining.

“I’m sorry to say that she lived,” said Maura. “For at least several weeks.” She pointed to a ragged outline, like a puff of white smoke surrounding the fractured bone. “This is callus formation. It’s the bone healing itself, and this doesn’t happen overnight, or even over a few days. It takes weeks.”

Weeks during which this woman had suffered. Weeks when it must have seemed far better to die. Jane thought of an earlier set of X-rays she’d seen hanging on this same light box. Another woman’s shattered leg, the fracture lines blurred by a fog of healing bone.

“Just like Madam X,” she said.

Maura nodded. “Neither of these victims was killed immediately. Both suffered crippling injuries to their lower extremities. Both lived for a while. Which means someone brought them food and water. Someone was keeping them alive, long enough for the first signs of healing to show up on these films.”

“It’s the same killer.”

“The patterns are too similar. This is part of his signature. First he maims them, maybe to ensure they can’t escape. Then as the days go by, he keeps them fed. And alive.”

“What the hell is he doing during that time? Enjoying their company?”

“I don’t know.”

Jane stared at shattered bone and felt a twinge in her own legs, just a shadow of the agony this victim must have endured. “You know,” she said softly, “when you first called me that night about Madam X, I thought it would be an old murder. A cold case, with a perp who was long dead. But if he’s the one who put this body in Ms. Pulcillo’s car…”

“He’s still alive, Jane. And he’s right here in Boston.”

The door to the anteroom swung open, and a silver-haired gentleman stepped in, tying on a surgical gown.

“Dr. Vandenbrink?” said Maura. “I’m Dr. Isles. I’m glad you could make it.”

“I hope you haven’t started yet.”

“We were waiting for you.”

The man came forward to shake her hand. He was in his sixties, cadaverously thin, but his deeply tanned face and eager stride revealed not sickness but lean good health. As Maura made the introductions, the man gave scarcely a glance at Jane and Frost-his attention was riveted instead on the table where the victim lay, her twisted form mercifully concealed by a drape. Clearly it was the dead, not the living, that most interested him.

“Dr. Vandenbrink is from the Drents Museum in Assen,” said Maura. “He flew in last night from the Netherlands, just for this autopsy.”

“And this is her?” he said, his gaze still on the draped body.

“Let’s take a look at her, then.”

Maura handed him a pair of gloves, and they both snapped on latex. Maura reached for the drape, and Jane steeled herself against the view as the sheet was peeled back.

Naked on stainless steel, exposed by bright lights, the contorted body looked like a charred and twisted branch. But it was the face that would forever haunt Jane, the features glossy as black carbon, frozen in a mortal scream.

Far from horrified, Dr. Vandenbrink instead leaned closer with a look of fascination. “She’s beautiful,” he murmured. “Oh yes, I’m glad you called me. This was certainly worth the trip.”

“You call that beautiful?” said Jane.

“I refer to her state of preservation,” he said. “For the moment, it’s almost perfect. But I’m afraid the flesh may start to decay now that it’s exposed to air. This is the most impressive modern example I’ve encountered. It’s rare to find a recent human subject that’s undergone this process.”

“Then you know how she got this way?”

“Oh yes. She’s very much like the others.”

“Others?”

He looked at Jane, his eyes so deep-set that she had the disturbing impression a skull was gazing back at her. “Have you ever heard of the Yde Girl, Detective?”

“No. Who is she?”

“Yde is a place. A village in the northern Netherlands. In 1897, two men from Yde were cutting peat, something that was traditionally dried and burned as fuel. And in the bog, they found something that terrified them. It was a female with long blond hair who had clearly been strangled. A long band of fabric was still wrapped three times around her neck. At first, the people of Yde didn’t understand what they were dealing with. She was so small and shrunken, they thought she was an old woman. Or perhaps a demon. But over time, as scientists came to look at her, they were able to learn more about the corpse. And they discovered that she was not an old woman when she died, but a girl of only about sixteen. A girl who had suffered from a crooked spine. A girl who was murdered. She was stabbed beneath the collarbone, and a band was tightened around her neck until she strangled. Then she was placed facedown in the bog, where she lay for centuries. Until those two peat cutters found her and revealed her to the world.”

“Centuries?”

Vandenbrink nodded. “Carbon fourteen dating tells us she’s two thousand years old. When Jesus walked the earth, that poor girl may already have been lying in her grave.”

“Even after two centuries, they could tell how she died?” said Frost.

“She was that well preserved, from her hair to the cloth around her neck. Oh, there was damage done to her body, but it had been inflicted far more recently, when she was dredged up with the peat. Enough of her was left intact to form a portrait of who she was. And how she must have suffered. That’s the miracle of bogs, Detective. They give us a window back in time. Hundreds of these bodies have been found in Holland and Denmark, Ireland and England. Each one is a time traveler, an unfortunate ambassador of sorts, sent to us from people who left no written records. Except for the cruelties they carved into their victims.”

“But this woman”-Jane nodded at the body on the table-

“she’s obviously not two thousand years old.”

“Yet her state of preservation is every bit as exquisite. Look, you can even see the ridges on her soles and her finger pads. And see how her skin is dark, like leather? Yet her features clearly tell us she’s Caucasian.” He looked at Maura. “I completely concur with your opinion, Dr. Isles.”

Frost said, “So you’re telling us this body was preserved in the same way as that girl in the Netherlands?”