But this is not his work. Warren Hoyt is safely locked away in a place he can’t escape. I know, because I put the bastard there myself.

“The Boston Globe printed every juicy detail,” said Korsak. “Your boy even made it into the New York Times. Now this perp is reenacting it.”

“No, your killer is doing things Hoyt never did. He drags this couple out of the bedroom, into another room. He props up the man in a sitting position, then slashes his neck. It’s more like an execution. Or part of a ritual. Then there’s the woman. He kills the husband, but what does he do with the wife?” She stopped, suddenly remembering the shard of china on the floor. The broken teacup. Its significance blew through her like an icy wind.

Without a word, she walked out of the bedroom and returned to the family room. She looked at the wall where the corpse of Dr. Yeager had been sitting. She looked down at the floor and began to pace a wider and wider circle, studying the spatters of blood on the wood.

“Rizzoli?” said Korsak.

She turned to the windows and squinted against the sunlight. “It’s too bright in here. And there’s so much glass. We can’t cover it all. We’ll have to come back tonight.”

“You thinking of using a Luma-lite?”

“We’ll need ultraviolet to see it.”

“What are you looking for?”

She turned back to the wall. “Dr. Yeager was sitting there when he died. Our unknown subject dragged him from the bedroom. Propped him up against that wall, and made him face the center of the room.”

“Okay.”

“Why was he placed there? Why go to all that trouble while the victim’s still alive? There had to be a reason.”

“What reason?”

“He was put there to watch something. To be a witness to what happened in this room.”