Work Text:
CLASSIFIED – UNSUB 1034H – Re-Cataloged as: Charles Hoyt
FINAL INVESTIGATION: CLOSED
: EXCERPT FROM BAU _______Special Agent Emily Prentiss______
Behavioral Analysis of _____Charles Hoyt ______
Known Alias(s): ______The Surgeon_______
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'The surgeon. A prolific serial killer that targeted predominately heterosexual couples. His modus operandi (MO) included raping the woman in front of the man and then strangling her to death while he orgasmed inside of her. The men would die soon after, choking in their own blood as their throats were slit.
The only deviance from his preferred methodology was in reference to the case of Boston Homicide Detective Jane Rizzoli and her life partner, Doctor Maura Isles, Chief Medical Examiner of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Hoyt became obsessed with Detective Rizzoli after he expanded his hunting grounds to Boston, MA.
During the murder of Alexander Ghent and his wife Karenna, Jane Rizzoli was subsequently kidnapped and used as bait for Dr. Isles. When Dr. Isles reached the secluded location, as directed, both Alexander and Karenna had been murdered. Their bodies were later found in a shallow ditch 11 meters from the main structure (see insert 3-7U). Karenna had been untouched sexually and a post-mortem psychological consult on Charles Hoyt validated intent to wait for Dr. Isles to reach the scene.
Detective Rizzoli had been tied to a steel chair using nautical anchor chains (see insert 4-6H). Detective Rizzoli was forced to watch as Dr. Isles was repeatedly raped and brutalized by Charles Hoyt, AKA The Surgeon. Hoyt would go on to kill Dr. Isles by strangulation after reaching orgasm. Detective Vincent Korsak arrived on scene minutes later, killing Charles Hoyt.
All attempts at resuscitating Dr. Isles at the scene proved unsuccessful.'
*END EXCERPT
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Jane Rizzoli took another sip from a bottle of Johnnie Walker whiskey. She re-read the criminal profile on Charles Hoyt, aka, The Surgeon. The illegally downloaded FBI dossier detailed his latest kill in gruesome detail. The pictures and video really brought the pure horror of the mental and physical torture of The Surgeon’s latest victim together in a macabre, technicolor kind of way.
Thousands of copies of pictures from the crime scene and paused video images were strewn about Jane's apartment without purpose or care, lying on every conceivable surface and infusing the detective with haunting words and gruesome images that burned into her bloodshot retinas with every slow blink.
The front door rumbled as sharp raps suddenly echoed into the apartment. The door had been shoddily barricaded with thick pieces of wood braced across it. Each piece was secured into the door frame with an obscene number of nails. Jane winced as the noise reverberated across her temples, slicing into her alcohol ladened brain.
“Jane? Baby, please open up. It’s your mother. Jane? I know you can hear me! Mrs. Selner said you haven’t left your apartment in three weeks. Three weeks Jane! Honey, I know you’ve been through a lot, but please…please Jane, let me in sweetie.”
Jane’s dull, bloodshot eye twitched as she pulled the final mouthful from her bottle of whiskey.
“I have gnocchi, Jane! And lasagna! I have a dozen of your favorite cannoli’s from Maria’s, over in the North End. Baby, please open the door…”
The detective listened as the pleading eventually tapered off and older bags were taken away while new ones were placed down in the hallway in front of her door.
“Ok…you know we’re all here for you honey…her house was sold today, Janie.” Dark eyes shot to the reinforced door as her throat began to close, fire and bile reaching her molars before she roughly swallowed the anguish back down.
“I just thought you should know. I’ll be back tomorrow Janey…we love you.” Jane heard two sets of footprints walk off, one far lighter and softer than the heavier booted footfall of her older brother, Frankie’s.
Jane squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and tried to breathe. The herculean task seemed almost insurmountable in that moment. Why was she still trying? Why didn’t she just allow the dark spots on the edge of her vision, those dancing black beacons of blissful freedom, to lead her into oblivion?
The detective opened her eyes and focused on the images in her field of vision. Pictures of the latest victim of Charles “The Surgeon” Hoyt. The blonde in those graphically horrifying photos…lying there on the cold concrete while her hazel eyes stared blankly into the distance, her face frozen forever in horror.
Jane remembers the screams that were ripped from that gaping mouth. The look in the eyes that begged her to save her, the words wailed at the detective to do something…anything. Jane remembers the smell of it all; the taste of the copper and fear in the air as she gulped it into her bloody mouth between screams.
The feel of the heavy chains locking her into the chair, biting and cutting into her arms and legs as she thrashed uselessly against them. The threats and words she screamed to Hoyt were lost in the sounds of that moment, sounds that ricochet even now in her ears.
They bounced off every wall, every object in the room. They echoed through her body, pushing and pulling her apart piece by piece, moment after moment. They never left her, those pleading hazel eyes and those sounds…those goddamn sounds…
Jane stood up quickly, far too quickly for the state she was in. She managed to catch herself on the end of the couch and moved into the small kitchen, her feet creating an unsteady path through the papers and photos that littered every inch of the floor.
Another bottle of Johnnie Walker was ripped open and four long gulps were swallowed in rapid succession. Jane braced her hands on the counter tops and heaved as the large quantity of fiery alcohol hit her barren stomach. A sob was retched from her chest, squashed down a moment later out of sheer desperation.
She couldn’t lose the feeling inside of her. These gut churning, soul burning feelings. The helplessness, the anger. The cloying despair nearly choked her as she squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could. She refused to cry, to let loose these emotions of pure, sickening anguish.
If she ever did, if she relaxed her hold and unchained this torment into the world, she would no longer carry those last moments within her. She would leave a piece of the woman in the photos to relive those final moments alone for eternity, resonating in that room, never able to leave.
Carrying that burden was the only way to share it, to keep that last piece of her love, her Maura, away from that place of horror and death and to keep her here, inside of Jane.
The detective took a shuddering breath and tried to pick up the bottle of whisky, her shaking hands knocking it over almost immediately. She picked it up and stared at the photos splayed across the counter, puddles of the whisky soaking into the crystal-clear images of degradation and horror.
Photos pulled from the video. The video Hoyt had taken of Maura during those harrowing last hours. Every angle had been covered; every corner of the room could be seen in startling detail.
Jane picked up the pile of soaked photographs and tossed them in the trash. She moved to a corner where a printer was connected to a laptop, a video playing on repeat graced the screen. She paused it and backed it up to the exact moment replicated in the soiled photos. She printed far too many copies, replacing the paper and ink as needed.
The detective pulled on the half empty whiskey bottle as the whirr and ticks of the printer offset the sounds emanating from the computer speakers. Those fucking sounds of flesh slapping against flesh battled with the screams and pleas of mercy from both women; moans of delight and cackling laughs from the demon in a man’s skin had created a nightmarish symphony of vile depravity and desperation.
When the printer had finished its task, Jane took the stack of photos into the kitchen, spreading them out until once again, every surface was covered with the horrific images of the blonde being viciously brutalized.
Jane stood for a moment and stared. She no longer saw the pictures as still images. They moved. They pulsed in time with the remembrances in the detective’s mind, the prints aligning perfectly with her memories.
Jane felt the empty bottle slip from her numb fingers, barely flinching as it hit the bathroom floor. When had she moved to the bathroom? It didn’t matter. The photos covered every surface of that room too, even inside the toilet. The horrific, repeating images were stuffed into every nook and cranny, forced into, or stuck to every space available. Nothing was spared. It mirrored the inside of the detective perfectly.
Jane turned on the shower and stepped in, the clothes she was wearing three weeks ago long since abandoned. Ice water pounded into her flesh like a thousand small needles piercing the surface. Goosebumps covered her skin as dark eyes focused on the photos lining the bottom of the bathtub.
The harsh bite of the icy water drew no reaction from the detective. The photos of her best friend in the last gruesome moments of her life drew no reaction from the detective. There was nothing left inside. She was empty; vacant. The hollowness from weeks before had been replaced with a void. A worthless, meaningless void.
There were no tears. There were no upheavals, doubts, or feelings of any kind. A cold certainty was all that was left within a once proud and noble woman. A shroud of defeat and inevitability encircled her hands as the razor blade sliced vertically from wrist to elbow; clean and deep. One arm was enough. She knew this. Her love…her life…her…everything had been a doctor, after all.
Jane opened her eyes wide, just to keep the images burned into them as long as possible. It was compulsory. Mandatory. It was merely a reaction. The water and blood had long ruined the photos. Jane could have closed her eyes and the images would have been just as clear to her as they were on those printed copies.
She sat down onto the floor of the tub as the dark spots began to swim within her peripheral view. The abrasive, cold water did nothing to ebb the flow of such a deep arterial cut. For long seconds she waited, feeling every pulse of her existence spill out of her body.
Jane lifted her head slightly as a whiff of familiar perfume suddenly teased her nostrils. It was the blonde doctor’s favorite. Jane had bought it for Maura at Christmas, and she had worn it every day since.
Movement caught her eye and she slowly turned as darkness fully overtook her vision. As her heart slowed, she felt a warm, gentle hand cup her cheek. Lips she would know anywhere whispered comforting words into her ears as Maura’s scent fully encompassed her. The voice of her personal angel bringing her one last moment of perfect peace. She took a deep, shuddering breath, the dual sensations of endless cold and soft warmth combating within her body for a fading dominance.
A stuttering in her chest and she knew, just as her love’s words softly told her; this was simply a new beginning.