Rizzoli & Isles belongs to Tess Gerritsen, Janet Tamaro, TNT, and the host of writers, producers, cast, and crew who create the show we love to watch. We are not those people.

Spoilers for Seasons One and Two and the books. Rated T for crime, murder, and a loving, romantic relationship between two beautiful women.

This story is Part 4 in a series we've called 'Shipping Up to Boston (so if you haven't read the rest, some of the undertones won't make sense at all):

'Shipping Up to Boston, Part 0: The Trevor Project (see bit DOT ly/sutb0 )

'Shipping Up to Boston, Part 1: It Gets Better (see bit DOT ly/sutb1 )

'Shipping Up to Boston, Part 2: Occupy Boston (see bit DOT ly/sutb-2 )

'Shipping Up to Boston, Part 3: In Plain Sight (see bit DOT ly/sutb3 )

Co-written by Chapsticklez and Googlemouth. Beta-edited by WalnutHulls. You can find us on Twitter as chapsticklez, Googlemouth, and WalnutHulls.

Guest Cast (In order of appearance): Father Daniel Brophy (John Slattery), Dr. Danielle Knudsen (Allison Janey), Kate Talucci (Katherine Moennig), Sister Polycarp (Cloris Leachman), Tommy Rizzoli (Colin Egglesfield), Dan Gerard (Marc Harmon), Constance Isles (Jacqueline Bisset).

Chapter One - An Unfortunate Acronym

The sun was shining.

It wasn't fair, really. Funerals should be dreary, grey, preferably soggy with mist or perhaps a light rain. For the truly awful deaths, those of children or those who would leave devastated loved ones in their wake, not just sad ones. For a husband, father, and pillar of a community, there should be a downpour just barely shy of the severity at which the funeral had to be held at another, indoor, location.

But no. Today was bright and sunny, the bitter chill of February having yielded temporarily to the false spring that gave so many people hope each year, only to dash them on the rocks of the later weeks of winter's last shout. Seldom had the sky been such a picture-book perfect blue, nor had the few clouds present so white and billowy. Optimistic birds had begun returning to the city and were twittering and fluttering, offering one another mating calls and displays, celebrating life.

Completely unfair to have to weep and contemplate death on a day like that, when instead of springtime, it was a dank, bleak November in the hearts of the mourners.

"Why do we celebrate funeral rites?" asked the priest rhetorically, his fairly youthful, handsome face giving lie to the premature lack of pigmentation in his snowy hair. The clergyman gazed out at the assembled mourners in their folding chairs, both hating and loving this part of his job. Death was such a hard thing for anyone to face, for anyone to help others face. He hoped his words brought some comfort, but was never quite sure. "True, we pray for the deceased, entrusting them to God's mercy and care. As Catholics, as Christians, we believed that Jesus conquered death, taking away its finality, its sting. But do our prayers truly help the dead? Not really. Rather, we're just acknowledging what we believe: that God is taking care of things, in His own way, just as he would have done in His infinite love and compassion, even if no one stood here to say these words. The dead are already wherever God wants them to be, whether it's heaven, hell, or purgatory."

Some of the crowd evidenced surprise; one or two sour-pinched faces advertised clearly that this man felt the priest was skating perilously close to heresy. But Daniel Brophy knew his dogma, his doctrine, and was confident in his words. "It does benefit the living, however. It ennobles those who care for the bodies of our deceased loved ones, doing a service that can never be repaid for someone who can never express gratitude. It humbles as well, as we realize that what we're doing for others, someone will eventually be doing for us. It reminds us of our mortality, and of the urgency of doing the right thing now, while we still have life, and breath, and strength to do it. But the real purpose of the funeral ceremony itself... that's harder, isn't it? It doesn't serve the dead at all, as we stand here and say our words.

"What we're doing here is comfort the living in their grief," explained the good Father with a discreet gesture towards the front row of chairs, where the man's four adult children and two teenagers sat in various stages of sadness or anger, open or stoically concealed.

At the head of the row, nearest the priest's portable lectern, and wearing the widest hat with the least-sheer veil, sat the widow, barely containing herself. Even beneath the fine netting draped from her hat's brim, one could see her crumpled features and the redness of her skin as she held back what were sure to be wails of anguish once she gave herself permission to let them happen. "We comfort and surround the bereaved so that they can truly feel our presence, our support and love for them. Because in this way we are doing Christ's work, acting in His way and in His stead. When we -"

He got no further. The widow suddenly emitted a ghastly, loud keen of pure sadness, seeming to go on forever, like a siren or alarm, warning of imminent danger - of hellfire, perhaps, or of the sadness that awaited every other person here, eventually, when they were in her position. Without managing a coherent word, the widow lurched to her feet. But just as she had cut off the priest, so too, in her turn, was silenced - cut off not by another throat's threnody, but by the abrupt jerking of her body, the spray of blood, and, seconds later, the loud, cracking report of a gunshot.

Jane watched Maura on the podium and just grinned. The smile on the medical examiner's face was infectious; that was Jane's excuse and she was sticking too it. Certainly it wasn't that she was enjoying the slinky black dress Maura had talked her into wearing even though it was an afternoon bash (though she did look amazing in it), nor the heels which would surely give her a set of blisters. Still, Jane had to admit to herself that she was enjoying being out with Maura. In public.

Kind of.

"You look like you're having fun," beamed Maura, sliding back into her seat beside Jane.

"I am bored to death," Jane sighed, overly dramatically, and was rewarded with bubbling laughter from Maura. "Getting to watch you up there in that dress is cheering me up, though."

"Oh, so you want me to go away so you can look at me from afar?" Fluttering her eyelashes, Maura was teasing in her most coquettish manner.

Jane smirked and took Maura's hands. "No, I want to take you back home and get to the part where you wriggle back out of that slinky dress."

Multiple times that morning, Jane had made suggestive comments about Maura and her dress. It was Maura's fault, Jane had argued, for wearing a red dress that hugged every curve of Maura's very curvy body. And the color was just perfect against her hair. Jane had spent several minutes trying to convince Maura that instead of helping her zip up, they should be unzipping and going back to the bedroom.

Jane had lost the argument.

"Don't you want to know," smiled Maura, "whether we won something in the raffle?"

"I don't even know what you bid on, Maura," Jane sighed.

Looking perfectly smug, like a cat, Maura folded her hands into her lap. "You'll like it, if we win it." Jane had put up with a lot of social experimenting with Maura, recently. They'd gone to the ballet, which Jane had not enjoyed, and a musical performance at the Boston Symphony Orchestra (in deference to Jane's musical education, Maura had selected a family oriented performance, and brought Angela). This was their third such event, and the Have A Heart HIV/AIDS Awareness fundraiser was, even Jane admitted, a good cause more than an 'event.'

None of that stopped Jane from pointing at vacation getaways and saying they wouldn't actually enjoy it, because they'd just spend the whole time in the hotel room, and wouldn't it be better just to go back to Maine? Or that getting a spa treatment would mean naked time without any of the fun parts. That was interspersed with comments like the one Jane had ready right now: "Now I get why men like women in heels."

Of course, Maura's reply of "So do I," sent Jane stuttering into silence. "If you're really bored, we can leave right after the raffle, but I was thinking maybe we could dance?" Maura essayed her suggestion with a hopeful lifting of eyebrows.

Jane's attitude for the afternoon had been surprisingly open. Normally when they went out, Jane limited her visible affections towards Maura. Then, without any warning that Maura could see, Jane would switch to being girlfriend-esque. Like when they went to the hockey game, Jane had kept one arm around Maura most of the night. And at the opera, they'd held hands, leaned against each other, and been called 'adorable' by Angela. Jane hadn't even blushed at the comment, she'd just smiled at Maura.

On the other hand, any time they'd had lunch at or near the office, it had been just like before, they were just friends. Not that they weren't friends, but they were certainly more than friends, and Jane's inconsistent application of her own rules were frustrating Maura. She knew, she just knew, that one day she was going to accidentally do the wrong thing and upset Jane. Instead of assuming and jumping to conclusions, Maura decided her best course of action was to simply ask.

For a moment, Jane said nothing and Maura felt herself tense up. She'd said the wrong thing again, and Maura quickly started thinking how to rectify the situation. But the confession was not what Maura had expected. "I don't know how."

Maura looked at Jane in surprise. "Surely you've had dates take you dancing before!"

"Just William," sighed Jane. "And not this kind of dancing. I mean, the wave your arms to loud music stuff. I don't know dancing kinda dancing." After a brief pause, Jane added, "And besides, you dance way better than I do."

"I had cotillion."

"Is that genetic, or do you catch it from other people not washing their hands?"

Reflexively, Maura began to explain, "It started in 18th century France as a patterned social dance, with four partners. It's analogous to the square dancing in America, where the term 'cotillion' means a type of ball, or more appropriately, the preparations leading up to one's formal presentation as a member of Society, knowing as a débutante ball, deb party, or coming out party. Young débutantes are presented in public for the first time. Analogous to a sweet sixteen, or a quinceañera. The classes leading up to one's debut involve learning to dance, as well as proper decorum."

Jane's eyes had not glazed over this time, and she frowned, looking serious. "I learned in gym class how to square dance," she said, hopefully.

"I don't mean we have to go to a formal ball, silly," Maura smiled, patting Jane's hand. "Just that we could go dancing together. Modern is fine, or we could square dance if you like. There's the Boston Uncommon, where couples like us go to do 'modern' square dancing."

There was a subtle shift to Jane's posture when Maura said 'like us.' An almost wince that, had Maura not been as familiar with Jane's face, she might have missed. Maura patiently waited until Jane came up with a reply. "I'm not used to being different," she finally muttered, but her hand stayed on Maura's.

As Maura formulated a comforting reply to her 'just coming out' girlfriend, and mused on the entertainment value to be found in a coming out party for Jane later, she heard the man on the podium speak up: "So we invite once more to the stage, the woman behind Professionals for Underprivileged Kids of Excellence, and co-founder of Professionals Upholding Science, HIV/AIDS Awareness, Dr. Maura Isles."

Jane was suitably distracted. "Really, Maura? PUS?"

Maura pursed her lips at Jane. "It's an unfortunate acronym, and you'll note we don't use it. You should have heard it before. In the original proposal, the organization was meant to be called Professionals Upholding Science for Seniors and Youth, until slightly more aware people prevailed at that meeting."

The taller woman was taken aback. Her brows rose, her mouth opened as if to speak, and then she absolutely could not come up with a single acceptable word. Especially not the acronym that that horrible idea would have created. Though PUS was certainly an improvement over that, Jane was adamant. "I'm not running the marathon as Lady PUS Gaga this year, no way, no how," she growled, taking Maura's clutch as it was handed over.

With a scimitar smile, Maura simply said, "But you are running? Good. I'll register us." And she sashayed up to the podium, just in time for the tail-end of the applause.

Jane would have slapped her forehead, if she felt it would do her any good. "I do these things to myself," she muttered. Resting her chin in her hand, Jane watched Maura's... well, her ass as she walked up the steps to receive an award for being utterly awesome, which she was. Well, no, it was for raising money for those living with HIV/AIDS who couldn't pay for their own medications. But still: awesome.

The 'being different' part of their relationship still nagged at Jane. She didn't like being different, or feeling like there was something abnormal about her. There wasn't anything wrong about being in love with a woman, certainly, except for some people's puritanical attitudes. Jane had seen, first hand, how families were ripped apart by things like that. Thankfully her mother had come around before Jane had come out.

The phone ringing snapped Jane out of her reverie. It wasn't the jaunty ringtone of her own phone, nor the plain, functional one Maura liked to use for people she didn't know. It was, of all things, the theme to M*A*S*H. Jane wondered who thought that a song about suicide was a good idea for a theme song, and reached into Maura's purse to see who it was.

Massachusetts General Hospital. Probably they just needed the coroner, so Jane answered the call, prepared to tell them to call the office, please and thank you. What she was hit with instead was news that made her blood run cold. "No, this isn't Dr. Isles, she's… look, just tell me what's going on. Who's in the hospital?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but hospital policy says I can only tell family members or the advance directive, which would be Dr. Isles."

"Does she need to come to the hospital right away?" asked Jane, her voice a little louder than it should have been for their location, drawing ire from her seatmates.

The nurse on the phone hesitated. "That… would be best, yes."

"Right." Jane punched the 'end call' button and started to collect their belongings when her own phone started to ring with Korsak's tone. "Make it fast, Vince."

Taken aback at the tone, Korsak complied, "We're at MassGen, there was a shooting." As he went on to explain exactly what had happened, Jane fell back into her chair. Not only did her blood run cold, it ran right out of her. She actually felt light headed.

The people at the tables nearby were giving her dirty looks, and Jane just didn't care. "Yeah, Maura and I will be right there, we're maybe thirty minutes out. Did they... are they already at the hospital?"

"Wasn't five minutes before EMTs had them in the ambulance, yeah."

Jane closed her eyes tightly and nodded, "Okay, just… We'll be right there." Hanging up her own phone, Jane took a couple deep breaths before grabbing her purse and Maura's. She hustled to the side of the podium and made all manner of gestures at Maura until, finally, after finishing a very Maura-ish speech, the medical examiner came down the steps.

"Really? You can't wait till after the raffle to ravish me?" joked Maura, taking her purse.

Jane's mouth was dry, "We have to go to the hospital, Maura."

"Your heels can't be hurting you that much -"

Cutting her off, Jane continued, "Daniel - Father Brophy's been shot."

[Cue the opening credits.]

It was Maura's car, and that generally meant Maura got to drive. This time, Jane was driving, and Maura was cursing every single obstruction or distraction on the way while her hands shook enough to disturb Jane greatly. Any other day, the lack of coherency in Maura's foul language would have been cause for hilarity, or at least some gentle ribbing. Today, the disjointedness was a strong indicator of just how disturbed Maura was. She'd never really learned to swear fluidly, but usually she could at least string together a full sentence, however nonsensical it might be. "Damn! Mother - ass bastard! Merde! This is… fuck!"

Jane suppressed the amusement that was almost enough to distract her from the urgency of their errand. "Maura, sweetie, you're scaring the car." The constant stream of (partially non-English, and fully non-fluid) swearing was, possibly, one of the few things keeping Jane's attention focused on driving. Her brain was able to stop running in circles as it listened to Maura. "I'm driving as fast as I can, babe."

"That guy ahead of us is driving like he's not intelligent enough to urinate downwards. Come on, get around him!" demanded Maura and she looked about to roll down the window, beating the dashboard with her other hand. "Go faster!"

Oh no, no no. Maura swearing in the car was fine. Maura swearing at people on the road needed to be stopped. "There's a gumball in the center console."

That was all the direction Maura needed, and she slapped the portable siren to the top of her car, flicking it on. Within seconds, the other drivers cleared a path and Jane floored the Prius, musing on how this was very much not the sort of car a cop normally drove. "I wish you still had the Lexus," sighed Jane, zipping around a station wagon.

"The Prius has much more efficient gas mileage and has better impact resistance," began Maura, and Jane let her run on for most of the rest of the drive, about the differences between the two cars and why Maura had chosen this one. As Jane had expected, the spewing of Wikipedia-mouth calmed Maura down, and her hands stopped shaking. "You did that on purpose," noted Maura, leaning back as they pulled into the hospital parking lot.

"I did," agreed Jane, parking in the doctor's section. After all, Maura had privileges there. As soon as the car came to a stop, and before it was in park, Maura was out the door with her coat whipping around her. Jane mentally kicked herself for the inappropriate thought that Maura looked damn sexy in the dress and coat, and parked the car properly.

"You can't have that siren on here," announced a lot attendant, as Maura ran right past him. "What the -?"

Today was just going to be filled with disapproving people giving her disapproving looks. "Right, I know," Jane nodded and turned off the gumball and put it away before following Maura. "There was a priest who was shot?"

The orderly stared at Jane for a minute. "You can't park there -" Jane flashed her badge and repeated her question. "Uh, the priest? He came in about forty-five minutes ago. If you're with the other detectives, they're up by emergency surgery." The man rattled off a complex set of directions, and Jane hustled as fast as she could to find her partners.

Vince Korsak was easier to spot, given the horrid brown suit he was wearing. "Geeze, Rizzoli, the Doc blew through here almost five minutes ago."

Wincing, Jane put a hand on Frost's shoulder to take one shoe off. "It's these damn heels. I don't know how Maura runs in them." There was a strange pause and Jane looked up from Vince to Barry and back, silently asking what was on their minds.

"Why's the Doc here?" ventured Korsak.

"And why's she so wound up? She nearly ripped me apart trying to find out how bad Father Brophy was," added Barry.

And finally, Vince drove it home with, "I mean, she's agnostic."

This was the time to stall, and Jane checked her heels for blisters (none yet) while she tried to think of an answer. "They're friends," she finally managed. Korsak snorted, and that reminded Jane. "Aren't I your advance directive, Vince? Ever since your last wife left you? If you got shot, you know damn well I'd be here soon as I could."

"Yeah, but we're partners, Jane!" There was a glimmer of logic in his eyes. Jane grabbed it with both hands.

"D- Father Brophy doesn't have any family in Boston anymore. Maura's a doctor. Wouldn't you want her to make the call?" Before Vince or Barry could reply, Jane added, "Hell, she's my emergency contact too! Point is they're friends. Now tell me something useful, like what the hell happened and how's Brophy doing?"

Clearing his throat, Vince went first. "Not good. He had to be de-fibbed twice on the ride in. It's… it's real bad."

On task, Barry pulled out his phone and read his notes (show off). "Father Brophy was presiding over the Montague funeral. Thaddeus Montague died. He owns that chain of stores on the south end."

Her feet hurt too much to stand, so Jane sat on the bench. "Yeah, the off-track betting places. Tommy used to like them." She took her shoes off again and started rubbing her feet. Oh, bliss!

"He died of a pulmonary embolism. Left everything to his wife, who was DOA," continued Barry, and paused when Jane's head snapped up. "At the service, she started wailing, stood up, and suddenly both her and Father Brophy went down. Blood all over the lilies and casket. Bullet went through them both and stuck in the coffin. You should have heard the stink the kids raised when evidence took the coffin in."

Thinking through all the shootings she'd been involved in, Jane tried to come up with just one where a bullet went through two people, nearly killing two people. Except for the obvious case that was a little too close to home. And even then, her shot hadn't gone through a coffin. "Jesus, who did it?"

Her two partners shared an awkward look. "That's the thing," coughed Vince. "It went through both of 'em. And they were in the middle of an open area, and no one saw nothing."

It took a minute for the meaning to sink in, "A sniper?"

"That's what CSU thinks," continued Frost. "Went through the woman's neck, hit Father Brophy right in the chest. That's all we know. They rushed him into surgery."

Jane sighed and looked towards the doors. "Maura went in?"

"No one had the balls to stop her," Korsak admitted, sitting down next to Jane. "Where the heck were you two?"

"Charity thing," Jane replied, absently, wondering when Maura would come back. To her surprise, a young doctor was leading her towards them. Abandoning her shoes in Vince's lap and ignoring the fact that her partners were right behind her, Jane leaped to her feet and caught the distraught Maura in her arms.

It took a moment for Maura to catch her breath and speak. "They wouldn't let me into the operating room," she complained, giving the young doctor a glare.

The young doctor sighed, "Dr. Knudsen will be out as soon as she can with information," and quickly made an escape.

With a passing glare back at the doctor, Maura wiped her face. "He was hemorrhaging, and they had to open his chest. I don't know if it was his lung or - Jane, where are your shoes?"

The foursome settled into chairs in the waiting room, Jane with her shoes returned by Korsak, waiting. Frost and Korsak wandered in and out, calling back to the station for more information, pestering CSU for more evidence. Jane fielded calls from her mother, who took it upon herself to begin the emergency phone tree. A priest showed up after an hour, talked to Maura, verified with Frost that they were working on the case, and then left to take care of any church-related business with Brophy's surgery.

The hours ticked on into evening. Korsak got them dinner and then napped in a chair, as did Frost. Only Maura showed no signs of desiring rest. So Jane didn't either. She held Maura's hand and watched the door for the mysterious Dr. Knudsen. Jane had no idea who the doctor was, but she kept her eye on Maura and how she reacted to each doctor.

Finally a very tall female doctor, in a scrub gown that still had blood on it, strode out of the surgical hall. Immediately Maura was on her feet, and so was Jane, as the doctor held her hand out. "Dr. Isles, I'm sorry, I didn't recognize you in there." They shook hands, and launched into a medical discussion that Jane understood not even half of, culminating with, "Mr... sorry, Father Brophy is stable for now. Besides blood loss and the expected internal damage from a bullet that size, he's suffering from pneumothorax…" The doctor paused and looked at Jane. "His lungs collapsed, both of them. And he's lost a lot of blood."

Jane nodded. "I got that. I've been shot before. A bullet of that caliber… I can extrapolate."

Knudsen went on a little further, this time addressing Jane at least partly in her description of what the surgical team had done. Maura asked questions that Jane didn't understand, but Knudsen managed to include enough laymen's terms and commonly-heard (among cops, people with often-sick relatives, and lovers of Grey's Anatomy and General Hospital) medical terms to sort out the important bits. Jane decided she kind of liked this doctor. Apparently Maura felt the same way; some of the tightness around her eyes started gradually to fade, even before Knudsen concluded, "So now that he's stable, we've put him in a room in the ICU. As his advance directive, you can see him at any time, not just during standard visiting hours, and your... friends," she glanced deliberately but discreetly towards Jane, "can come in if they're accompanied by you. Would you like me to show you the way, or are you familiar?"

Jane shifted uncomfortably, wondering if everyone could tell they were together just by looking, as Maura replied in a voice less shaky than before, "I am. May I go right now?" The very tiniest beginning of a nod sent her off at a very brisk walk, even before the vocal permission was given.

Dr. Knudsen turned back towards Jane and offered a handshake that turned into a surprisingly comforting clasp - surprising because the woman was so bony, much like Jane, that no one would have had any right to expect any kind of softness from her. Maybe a little clicking of bones. Suddenly Jane understood why people were always telling her to eat something. "I recognize you, Detective Rizzoli. I assume you're officially assigned to the case, and not just here in a supportive capacity. Do you need to accomplish other things on that front, or would you like me to show you the way so you can help your friend? She took off at a pretty good clip."

Jane glanced towards her partners. "Hey, Frost. Korsak. You need me?"

"Not yet," Barry judged, getting up from the plastic chair that, though initially uncomfortable, had been seductively holding him steady enough to make standing seem undesirable. Tricksy hospitals, they'd come up with a way to get people to get out of the pathways through which doctors might need to hurry. "We can handle the preliminaries, at least. We'll let you know when there's enough information to start talking to suspects, if it's before morning."

Vince added, in a lower voice, "Take care of Maura. If she and Father Brophy are as good of friends as you and her, she probably won't want to leave the bedside until he's awake and fine." Jane was hard-pressed not to correct him to you and she, let alone provide any clarifying information on the relative closeness of Maura to herself versus Maura to Daniel Brophy. "Make sure she gets home, eats something, gets a shower, sleeps."

Jane took a moment to consider what that statement meant about Maura's reaction to Jane's own shooting almost three years before. Before they'd even been dating, Maura had given Jane as much attention, energy, and care as she'd given to her own mother after Constance Isles had been struck by a hit-and-run driver. How much she cared for the people who got close to her! "Yeah," Jane found herself saying, "I'll make sure she doesn't stay here all night." With that, she turned back to Knudsen and accepted the offer. "Show me the way, Doc."

As they walked through the antiseptic corridors, Knudsen mentioned conversationally, "You know, I haven't seen a bullet wound like that since I was a medic in Kuwait."

Jane was taken aback. "You were in Desert Storm?"

Knudsen chuckled at the surprise. "The Army paid for medical school, on the condition that I serve afterward. Which I did. Army's where I did my medical internship and residency, studied trauma medicine and surgery. I stayed in for a while longer, too. I only left about eight years ago." Bush's second term of office, she didn't add. "Anyway, yeah. This bullet wound... I don't want to tell you your own business, Detective, but I'd bet the farm that wound came from a sniper round. A .308 caliber, and probably a long range to boot."

"Wait, what?" They had reached an elevator bank and stopped, which was fortunate, because had she still been moving, Jane might have plowed directly into a wall, or another person. The CSU team was speculating. This doctor sounded like she was dead certain. "How do you know that?"

Knudsen explained as they stepped in, "The entry was quite a bit more narrow than the exit. The exit wound was about the size of my fist, but the entry was," she held up her pinkie finger, "about like this. Given the fact that I've been told that Father Brophy was the second person shot with that round, any other bullet would have had... well," she cut off what might have become a Maura-esque explanation, "a far different look to it upon entry. A full metal jacket sniper round , like a M118LR Special Ball or an HSM, can pass through multiple bodies without getting deformed, and still have enough kinetic energy to embed itself in a concrete wall over an inch deep. Depends how far back your shooter was, more than anything else."

Jane stared. Knudsen's voice as she spoke about the bullet indicated not the findings within a medical or military journal, but personal experience. Without another word, Jane whipped out her phone to inform Frost of the new facts. "...So look in the cemetery for chipped and damaged gravestones within the trajectory from where the wife was sitting to where Brophy was standing, and further out from there. Not in a straight line, either. Remember, bullets refract." Ding. "Gotta go, I'm getting into an elevator."

Maura's having a bad day. You should review, and she'll feel better.