The Surgeon (27 page)

elephant in the backyard. After a while, the child believes it so
strongly she can describe the elephant's trunk, the pieces of
straw on the back. The broken tusk. The memory becomes
reality. Even when it never happened."
"We can't completely discount the memory," said Moore.
"You may not believe Cordell is reliable, but she is the focus of
our unsub's interest. What Capra started--the stalking, the
killing--it hasn't stopped. It's followed her here."
"A copycat?" said Marquette.
"Or a partner," said Moore. "There are precedents."
Zucker nodded. "Partnerships of killers aren't all that
uncommon. We think of serial killers as being lone wolves, but
up to a quarter of serial killings are done by partners. Henry
Lee Lucas had one. Kenneth Bianchi had one. It makes
everything easier for them. Abduction, control. It's cooperative
hunting, to ensure success."
"Wolves hunt together," said Moore. "Maybe Capra did, too.
"
Marquette picked up the VCR remote, pressed Rewind and
then Play. On the TV screen, Catherine sat with eyes closed,
arms limp.
Who says those words, Catherine? Who says, "It's my
turn, Capra"?

I don't know I don't know his voice.
.
Marquette pressed Pause and Catherine's face froze on
the screen. He looked at Moore. "It's been over two years
since she was attacked in Savannah. If he was Capra's
partner, why has he waited this long to come after her? Why is
it happening now?"
Moore nodded. "I wondered the same thing. I think I know
the answer." He opened the folder he'd brought into the
meeting and took out a tear sheet from the Boston Globe.
"This appeared seventeen days before Elena Ortiz's murder.
It's an article about women surgeons in Boston. A third of it is
devoted to Cordell. Her success. Her achievements. Plus
there's a color photo of her." He handed the sheet to Zucker.
"Now this is interesting," said Zucker. "What do you see
when you look at this photo, Detective Moore?"
"An attractive woman."
"Besides that? What does her posture, her expression, say
to you?"
"Confidence." Moore paused. "Distance."
"That's what I see, too. A woman at the top of her game. A
woman who's untouchable. Arms crossed, her chin high. Out
of reach to most mortals."

"What's your point?" asked Marquette.
"Think about what turns on our unsub. Damaged women,
contaminated by rape. Women who've symbolically been
destroyed. And here is Catherine Cordell, the woman who
killed his partner, Andrew Capra. She doesn't look damaged.
She doesn't look like a victim. No, in this photo, she looks like
a conqueror. What do you think he felt when he saw this?"
Zucker looked at Moore.
"Anger."
"Not just anger, Detective. Sheer, uncontrollable rage. After
she left Savannah, he follows her to Boston, but he can't get at
her because she's protected herself. So he bides his time,
killing other targets. He probably imagines Cordell as a
traumatized woman. A subhuman creature, just waiting around
to be harvested as a victim. Then one day he opens the
newspaper, and comes face-to-face, not with a victim, but with
this conquering bitch." Zucker handed the article back to
Moore. "Our boy is trying to bring her back down. He's using
terror to do it."
"What would be his end goal?" said Marquette.
"To reduce her to a level he can once again deal with. He
only assaults women who act like victims. Women who are so
damaged and humiliated, he doesn't feel threatened by them.
And if indeed Andrew Capra was his partner, then our unsub

has another motivation as well. Revenge, for what she
destroyed."
Marquette said, "So where do we go with this hidden
partner theory?"
"If Capra had a partner," said Moore, "then this takes us
right back to Savannah. We're coming up empty-handed here.
We've conducted nearly a thousand interviews so far, and
have turned up no viable suspects. I think it's time to take a
look at everyone associated with Andrew Capra. See if one of
those names has turned up here in Boston. Frost is already on
the phone to Detective Singer, the Savannah lead. He can fly
down and review the evidence."
"Why Frost?"
"Why not?"
Marquette looked at Zucker. "We on a wild-goose chase?"
"Sometimes, you do catch a wild goose."
Marquette nodded. "Okay. Let's do Savannah."
Moore rose to leave but stopped when Marquette said:
"Can you stay a minute? I need to talk to you." They waited
until Zucker had left the office; then Marquette closed the door
and said, "I don't want Detective Frost to go."

"May I ask why?"
"Because I want you to go to Savannah."
"Frost is ready to go. He's already prepared for it."
"This isn't about Frost. It's about you. You need some
separation from this case."
Moore fell silent, knowing where this was leading.
"You've been spending a lot of time with Catherine Cordell,"
said Marquette.
"She's key to this investigation."
"Too many evenings in her company. You were with her at
midnight on Tuesday."
Rizzoli. Rizzoli knew that.
"And Saturday, you stayed all night with her. What, exactly,
is going on?"
Moore said nothing. What could he say? Yes, I've crossed
the line. But I couldn't help myself.
Marquette sank into his chair with a look of profound
disappointment. "I can't believe I'm talking to you about this.
You, of all people." He sighed. "It's time for you to pull back.

We'll have someone else deal with her."
"But she trusts me."
"Is that all it is between you, trust? What I've heard goes
way beyond that. I don't need to tell you how inappropriate this
is. Look, we've both seen this happen before to other cops. It
never works out. It won't work out this time, either. Right now,
she needs you, and you happen to be handy. You two get hot
and heavy for a few weeks, a month. Then you both wake up
one morning and bam, it's over. Either she's hurt or you're
hurt. And everyone's sorry it ever happened." Marquette
paused, waiting for a response. Moore had none.
"Aside from the personal issues," continued Marquette,
"this complicates the investigation. And it's fucking
embarrassing to the whole unit." He gave a brusque wave
toward the door. "Go to Savannah. And stay the hell away from
Cordell."
"I need to explain to her--"
"Don't even call her. We'll see she gets the message. I'll
assign Crowe in your place."
"Not Crowe," Moore said sharply.
"Who, then?"
"Frost." Moore sighed. "Let Frost be the one."

"Okay, Frost. Now go catch a plane. Getting out of town is
just what you need to cool things down. You're probably
pissed at me now. But you know I'm only asking you to do the
right thing."
Moore did know, and it was painful to have a mirror held up
to his own behavior. What he saw in that mirror was Saint
Thomas the Fallen, brought down by his own desires. And the
truth enraged him, because he could not rail against it. He
could not deny it. He managed to hold his silence until he
walked out of Marquette's office, but when he saw Rizzoli
sitting at her desk he could no longer contain his fury.
"Congratulations," he said. "You got your payback. Feels
good to draw blood, does it?"
"Have I?"
"You told Marquette."
"Yeah, well, if I did, I wouldn't be the first cop to rat on a
partner."
It was a stinging comeback, and it had its intended effect. In
cold silence he turned and walked away.
Stepping out of the building, he paused in the breezeway,
desolate at the thought of not seeing Catherine tonight. Yet
Marquette was right; this was how it had to be. How it should
have been from the start, a careful separation between them,

the forces of attraction ignored. But she had been vulnerable,
and he, foolishly enough, had been drawn to that. After years
of walking the straight and narrow, he now found himself in
unfamiliar territory, a disturbing place ruled not by logic but by
passion. He was not comfortable in this new world. And he did
not know how to find his way out of it.
Catherine sat in her car, collecting the courage to walk into
One Schroeder Plaza. All afternoon, through a succession of
clinic appointments, she'd mouthed the usual pleasantries as
she'd examined patients, consulted colleagues, and tackled
the minor annoyances that always arose in the course of her
workday. But her smiles had been hollow, and beneath her
cordial mask had lurked a rip current of despair. Moore was
not returning her calls, and she did not know why. Only one
night together, and already something had gone wrong
between them.
At last she stepped out of the car and walked into Boston
Police Headquarters.
Though she had been here once before, for the session
with Dr. Polochek, the building still seemed like a forbidding
fortress where she did not belong. That impression was
reinforced by the uniformed officer who eyed her from behind
the reception desk.
"Can I help you?" he asked. Neither friendly nor unfriendly.

"I'm looking for Detective Thomas Moore in Homicide."
"Let me call upstairs. Your name, please?"
"Catherine Cordell."
As he made the call, she waited in the lobby, feeling
overwhelmed by the polished granite, by all the men, both in
uniform and in plainclothes, walking past, throwing curious
glances her way. This was Moore's universe, and she was a
stranger here, trespassing in a place where hard men stared
and guns gleamed in holsters. Suddenly she realized this was
a mistake, that she should never have come, and she started
toward the exit. Just as she reached the door, a voice called
out:
"Dr. Cordell?"
She turned and recognized the blond man with the mild and
pleasant face who had just stepped off the elevator. It was
Detective Frost.
"Why don't we go upstairs?" he said.
"I came to see Moore."
"Yes, I know. I came down to get you." He motioned toward
the elevator. "Shall we?"
On the second floor, he led her up the hallway, into

Homicide. She had not been in this area before, and she was
surprised by how much it looked like any business office, with
its computer terminals and desks grouped into workpods. He
led her to a chair and sat her down. His eyes were kind. He
could see she was uncomfortable in this alien place, and he
tried to put her at ease.
"A cup of coffee?" he asked.
"No, thank you."
"Is there anything I can get you? A soda? A glass of water?"
"I'm fine."
He sat down as well. "So. What do you need to talk about,
Dr. Cordell?"
"I was hoping to see Detective Moore. I spent the whole
morning in surgery, and I thought that he might have tried to
reach me. . . ."
"Actually . . ." Frost paused, discomfort plainly in his eyes. "I
left a message with your office staff around noontime. From
now on, you should call me with any concerns. Not Detective
Moore."
"Yes, I got that message. I just want to know . . ." She
swallowed back tears. "I want to know why things have
changed."

"It's to, uh, streamline the investigation."
"What does that mean?"
"We need Moore to focus on other aspects of the case."
"Who decided that?"
Frost was looking more and more unhappy. "I don't really
know, Dr. Cordell."
"Was it Moore?"
Another pause. "No."
"So it's not that he doesn't want to see me."
"I'm sure that's not the case."
She did not know if he was telling her the truth or simply
trying to soothe her. She noticed that two detectives in another
workpod were staring in her direction, and she flushed with
sudden anger. Did everyone but her know the truth? Was that
pity she saw in their eyes? All morning she had savored the
memories of last night. She had waited for Moore to call, had
longed to hear his voice and know that he was thinking of her.
But he had not called.
And at noon, she'd been handed Frost's telephoned
message that in the future she should direct all concerns to

him.
It was all she could do now to hold her head up and keep
the tears under control as she asked: "Is there some reason I
can't talk to him?"
"I'm afraid he's not in town right now. He left this afternoon."
"I see." She understood, without being told, that this was as
much as he would reveal. She didn't ask where Moore had
gone, nor did she ask how to reach him. Already she had
embarrassed herself by coming here, and now pride took
over. For the last two years, the sheer force of pride had been
her main source of strength. It had kept her marching forward,
day after day, refusing to wear the cloak of victimhood. Others
looking at her saw only cool competence and emotional
distance, because it was all she allowed them to see.
Only Moore saw me as I really am. Damaged and
vulnerable. And this is the result. This is why I can't ever be
weak again.
When she rose to leave, her spine was straight, her gaze
steady. As she walked out of the workpod, she passed
Moore's desk. She knew it was his because of the nameplate.
She paused just long enough to focus on the photograph
displayed there, of a smiling woman, with the sun in her hair.
She walked out, leaving behind Moore's world, and
returned in sorrow to her own.

eighteen
M   oore had thought the heat in Boston was
unbearable; he was unprepared to deal with Savannah.
Walking out of the airport late that afternoon was like instant
submersion in a hot bath, and he felt as though he were
wading through liquid, his limbs sluggish as he proceeded
toward the rental car parking lot, where watery air rippled
above the macadam. By the time he checked into his hotel
room, his shirt was drenched in sweat. He stripped off his
clothes, lay down on the bed for just a few minutes' rest, and
ended up sleeping through the afternoon.

When he awakened, it was dark, and he was shivering in
the over-cooled room. He sat up on the side of the bed, his
head pounding.
He pulled a fresh shirt from his suitcase, got dressed, and
left the hotel.
Even at night, the air was like steam, but he drove with his
window open, inhaling the damp smells of the South. Though
he'd never been to Savannah before, he'd heard of its charm,
its fine old homes and wrought-iron benches and Midnight in
the Garden of Good and Evil. But tonight he was not on a
quest for tourist sites. He was driving to a particular address
in the northeast corner of town. It was a pleasant
neighborhood of small but tidy homes with front porches and
fenced gardens and trees with spreading branches. He found
his way to Ronda Street and pulled to a stop in front of the
house.
Inside the lights were on, and he could see the blue glow of
a TV.
He wondered who lived there now and whether the current
occupants knew the history of their house. When they turned
off the lights at night and climbed into bed, did they ever think
about what had happened in that very room? Lying in the
darkness, did they listen for the echoes of terror still
reverberating within those walls?