The Surgeon (4 page)

"May we talk to you in private?" he asked.
She glanced at the nurses waiting with John Doe in the
elevator. "Go ahead," she called to them. "Dr. Littman will write
the orders."
Only after the elevator door had closed did she address
Detective Moore. "Is this about the hit-and-run that just came
in? Because it looks like he's going to survive."
"We're not here about a patient."
"You did say you're from Homicide?"
"Yes." It was the quiet tone of his voice that alarmed her. A
gentle warning to prepare herself for bad news.
"Is this--oh god, I hope this isn't about someone I know."
"It's about Andrew Capra. And what happened to you in
Savannah."
For a moment she could not speak. Her legs suddenly felt
numb and she reached back toward the wall, as though to
catch herself from falling.
"Dr. Cordell?" he said with sudden concern. "Are you all
right?"
"I think . . . I think we should talk in my office," she
whispered. Abruptly she turned and walked out of the E.R.

whispered. Abruptly she turned and walked out of the E.R.
She did not look back to see if the detectives were following
her; she just kept walking, fleeing toward the safety of her
office, in the adjoining clinic building. She heard their
footsteps right behind her as she navigated through the
sprawling complex that was Pilgrim Medical Center.
What happened to you in Savannah?
She did not want to talk about it. She had hoped never to
talk about Savannah to anyone, ever again. But these were
police officers, and their questions could not be avoided.
At last they reached a suite with the plaque:
Peter Falco, M.D.
Catherine Cordell, M.D.
General and Vascular Surgery.
She stepped into the front office, and the receptionist
looked up with an automatic smile of greeting. It froze half-
formed on her lips when she saw Catherine's ashen face and
noticed the two strangers who had followed her in.
"Dr. Cordell? Is something wrong?"

"We'll be in my office, Helen. Please hold my calls."
"Your first patient's coming in at ten. Mr. Tsang, follow-up
splenectomy--"
"Cancel it."
"But he's driving all the way from Newbury. He's probably on
his way."
"All right, then have him wait. But please, don't put any calls
through."
Ignoring Helen's bewildered look, Catherine headed
straight to her office, Moore and Rizzoli following right behind
her. Immediately she reached for her white lab coat. It was not
hanging on the door hook, where she always kept it. It was
only a minor frustration, but added to the turmoil she was
already feeling, it was almost more than she could handle.
She glanced around the room, searching for the lab coat as
though her life depended on it. She spotted it draped over the
filing cabinet and felt an irrational sense of relief as she
snatched it up and retreated behind her desk. She felt safer
there, barricaded behind the gleaming rosewood surface.
Safer and in control.
The room was a carefully ordered place, the way everything
in her life was carefully ordered. She had little tolerance for
sloppiness, and her files were organized in two neat stacks on
the desk. Her books were lined up alphabetically by author on

the shelves. Her computer hummed softly, the screen saver
building geometric patterns on the monitor. She slipped on the
lab coat to cover her bloodstained scrub top. The additional
layer of uniform felt like another shield of protection, another
barrier against the messy and dangerous vagaries of life.
Sitting behind her desk, she watched Moore and Rizzoli
glance around the room, no doubt taking the measure of its
occupant. Was that automatic for police officers, that quick
visual survey, the appraisal of the subject's personality? It
made Catherine feel exposed and vulnerable.
"I realize this is a painful subject for you to revisit," said
Moore as he sat down.
"You have no idea how painful. It's been two years. Why has
this come up now?"
"In relation to two unsolved homicides, here in Boston."
Catherine frowned. "But I was attacked in Savannah."
"Yes, we know. There's a national crime database called
VICAP. When we did a search of VICAP, looking for crimes
similar to our homicides here, Andrew Capra's name came
up."
Catherine was silent for a moment, absorbing this
information. Building the courage to pose the next logical
question. She managed to ask it calmly. "What similarities are

we talking about?"
"The manner in which the women were immobilized and
controlled. The type of cutting instrument used. The . . ." Moore
paused, struggling to phrase his words with the most delicacy
possible. "The choice of mutilation," he finished quietly.
Catherine gripped the desk with both hands, fighting to
contain a sudden surge of nausea. Her gaze dropped to the
files stacked so neatly in front of her. She spotted a streak of
blue ink staining the sleeve of her lab coat. No matter how
much you try to maintain order in your life, no matter how
careful you are to guard against mistakes, against
imperfections, there is always some smudge, some flaw     ,
lurking out of sight. Waiting to surprise you.
"Tell me about them," she said. "The two women."
"We're not at liberty to reveal very much."
"What can you tell me?"
"No more than what was reported in Sunday's Globe."
It took a few seconds for her to process what he had just
said. She stiffened in disbelief. "These Boston murders
--they're recent?"
"The last one was early Friday."

"So this has nothing to do with Andrew Capra! Nothing to
do with me."
"There are striking similarities."
"Then they're purely coincidental. They have to be. I thought
you were talking about old crimes. Something Capra did
years ago. Not last week." Abruptly she shoved back her chair.
"I don't see how I can help you."
"Dr. Cordell, this killer knows details that were never
released to the public. He has information about Capra's
attacks that no one outside the Savannah investigation knows.
"
"Then maybe you should look at those people. The ones
who do know."
"You're one of them, Dr. Cordell."
"In case you've forgotten, I was a victim."
"Have you spoken in detail about your case to anyone?"
"Just the Savannah police."
"You haven't discussed it at length with your friends?"
"No."
"Family?"

"No."
"There must be someone you've confided in."
"I don't talk about it. I never talk about it."
He fixed her with a disbelieving gaze. "Never?"
She looked away. "Never," she whispered.
There was a long silence. Then Moore asked, gently, "Have
you ever heard of the name Elena Ortiz?"
"No."
"Diana Sterling?"
"No. Are they the women . . ."
"Yes. They're the victims."
She swallowed hard. "I don't know their names."
"You didn't know about these murders?"
"I make it a point to avoid reading about anything tragic. It's
just something I can't deal with." She released a weary sigh.
"You have to understand, I see so many terrible things in the
emergency room. When I get home, at the end of the day, I
want peace. I want to feel safe. What happens in the world

--all the violence--I don't need to read about it."
Moore reached into his jacket and produced two
photographs, which he slid across the desk to her. "Do you
recognize either of these women?"
Catherine stared at the faces. The one on the left had dark
eyes and a laugh on her lips, the wind in her hair. The other
was an ethereal blonde, her gaze dreamy and distant.
"The dark-haired one is Elena Ortiz," said Moore. "The
other is Diana Sterling. Diana was murdered a year ago. Do
these faces look at all familiar?"
She shook her head.
"Diana Sterling lived in the Back Bay, only half a mile from
your residence. Elena Ortiz's apartment is just two blocks
south of this hospital. You may very well have seen them. Are
you absolutely sure you don't recognize either woman?"
"I've never seen them before." She held out the photos to
Moore and suddenly saw that her hand was trembling. Surely
he noticed it as he took back the photos, as his fingers
brushed hers. She thought he must notice a great deal; a
policeman would. She'd been so focused on her own turmoil
that she had scarcely registered much about this man. He'd
been quiet and gentle, and she had not felt in any way
threatened. Only now did she realize he'd been studying her
closely, waiting for a glimpse of the inner Catherine Cordell.

Not the accomplished trauma surgeon, not the cool and
elegant redhead, but the woman beneath the surface.
Detective Rizzoli spoke now, and unlike Moore, she made
no effort to soften her questions. She simply wanted answers,
and she didn't waste any time going after them. "When did
you move here, Dr. Cordell?"
"I left Savannah a month after I was attacked," said
Catherine, matching Rizzoli's businesslike tone.
"Why did you choose Boston?"
"Why not?"
"It's a long way from the South."
"My mother grew up in Massachusetts. She brought us to
New England every summer. It felt like . . . I was coming home.
"
"So you've been here over two years."
"Yes."
"Doing what?"
Catherine frowned, perplexed by the question. "Working
here at Pilgrim, with Dr. Falco. On Trauma Service."
"I guess the Globe got it wrong, then."

"Excuse me?"
"I read the article about you a few weeks ago. The one on
women surgeons. Great photo of you, by the way. It said
you've been working here at Pilgrim for only a year."
Catherine paused, then said, calmly, "The article was
correct. After Savannah, I took some time to . . ." She cleared
her throat. "I didn't join Dr. Falco's practice until last July."
"And what about your first year in Boston?"
"I didn't work."
"What did you do?"
"Nothing." That answer, so flat and final, was all she'd damn
well say. She was not going to reveal the humiliating truth of
what that first year had been like. The days, stretching into
weeks, when she was afraid to emerge from her apartment.
The nights when the faintest sound could leave her shaking in
panic. The slow and painful journey back into the world, when
just riding an elevator, or walking at night to her car, was an
act of sheer courage. She'd been ashamed of her
vulnerability; she was still ashamed, and her pride would never
allow her to reveal it.
She looked at her watch. "I have patients coming in. I really
have nothing more to add."

"Let me re-check my facts here." Rizzoli opened a small
spiral-bound notebook. "A little over two years ago, on the
night of June fifteenth, you were attacked in your home by Dr.
Andrew Capra. A man you knew. An intern you worked with in
the hospital." She looked up at Catherine.
"You already know the answers."
"He drugged you, stripped you. Tied you to your bed.
Terrorized you."
"I don't see the point of--"
"Raped you." The words, though spoken quietly, had an
impact as brutal as a slap.
Catherine said nothing.
"And that's not all he planned to do," continued Rizzoli.
Dear god, make her stop.
"He was going to mutilate you in the worst possible way. As
he mutilated four other women in Georgia. He cut them open.
Destroyed precisely what made them women."
"That's enough," said Moore.
But Rizzoli was relentless. "It could have happened to you,
Dr. Cordell."

Catherine shook her head. "Why are you doing this?"
"Dr. Cordell, there is nothing I want more than to catch this
man, and I would think you'd want to help us. You'd want to
stop it from happening to other women."
"This has nothing to do with me! Andrew Capra is dead.
He's been dead for two years."
"Yes, I've read his autopsy report."
"Well, I can guarantee he's dead," Catherine shot back.
"Because I'm the one who blew that son of a bitch away."

four
M    oore and Rizzoli sat sweating in the car, warm air
roaring from the AC vent. They'd been stuck in traffic for ten
minutes, and the car was getting no cooler.
"Taxpayers get what they pay for," said Rizzoli. "And this
car's a piece of junk."
Moore shut off the AC and rolled down his window. The
odor of hot pavement and auto exhaust blew into the car.
Already he was bathed in perspiration. He didn't know how

Rizzoli could stand keeping her blazer on; he had shed his
jacket the minute they'd stepped out of Pilgrim Medical
Center and were enveloped in a heavy blanket of humidity. He
knew she must be feeling the heat, because he saw sweat
glistening on her upper lip, a lip that had probably never made
the acquaintance of lipstick. Rizzoli was not bad-looking, but
while other women might smooth on makeup or clip on
earrings, Rizzoli seemed determined to downplay her own
attractiveness. She wore grim dark suits that did not flatter her
petite frame, and her hair was a careless mop of black curls.
She was who she was, and either you accepted it or you could
just go to hell. He understood why she'd adopted that up-yours
attitude; she probably needed it to survive as a female cop.
Rizzoli was, above all, a survivor.
Just as Catherine Cordell was a survivor. But Dr. Cordell
had evolved a different strategy: Withdrawal. Distance. During
the interview, he'd felt as though he were looking at her
through frosted glass, so detached had she seemed.
It was that detachment that irked Rizzoli. "There's
something wrong with her," she said. "Something's missing in
the emotions department."
"She's a trauma surgeon. She's trained to keep her cool."
"There's cool, and then there's ice. Two years ago she was
tied down, raped, and almost gutted. And she's so friggin'
calm about it now. It makes me wonder."

Moore braked for a red light and sat staring at the
gridlocked intersection. Sweat trickled down the small of his
back. He did not function well in the heat; it made him feel
sluggish and stupid. It made him long for summer's end, for
the purity of winter's first snowfall. . . .
"Hey," said Rizzoli. "Are you listening?"
"She is tightly controlled," he conceded. But not ice, he
thought, remembering how Catherine Cordell's hand had
trembled as she gave him back the photos of the two women.
Back at his desk, he sipped lukewarm Coke and re-read
the article printed a few weeks before in the Boston Globe:
"Women Holding the Knife." It featured three female surgeons
in Boston--their triumphs and difficulties, the special
problems they faced in their specialty. Of the three photos,
Cordell's was the most arresting. It was more than the fact she
was attractive; it was her gaze, so proud and direct that it
seemed to challenge the camera. The photo, like the article,
reinforced the impression that this woman was in control of
her life.
He set aside the article and sat thinking of how wrong first
impressions can be. How easily pain can be masked by a
smile, an upward tilting chin.
Now he opened a different file. Took a deep breath and re-
read the Savannah police report on Dr. Andrew Capra.