Tess Gerritsen - The Surgeon

Rizzoli’s gaze paused on the gold pendant dangling around Diana’s throat. She picked up the photo and took a closer look. Pulse accelerating, she glanced around the room to see if any of the other cops had registered what she had just noticed, but no one was looking at her or the photos; they were focused on Dr. Zucker.

He had unfurled a map of Boston. Overlaid on the grid of city streets were two shaded areas, one encompassing the Back Bay, the other limited to the South End.

“These are the known activity spaces for our two victims. The neighborhoods they lived in and worked in. All of us tend to conduct our day-to-day lives in familiar areas. There’s a saying among geographic profilers: Where we go depends upon what we know, and what we know depends on where we go. This is true for both victims and perps. You can see, from this map, the separate worlds in which these two women lived. There’s no overlap. No common anchor point or node in which their lives intersected. This is what puzzles me most. It’s key to the investigation. What is the link between Sterling and Ortiz?”

Rizzoli’s gaze dropped back to the photo. To the gold pendant dangling at Diana’s throat. I could be wrong. I can’t say anything, not until I’m certain, or it’ll be one more thing Darren Crowe will use to ridicule me.

“You’re aware there’s another twist to this case?” said Moore. “Dr. Catherine Cordell.”

Zucker nodded. “The surviving victim from Savannah.”

“Certain details about Andrew Capra’s killing spree were never released to the public. The use of catgut suture. The folding of the victims’ nightclothes. Yet our unsub here is reenacting those very details.”

“Killers do communicate with each other. It’s a twisted brotherhood, of sorts.”

“Capra’s been dead two years. He can’t communicate with anyone.”

“But while he was alive, he may have shared all the gruesome details with our unsub. That’s the explanation I’m hoping for. Because the alternative is far more disturbing.”

“That our unsub had access to the Savannah police reports,” said Moore.

Zucker nodded. “Which would mean he’s someone in law enforcement.”

The room fell silent. Rizzoli couldn’t help looking around at her colleagues — all of them men. She thought about the kind of man who is drawn to police work. The kind of man who loves the power and authority, the gun and the badge. The chance to control others. Precisely what our unsub craves.

When the meeting broke up, Rizzoli waited for the other detectives to leave the conference room before she approached Zucker.

“Can I hold on to this photo?” she asked.

“May I ask why?”

“A hunch.”

Zucker gave her one of his creepy John Malkovich smiles. “Share it with me?”

“I don’t share my hunches.”

“It’s bad luck?”

“Protecting my turf.”

“This is a team investigation.”

“Funny thing about teamwork. Whenever I share my hunches, someone else always gets the credit.” With photo in hand, she walked out of the room and immediately regretted making that last comment. But all day she had been irritated by her male colleagues, by their little remarks and snubs that together added up to a pattern of disdain. The last straw was the interview that she and Darren Crowe had conducted of Elena Ortiz’s next-door neighbor. Crowe had repeatedly interrupted Rizzoli’s questions to ask his own. When she’d yanked him out of the room and called him on his behavior, he’d shot back the classic male insult:

“I guess it’s that time of month.”

No, she was going to keep her hunches to herself. If they didn’t pan out, then no one could ridicule her. And if they bore fruit, she would rightfully claim credit.

She returned to her workstation and sat down to take a closer look at Diana Sterling’s graduation photo. Reaching for her magnifying glass, she suddenly focused on the bottle of mineral water she always kept on her desk, and her temper boiled up when she saw what had been shoved inside.

Don’t react, she thought. Don’t let ’em see they’ve gotten to you.

Ignoring the water bottle and the disgusting object it contained, she aimed the magnifying glass on Diana Sterling’s throat. The room seemed unusually hushed. She could almost feel Darren Crowe’s gaze as he waited for her to explode.

It ain’t gonna happen, asshole. This time I’m gonna keep my cool.

She focused on Diana’s necklace. She had almost missed this detail, because the face was what had initially drawn her attention, those gorgeous cheekbones, the delicate arch of the eyebrows. Now she studied the two pendants dangling from the delicate chain. One pendant was in the shape of a lock; the other was a tiny key. The key to my heart, thought Rizzoli.

She rifled through the files on her desk and found the photos from the Elena Ortiz crime scene. With the magnifying glass, she studied a close-up shot of the victim’s torso. Through the layer of dried blood caked on the neck, she could just make out the fine line of the gold chain; the two pendants were obscured.

She reached for the phone and dialed the M.E.’s office.

“Dr. Tierney is out for the afternoon,” said his secretary. “Can I help you?”

“It’s about an autopsy he did last Friday. Elena Ortiz.”

“Yes?”

“The victim was wearing an item of jewelry when she was brought into the morgue. Do you still have it?”

“Let me check.”

Rizzoli waited, tapping her pencil on the desk. The water bottle was right there in front of her, but she steadfastly ignored it. Her anger had given way to excitement. To the exhilaration of the hunt.

“Detective Rizzoli?”

“Still here.”

“The personal effects were claimed by the family. A pair of gold stud earrings, a necklace, and a ring.”

“Who signed for them?”

“Anna Garcia, the victim’s sister.”

“Thank you.” Rizzoli hung up and glanced at her watch. Anna Garcia lived all the way out in Danvers. It meant a drive through rush hour traffic….

“Do you know where Frost is?” asked Moore.

Rizzoli glanced up, startled, to see him standing beside her desk. “No, I don’t.”

“He hasn’t been around?”

“I don’t keep the boy on a leash.”

There was a pause. Then he asked, “What’s this?”

“Ortiz crime scene photos.”

“No. The thing in the bottle.”

She looked up again and saw a frown on his face. “What does it look like? It’s a fucking tampon. Someone around here has a real sophisticated sense of humor.” She glanced pointedly at Darren Crowe, who suppressed a snicker and turned away.

“I’ll take care of this,” Moore said and picked up the bottle.

“Hey. Hey! ” she snapped. “Goddamnit, Moore. Forget it!”

He walked into Lieutenant Marquette’s office. Through the glass partition she saw Moore set the bottle with the tampon on Marquette’s desk. Marquette turned and stared in Rizzoli’s direction.

Here we go again. Now they’ll be saying the bitch can’t take a practical joke.

She grabbed her purse, gathered up the photos, and walked out of the unit.

She was already at the elevators when Moore called out: “Rizzoli?”

“Don’t fight my fucking battles for me, okay?” she snapped.

“You weren’t fighting. You were just sitting there with that… thing on your desk.”

“Tampon. Can you say the word nice and loud?”

“Why are you angry with me? I’m trying to stick up for you.”

“Look, Saint Thomas, this is how it works in the real world for women. I file a complaint, I’m the one who gets the shaft. A note goes in my personnel record. Does not play well with boys. If I complain again, my reputation’s sealed. Rizzoli the whiner. Rizzoli the wuss.”