Tess Gerritsen - The Surgeon

“Hardly surprising, since you’re the opposite of a whiner. As you made painfully clear to me today.”

“Yeah, yeah. I thought I apologized for that.”

He got two beers from the refrigerator, then sat down across from her. She’d never seen him like this, with his shirtsleeves rolled up and looking so relaxed. She liked him this way. Not the forbidding Saint Thomas but a guy she could shoot the breeze with, a guy who’d laugh with her. A guy who, if he just bothered to turn on the charm, could knock a girl’s socks off.

“You know, you don’t always have to be tougher than everyone else,” he said.

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“Because they don’t think I am.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Guys like Crowe. Lieutenant Marquette.”

He shrugged. “There’ll always be a few like that.”

“How come I always end up working with them?” She popped open her beer and took a swig. “That’s why you’re the first one I told about the necklace. You won’t hog the credit.”

“It’s a sad day when it gets down to who claims credit for this or that.”

She picked up her chopsticks and dug into the carton of kung pao chicken. It was burn-your-mouth spicy, just the way she liked it. Rizzoli was no wimp when it came to hot peppers, either.

She said, “The first really big case I worked on in Vice and Narcotics, I was the only woman on a team with five men. When we cracked it, there was this press conference. TV cameras, the whole nine yards. And you know what? They mentioned every name on that team but mine. Every other goddamn name.” She took another swallow of beer. “I make sure that doesn’t happen anymore. You guys, you can focus all your attention on the case and the evidence. But I waste a lot of energy just trying to make myself heard.”

“I hear you fine, Rizzoli.”

“It’s a nice change.”

“What about Frost? You have problems with him?”

“Frost is cool.” She winced at the unintended quip. “His wife’s got him well trained.”

They both laughed at that. Anyone who overheard Barry Frost’s meek yes dear, no dear phone conversations with his wife had no doubt who was boss in the Frost household.

“That’s why he’s not gonna move up very far,” she said. “No fire in the belly. Family man.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a family man. I wish I’d been a better one.”

She glanced up from the carton of Mongolian beef and saw that he wasn’t looking at her but was staring at the necklace. There’d been a note of pain in his voice, and she didn’t know what to say in response. Figured that it was best not to say anything.

She was relieved when he turned the subject back to the investigation. In their world, murder was always a safe topic.

“There’s something wrong here,” he said. “This jewelry thing doesn’t make sense to me.”

“He’s taking souvenirs. Common enough.”

“But what’s the point of taking a souvenir if you’re going to give it away?”

“Some perps take the vic’s jewelry and give it to their own wives or girlfriends. They get a secret thrill from seeing it around their girlfriend’s neck, and being the only one who knows where it really comes from.”

“But our boy’s doing something different. He leaves the souvenir at the next crime scene. He doesn’t get to keep seeing it. Doesn’t get the recurrent thrill of being reminded of his kill. There’s no emotional gain that I can see.”

“A symbol of ownership? Like a dog, marking his territory. Only he uses a piece of jewelry to mark his next victim.”

“No. That’s not it.” Moore picked up the Ziploc bag and weighed it in his palm, as though divining its purpose.

“The main thing is, we’re onto the pattern,” she said. “We’ll know exactly what to expect at the next crime scene.”

He looked up at her. “You just answered the question.”

“What?”

“He’s not marking the victim. He’s marking the crime scene.”

Rizzoli paused. All at once, she understood the distinction. “Jesus. By marking the scene…”

“This isn’t a souvenir. And it’s not a mark of ownership.” He set down the necklace, a tangled filigree of gold that had skimmed the flesh of two dead women.

A shudder went through Rizzoli. “It’s a calling card,” she said softly.

Moore nodded. “The Surgeon is talking to us.”

A place of strong winds and dangerous tides.

This is how Edith Hamilton, in her book Mythology, describes the Greek port of Aulis. Here lie the ruins of the ancient temple of Artemis, the goddess of the hunt. It was at Aulis where the thousand Greek black ships gathered to launch their attack on Troy. But the north wind blew, and the ships could not sail. Day after day, the wind was relentless and the Greek army, under the command of King Agamemnon, grew angry and restless. A soothsayer revealed the reason for the ill winds: the goddess Artemis was angry, because Agamemnon had slain one of her beloved creatures, a wild hare. She would not allow the Greeks to depart unless Agamemnon offered up a terrible sacrifice: his daughter, Iphigenia.

And so he sent for Iphigenia, claiming that he had arranged for her a great marriage to Achilles. She did not know she was coming instead to her death.

Those fierce north winds were not blowing on the day you and I walked the beach near Aulis. It was calm, the water was green glass, and the sand was as hot as white ash beneath our feet. Oh, how we envied the Greek boys who ran barefoot on the sun-baked shore! Though the sand scorched our pale tourist skin, we reveled in the discomfort, because we wanted to be like those boys, our soles like toughened leather. Only through pain and hard wear do calluses form.

In the evening, when the day had cooled, we went to the Temple of Artemis.

We walked among the lengthening shadows, and came to the altar where Iphigenia was sacrificed. Despite her prayers, her cries of “Father, spare me!” the warriors carried the girl to the altar. She was stretched over the stone, her white neck bared to the blade. The ancient playwright Euripides writes that the soldiers of Atreus, and all the army, stared at the ground, unwilling to watch the spilling of her virgin blood. Unwilling to witness the horror.

Ah, but I would have watched! And so, too, would you have. And eagerly, too.

I pictured the silent troops assembled in the gloom. I imagined the beating of drums, not the lively throb of a wedding celebration, but a somber march toward death. I saw the procession, winding its way into the grove. The girl, white as a swan, flanked by soldiers and priests. The drumming stops.

They carry her, shrieking, to the altar.

In my vision, it is Agamemnon himself who holds the knife blade, for why call it sacrifice if you are not the one who draws the blood? I see him approach the altar, where his daughter lies, her tender flesh exposed to all eyes. She pleads for her life, to no avail.

The priest grasps her hair and pulls it back, baring her throat. Beneath the white skin the artery pulses, marking the place for the blade. Agamemnon stands beside his daughter, looking down at the face he loves. In her veins runs his blood. In her eyes he sees his own. By cutting her throat, he cuts his own flesh.

He raises the knife. The soldiers stand silent, statues among the sacred grove of trees. The pulse in the girl’s neck is fluttering.

Artemis demands sacrifice, and this Agamemnon must do.

He presses the blade to the girl’s neck, and slices deep.

A fountain of red spurts, splashing his face with hot rain.