Tess Gerritsen - The Surgeon

They regarded each other for a moment. And Moore felt a twinge of shame that he could not look past Rizzoli’s plainness. No matter how much he admired her quick mind, her unceasing drive to succeed, he would always focus on her utterly average face and her shapeless pantsuits. In some ways he was no better than Darren Crowe, no better than the jerks who stuffed tampons in her water bottle. He did not deserve her admiration.

They heard the sound of a throat being cleared and turned to see the crime scene tech standing in the doorway.

“No prints,” he said. “I dusted both computers. The keyboards, the mice, the disk drives. They’ve all been wiped clean.”

Rizzoli’s cell phone rang. As she flipped it open, she muttered: “What did we expect? We’re not dealing with a moron.”

“What about the doors?” asked Moore.

“There’s a few partials,” said the tech. “But with all the traffic that probably comes in and out of here — patients, staff — we’re not going to be able to ID anything.”

“Hey, Moore,” said Rizzoli, and she clapped her cell phone shut. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Headquarters. Brody says he’s gonna show us the miracle of pixels.”

“I put the image file on the Photoshop program,” said Sean Brody. “The file takes up three megabytes, which means it’s got lots of detail. No fuzzy pics for this perp. He sent a quality image, right down to the victim’s eyelashes.”

Brody was the BPD’s techno-wiz, a pasty-faced youngster of twenty-three who now slouched in front of the computer screen, his hand practically grafted to the mouse. Moore, Rizzoli, Frost, and Crowe stood behind him, all gazing over his shoulder at the monitor. Brody had an irritating laugh, like a jackal’s, and he gave little chortles of delight as he manipulated the image on the screen.

“This is the full-frame photo,” said Brody. “Vic tied to the bed. Awake, eyes open, bad case of red eye from the flash. Looks like duct tape on her mouth. Now see, down here in the left-hand corner of the pic, there’s the edge of the nightstand. You can see an alarm clock sitting on top of two books. Zoom in, and see the time?”

“Two twenty,” said Rizzoli.

“Right. Now the question is, A.M. or P.M.? Let’s go up to the top of the photo, where you see a corner of the window. The curtain’s closed, but you can just make out this little chink here, where the edges of the fabric don’t quite meet. There’s no sunlight coming through. If the time on that clock is correct, this photo was taken at two-twenty A.M.”

“Yeah, but which day?” said Rizzoli. “This could have been last night or last year. Hell, we don’t even know if the Surgeon’s the guy who snapped this pic.”

Brody tossed her an annoyed glance. “I’m not done yet.”

“Okay, what else?”

“Let’s just slide lower down the image. Check out the woman’s right wrist. It’s got duct tape obscuring it. But see that dark little blotch there? What do you suppose that is?” He pointed and clicked, and the detail got larger.

“Still doesn’t look like anything,” said Crowe.

“Okay, we’ll zoom in again.” He clicked once more. The dark lump took on a recognizable shape.

“Jesus,” said Rizzoli. “It looks like a tiny horse. That’s Elena Ortiz’s charm bracelet!”

Brody glanced back at her with a grin. “Am I good or what?”

“It’s him,” said Rizzoli. “It’s the Surgeon.”

Moore said, “Go back to the nightstand.”

Brody clicked back to the full frame and moved the arrow to the lower left corner. “What do you want to look at?”

“We’ve got the clock telling us it’s two-twenty. And then there’s those two books under the clock. Look at their spines. See how that top book jacket reflects light?”

“Yeah.”

“That has a clear plastic cover protecting it.”

“Okay…” said Brody, clearly not understanding where this was headed.

“Zoom in on the top spine,” said Moore. “See if we can read that book title.”

Brody pointed and clicked.

“Looks like two words,” said Rizzoli. “I see the word the .”

Brody clicked again, zooming in closer.

“The second word begins with an S,” said Moore. “And look at this.” He tapped on the screen. “See this little white square here, at the base of the spine?”

“I know what you’re getting at!” Rizzoli said, her voice suddenly excited. “The title. Come on; we need the goddamn title!”

Brody pointed and clicked one last time.

Moore stared at the screen, at the second word on the book’s spine. Abruptly he turned and reached for the telephone.

“What am I missing?” asked Crowe.

“The title of the book is The Sparrow ,” said Moore, punching in “O.” “And that little square on the spine — I’m betting that’s a call number.”

“It’s a library book,” said Rizzoli.

A voice came on the line. “Operator.”

“This is Detective Thomas Moore, Boston PD. I need an emergency contact number for the Boston Public Library.”

“Jesuits in space,” said Frost, sitting in the backseat. “That’s what the book’s about.”

They were speeding down Centre Street, Moore at the wheel, emergency lights flashing. Two cruisers were leading the way.

“My wife belongs to this reading group, see,” said Frost. “I remember her talking about The Sparrow .”

“So it’s science fiction?” asked Rizzoli.

“Naw, it’s more like deep religious stuff. What’s the nature of God? That kind of thing.”

“Then I don’t need to read it,” said Rizzoli. “I know all the answers. I’m Catholic.”

Moore glanced at the cross street and said, “We’re close.”

The address they sought was in Jamaica Plain, a west Boston neighborhood tucked between Franklin Park and the bordering town of Brookline. The woman’s name was Nina Peyton. A week ago, she had borrowed a copy of The Sparrow from the library’s Jamaica Plain branch. Of all the patrons in the greater Boston area who had checked out copies of the book, Nina Peyton was the only one who, at 2:00 A.M., was not answering her telephone.

“This is it,” said Moore, as the cruiser just ahead of them turned right onto Eliot Street. He followed suit and, a block later, pulled up behind it.

The cruiser’s dome light shot surreal flashes of blue into the night as Moore, Rizzoli, and Frost stepped through the front gate and approached the house. Inside, one faint light glowed.

Moore shot a look at Frost, who nodded and circled toward the rear of the building.

Rizzoli knocked on the front door and called out: “Police!”

They waited a few seconds.

Again Rizzoli knocked, harder. “Ms. Peyton, this is the police! Open the door!”

There was a three-beat pause. Suddenly Frost’s voice crackled over their com units: “There’s a screen pried off the back window!”

Moore and Rizzoli exchanged glances, and without a word the decision was made.

With the butt of his flashlight, Moore smashed the glass panel next to the front door, reached inside, and slid open the bolt.

Rizzoli was first into the house, moving in a semicrouch, her weapon sweeping an arc. Moore was right behind her, adrenaline pulsing as he registered a quick succession of images. Wood floor. An open closet. Kitchen straight ahead, living room to the right. A single lamp glowing on an end table.

“The bedroom,” said Rizzoli.

“Go.”

They started up the hallway, Rizzoli taking the lead, her head swiveling left and right as they passed a bathroom, a spare bedroom, both empty. The door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar; they could not see past it, into the dark bedroom beyond.