Tess Gerritsen - The Surgeon

She met Kimball’s stunned gaze across the table.

“Who would do this?” he said softly. “Who the hell are we dealing with?”

“A monster,” she said.

“The vic’s still in surgery. She’s still alive.” Rizzoli snapped her cell phone shut and looked at Moore and Dr. Zucker. “We now have a witness. Our unsub’s getting careless.”

“Not careless,” said Moore. “Rushed. He didn’t have time to finish the job.” Moore stood by the bedroom door, studying the blood on the floor. It was still fresh, still glistening. It’s had no time to dry. The Surgeon was just here.

“The photo was e-mailed to Cordell at seven fifty-five P.M.,” said Rizzoli. “The clock in the photo said two-twenty.” She pointed to the clock on the nightstand. “That’s set at the correct time. Which means he must have taken the photo last night. He kept that victim alive, in this house, for over twenty-four hours.”

Prolonging the pleasure.

“He’s getting cocky,” said Dr. Zucker, and there was an unsettling note of admiration in his voice. An acknowledgment that here was a worthy opponent. “Not only does he keep the victim alive for a whole day; he actually leaves her here, for a time, to send that e-mail. Our boy is playing mind games with us.”

“Or with Catherine Cordell,” said Moore.

The victim’s purse was lying on top of the dresser. With gloved hands, Moore went through the contents. “Wallet with thirty-four dollars. Two credit cards. Triple A card. Employee ID badge for Lawrence Scientific Supplies, Sales Department. Driver’s license, Nina Peyton, twenty-nine years old, five foot four, a hundred thirty pounds.” He flipped over the license. “Organ donor.”

“I think she just donated,” said Rizzoli.

He unzipped a side pocket. “There’s a datebook.”

Rizzoli turned to look at him with interest. “Yes?”

He opened the book to the current month. It was blank. He flipped backward until he found an entry, written nearly eight weeks before: Rent due. He flipped further back and saw more entries: Sid’s B-day. Dry cleaning. Concert 8:00. Staff meeting. All the mundane little details that make up a life. Why had the entries suddenly stopped eight weeks ago? He thought of the woman who had written these words, printing neatly in blue ink. A woman who had probably looked ahead to the blank page for December and pictured Christmas and snow with every reason to believe she would be alive to see it.

He closed the book and was so overwhelmed by sadness that for a moment he could not speak.

“There’s nothing at all left behind in the sheets,” said Frost, crouched by the bed. “No loose surgical threads, no instruments, nothing.”

“For a guy who was supposedly in a hurry to leave,” said Rizzoli, “he did a good job of cleaning up after himself. And look. He had time to fold the nightclothes.” She pointed to a cotton nightgown, which lay neatly folded on a chair. “This doesn’t go along with his being in a rush.”

“But he left his victim alive,” said Moore. “The worst possible mistake.”

“It doesn’t make sense, Moore. He folds the nightgown, picks up after himself. And then he’s so careless as to leave behind a witness? He’s too smart to make this mistake.”

“Even the smartest ones screw up,” said Zucker. “Ted Bundy got careless at the end.”

Moore looked at Frost. “You’re the one who called the victim?”

“Yeah. When we were running down that list of phone numbers the library gave us. I called this residence around two, two-fifteen. I got the answering machine. I didn’t leave any message.”

Moore glanced around the room but saw no answering machine. He walked out to the living room and spotted the phone on the end table. It had a caller ID box, and the memory button was smeared with blood.

He used the tip of a pencil to press the button, and the phone number of the last caller was displayed on the digital readout.

Boston PD 2:14 A.M.

“Is that what spooked him?” asked Zucker, who’d followed him into the living room.

“He was right here when Frost called. There’s blood on the caller ID button.”

“So the phone rang. And our unsub wasn’t finished. He hadn’t achieved satisfaction. But a phone call in the middle of the night must have rattled him. He came out here, into the living room, and saw the number on the caller ID box. Saw it was the police, trying to reach the victim.” Zucker paused. “What would you do?”

“I’d clear out of here.”

Zucker nodded, and a smile twitched at his lips.

This is all a game to you, thought Moore. He went to the window and looked out at the street, which was now a bright kaleidoscope of flashing blue lights. Half a dozen cruisers were parked in front of the house. The press was out there, too; he could see the local TV vans setting up their satellite feeds.

“He didn’t get to enjoy it,” Zucker said.

“He completed the excision.”

“No, that’s just the souvenir. A little reminder of his visit. He wasn’t here just to collect a body part. He came for the ultimate thrill: to feel a woman’s life drain away. But this time he didn’t achieve it. He was interrupted, distracted by fear that the police were coming. He didn’t stay long enough to watch his victim die.” Zucker paused. “The next one’s going to come very soon. Our unsub is frustrated, and the tension is getting unbearable for him. Which means he’s already on the hunt for a new victim.”

“Or he’s already chosen her,” said Moore. And thought: Catherine Cordell.

The first streaks of dawn were lightening the sky. Moore had not slept in nearly twenty-four hours, had been going full throttle for most of the night, fueled only by coffee. Yet as he looked up at the brightening sky, what he felt was not exhaustion but renewed agitation. There was some connection between Catherine and the Surgeon that he did not understand. Some invisible thread that bound her to that monster.

“Moore.”

He turned to see Rizzoli and instantly picked up on the excitement in her eyes.

“Sex Crimes just called,” she said. “Our victim is a very unlucky lady.”

“What do you mean?”

“Two months ago, Nina Peyton was sexually assaulted.”

The news stunned Moore. He thought of the blank pages in the victim’s datebook. Eight weeks ago, the entries had stopped. That was when Nina Peyton’s life had screeched to a halt.

“There’s a report on file?” said Zucker.

“Not just a report,” said Rizzoli. “A rape kit was collected.”

“ Two rape victims?” said Zucker. “Could it be this easy?”

“You think their rapist comes back to kill them?”

“It’s got to be more than random chance. Ten percent of serial rapists later communicate with their victims. It’s the perp’s way of prolonging the torment. The obsession.”

“Rape as foreplay to murder.” Rizzoli gave a disgusted snort. “Nice.”

A new thought suddenly occurred to Moore. “You said a rape kit was collected. So there was a vaginal swab?”

“Yep. DNA’s pending.”

“Who collected that swab? Did she go to the emergency room?” He was almost certain that she’d say: Pilgrim Hospital.

But Rizzoli shook her head. “Not the E.R. She went to Forest Hills Women’s Clinic. It’s right down the road.”

On a wall in the clinic waiting room, a full-color poster of the female genital tract was displayed beneath the words: Woman. Amazing Beauty . Though Moore agreed that a woman’s body was a miraculous creation, he felt like a dirty voyeur, staring at that explicit diagram. He noticed that several women in the waiting room were eyeing him the way gazelles regard a predator in their midst. That he was accompanied by Rizzoli did not seem to alter the fact he was the alien male.