Tess Gerritsen - The Surgeon

So she sat unnoticed and sipped her ginger ale as she watched the pub gradually fill with people. It was a noisy crowd, with much chatter and clinking of ice cubes, the laughter a little too loud, a little too forced.

She rose and worked her way toward the bar. There she flashed her badge at the bartender and said, “I have a few questions.”

He gave her badge scarcely a glance, then punched the cash register to ring up a drink. “Okay, shoot.”

“You remember seeing this woman in here?” Rizzoli laid a photo of Nina Peyton on the counter.

“Yeah, and you’re not the first cop to ask about her. Some other woman detective was in here ’bout a month or so ago.”

“From the sex crimes unit?”

“I guess. Wanted to know if I saw anyone trying to pick up that woman in the picture.”

“And did you?”

He shrugged. “In here, everyone’s on the make. I don’t keep track.”

“But you do remember seeing this woman? Her name is Nina Peyton.”

“I seen her in here a few times, usually with a girlfriend. I didn’t know her name. Hasn’t been back in a while.”

“You know why?”

“Nope.” He picked up a rag and began wiping the counter, his attention already drifting away from her.

“I’ll tell you why,” said Rizzoli, her voice rising in anger. “Because some asshole decided to have a little fun. So he came here to hunt for a victim. Looked around, saw Nina Peyton, and thought: There’s some pussy. He sure didn’t see a human being when he looked at her. All he saw was something he could use and throw away.”

“Look, you don’t need to tell me this.”

“Yes, I do. And you need to hear it because it happened right under your nose and you chose not to see it. Some asshole slips a drug in a woman’s drink. Pretty soon she’s sick and staggers off to the bathroom. The asshole takes her by the arm and leads her outside. And you didn’t see any of that?”

“No,” he shot back. “I didn’t .”

The room had fallen silent. She saw that people were staring at her. Without another word, she stalked off, back to the table.

After a moment, the buzz of conversation resumed.

She watched the bartender slide two whiskeys toward a man, saw the man hand one of them to a woman. She watched drink glasses lifted to lips and tongues licking off salt from Margaritas, saw heads tilted back as vodka and tequila and beer slid down throats.

And she saw men staring at women. She sipped her ginger ale, and she felt intoxicated, not with alcohol but anger. She, the lone female sitting in the corner, could see with startling clarity what this place really was. A watering hole where predator and prey came together.

Her beeper went off. It was Barry Frost paging her.

“What’s all that racket?” asked Frost, barely audible over her cell phone.

“I’m sitting in a bar.” She turned and glared as a nearby table exploded with laughter. “What did you say?”

“… a doctor over on Marlborough Street. I’ve got a copy of her medical record.”

“Whose medical record?”

“Diana Sterling’s.”

At once Rizzoli was hunched forward, every ounce of attention focused on Frost’s faint voice. “Tell me again. Who’s the doctor and why did Sterling see him?”

“The doctor’s a she. Dr. Bonnie Gillespie. A gynecologist over on Marlborough Street.”

Another noisy burst of laughter drowned out his words. Rizzoli cupped her hand over her ear so she could hear his next words. “Why did Sterling see her?” she yelled.

But she already knew the answer; she could see it right in front of her as she stared at the bar, where two men were converging on a woman like lions stalking a zebra.

“Sexual assault,” said Frost. “Diana Sterling was raped, too.”

“All three were sexual assault victims,” said Moore. “But neither Elena Ortiz nor Diana Sterling reported their attacks. We found out about Sterling’s rape only because we checked local women’s clinics and gynecologists to find out if she was ever treated for it. Sterling never even told her parents about the attack. When I called them this morning, they were shocked to find out about it.”

It was only midmorning, but the faces he saw around the conference room table looked drained. They were operating on sleep deficits, and another full day stretched ahead of them.

Lieutenant Marquette said, “So the only person who knew about Sterling’s rape was this gynecologist on Marlborough Street?”

“Dr. Bonnie Gillespie. It was Diana Sterling’s one and only visit. She went in because she was afraid she’d been exposed to AIDS.”

“What did Dr. Gillespie know about the rape?”

Frost, who’d interviewed the physician, answered the question. He opened the folder containing Diana Sterling’s medical record. “Here’s what Dr. Gillespie wrote: ‘Thirty-year-old white female requests HIV screen. Unprotected sex five days ago, partner’s HIV status unknown. When asked if her partner was in a high-risk group, patient became upset and tearful. Revealed that sex was not consensual, and she does not know assailant’s name. Does not wish to report the assault. Refuses referral for rape counseling.’ ” Frost looked up. “That’s all the information Dr. Gillespie got from her. She did a pelvic exam, tested for syphilis, gonorrhea, and HIV, and told the patient to return in two months for a follow-up HIV blood test. The patient never did. Because she was dead.”

“And Dr. Gillespie never called the police? Even after the murder?”

“She didn’t know her patient was dead. She never saw the news reports.”

“Was a rape kit collected? Semen?”

“No. The patient, uh…” Frost flushed in embarrassment. Some topics even a married man like Frost found difficult to discuss. “She douched a few times, right after the attack.”

“Can you blame her?” said Rizzoli. “Shit, I would’ve felt like douching with Lysol.”

“Three rape victims,” said Marquette. “This is no coincidence.”

“You find the rapist,” said Zucker, “I think you’ll have your unsub. What’s the status on the DNA from Nina Peyton?”

“It’s on expedite,” said Rizzoli. “Lab’s had the semen sample for nearly two months, and nothing’s been done with it. So I lit a fire under them. Let’s just keep our fingers crossed that our perp’s already in CODIS.”

CODIS, the Combined DNA Index System, was the FBI’s national database of DNA profiles. The system was still in its infancy, and the genetic profiles of half a million convicted offenders had not yet been entered into the system. The chances of their getting a “cold hit”—a match with a known offender — were slim.

Marquette looked at Dr. Zucker. “Our unsub sexually assaults the victim first. Then returns weeks later to kill her? Does that make sense?”

“It doesn’t have to make sense to us ,” said Zucker. “Only to him. It’s not uncommon for a rapist to return and attack his victim a second time. There’s a sense of ownership there. A relationship, however pathological, has been established.”

Rizzoli snorted. “You call it a relationship?”

“Between abuser and victim. It sounds sick, but there it is. It’s based on power. First he takes it away from her, makes her something less than a human being. She’s now an object. He knows it and, more importantly, she knows it. It’s the fact she’s damaged, humiliated, that may excite him enough to return. First he marks her with the rape. Then he returns to claim ultimate ownership.”

Damaged women, thought Moore. That’s the common link among these victims. It suddenly occurred to him that Catherine, too, was among the damaged.