Tess Gerritsen - The Surgeon

The welcome was gone from her eyes. Suddenly her shoulders squared and her hands closed into fists on her desk. “I keep telling you, I don’t know .”

“You’re the one physical connection between Andrew Capra and the Surgeon,” he said. “The common victim. It’s as if Capra is still alive, picking up where he left off. And where he left off was you. The one who got away.”

She stared down at her desk, at the files so neatly stacked in their in and out boxes. At the medical note she’d been writing in tight and precise script. Though she sat perfectly still, the knuckles of her hands stood out, stark as ivory.

“What haven’t you told me about Andrew Capra?” he asked quietly.

“I haven’t kept anything from you.”

“The night he attacked you, why did he come to your house?”

“How is this relevant?”

“You were the only victim Capra knew as a person. The other victims were strangers, women he picked up in bars. But you were different. He chose you.”

“He was — he may have been angry with me.”

“He came to see you about something at work. A mistake he’d made. That’s what you told Detective Singer.”

She nodded. “It was more than just one mistake. It was a series of them. Medical errors. And he’d failed to follow up on abnormal blood tests. It was a pattern of carelessness. I’d confronted him earlier in the day, in the hospital.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him he should seek another specialty. Because I was not going to recommend him for a second year of residency.”

“Did he threaten you? Express any anger?”

“No. That was the strange thing. He just accepted it. And he… smiled at me.”

“Smiled?”

She nodded. “As though it didn’t really matter to him.”

The image gave Moore a chill. She could not have known then that Capra’s smile had masked an unfathomable rage.

“Later that night, in your house,” said Moore, “when he attacked you—”

“I’ve already gone over what happened. It’s in my statement. Everything is in my statement.”

Moore paused. Reluctantly he pressed on. “There are things you didn’t tell Singer. Things you left out.”

She looked up, her cheeks stung red with anger. “I’ve left nothing out!”

He hated being forced to hound her with more questions, but he had no choice. “I reviewed Capra’s autopsy report,” he said. “It’s not consistent with the statement you gave the Savannah police.”

“I told Detective Singer exactly what happened.”

“You said you were lying with your body draped over the side of the bed. You reached under the bed for the gun. From that position you aimed at Capra and fired.”

“And that’s true. I swear it.”

“According to the autopsy, the bullet tracked upward through his abdomen and passed through his thoracic spine, paralyzing him. That part is consistent with your statement.”

“Then why are you saying I lied?”

Again Moore paused, almost too sick at heart to press on. To keep hurting her. “There’s the problem of the second bullet,” he said. “It was fired at close range, straight into his left eye. Yet you were lying on the floor.”

“He must have bent forward, and that’s when I fired—”

“Must have?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember firing the second bullet?”

“No. Yes….”

“Which is the truth, Catherine?” He said it quietly, but he could not soften the sting of his words.

She shot to her feet. “I won’t be questioned this way. I’m the victim.”

“And I’m trying to keep you alive. I need to know the truth.”

“I’ve told you the truth! Now I think it’s time for you to leave.” She crossed to the door, yanked it open, and gave a startled gasp.

Peter Falco stood right outside, his hand poised to knock.

“Are you okay, Catherine?” asked Peter.

“Everything is fine ,” she snapped.

Looking at Moore, Peter’s gaze sharpened. “What is this, police harassment?”

“I’m asking Dr. Cordell a few questions, that’s all.”

“That’s not what it sounded like in the hallway.” Peter looked at Catherine. “Do you want me to show him out?”

“I can deal with this myself.”

“You’re not obligated to answer any questions.”

“I’m well aware of that, thank you.”

“Okay. But if you need me, I’m out here.” Peter shot a last warning glance at Moore, then turned and went back to his own office. At the other end of the hallway, Helen and the billing clerk were staring at her. Flustered, she shut the door again. For a moment she stood with her back to Moore. Then her spine straightened, and she turned to him. Whether she answered him now or later, the questions would remain.

“I’ve kept nothing from you,” she said. “If I can’t tell you everything that happened that night, it’s because I don’t remember.”

“So your statement to the Savannah police was not entirely true.”

“I was still hospitalized when I gave that statement. Detective Singer talked me through what happened, helping me piece it together. I told him what I thought was correct at the time.”

“And now you’re not sure.”

She shook her head. “It’s hard to know which memories are real. There’s so much I can’t remember, because of the drug Capra gave me. The Rohypnol. Every so often, I’ll have a flashback. Something that may or may not be real.”

“And you still have these flashbacks?”

“I had one last night. It was the first one in months. I thought I was over them. I thought they’d gone away.” She walked to the window and stared out. It was a view darkened by the shadow of towering concrete. Her office faced the hospital, and one could see row upon row of patients’ windows. A glimpse into the private worlds of the sick and dying.

“Two years seems like a long time,” she said. “Time enough to forget. But really, two years is nothing. Nothing. After that night, I couldn’t go back to my own house. I couldn’t set foot in the place where it happened. My father had to pack up my things and move me into a new place. There I was, the chief resident, accustomed to the sight of blood and guts. Yet just the thought of walking up that hallway, and opening my old bedroom door — it made me break out in a cold sweat. My father tried to understand, but he’s an old military man. He doesn’t accept weakness. He thinks of it as just another war wound, something that heals, and then you get on with your life. He told me to grow up and get over it.” She shook her head and laughed. “ Get over it. It sounds like such an easy thing. He had no idea how hard it was for me just to step outside every morning. To walk to my car. To be so exposed. After a while, I just stopped talking to him, because I knew he was disgusted by my weakness. I haven’t called him in months….

“It’s taken me two years to finally get my fear under control. To live a reasonably normal life where I don’t feel as if something’s going to jump out from every bush. I had my life back.” She brushed her hand across her eyes, a swift and angry swipe at her tears. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And now I’ve lost it again….”

She was shaking with the effort not to cry, hugging herself, her fingers digging into her own arms as she fought for control. He rose from the chair and crossed to her. Stood behind her, wondering what would happen if he touched her. Would she pull away? Would the mere contact of a man’s hand repulse her? He watched helplessly as she curled into herself, and he thought she might shatter before his eyes.

Gently he touched her shoulder. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. He turned her toward him, his arms encircling her, and drew her against his chest. The depth of her pain shocked him. He could feel her whole body vibrating with it, the way a storm batters a swaying bridge. Though she made no sound, he felt the shaky intake of her breath, the stifled sobs. He pressed his lips to her hair. He could not help himself; her need spoke to something deep inside him. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her forehead, her brow.