Tess Gerritsen - The Surgeon

“So what do we make of this hypnosis session?” asked Marquette.

Zucker said, “I’m not saying she doesn’t believe it. Doesn’t remember it vividly. It’s like telling a child there was an elephant in the backyard. After a while, the child believes it so strongly she can describe the elephant’s trunk, the pieces of straw on the back. The broken tusk. The memory becomes reality. Even when it never happened.”

“We can’t completely discount the memory,” said Moore. “You may not believe Cordell is reliable, but she is the focus of our unsub’s interest. What Capra started — the stalking, the killing — it hasn’t stopped. It’s followed her here.”

“A copycat?” said Marquette.

“Or a partner,” said Moore. “There are precedents.”

Zucker nodded. “Partnerships of killers aren’t all that uncommon. We think of serial killers as being lone wolves, but up to a quarter of serial killings are done by partners. Henry Lee Lucas had one. Kenneth Bianchi had one. It makes everything easier for them. Abduction, control. It’s cooperative hunting, to ensure success.”

“Wolves hunt together,” said Moore. “Maybe Capra did, too.”

Marquette picked up the VCR remote, pressed Rewind and then Play. On the TV screen, Catherine sat with eyes closed, arms limp.

Who says those words, Catherine? Who says, “It’s my turn, Capra”?

I don’t know. I don’t know his voice.

Marquette pressed Pause and Catherine’s face froze on the screen. He looked at Moore. “It’s been over two years since she was attacked in Savannah. If he was Capra’s partner, why has he waited this long to come after her? Why is it happening now?”

Moore nodded. “I wondered the same thing. I think I know the answer.” He opened the folder he’d brought into the meeting and took out a tear sheet from the Boston Globe . “This appeared seventeen days before Elena Ortiz’s murder. It’s an article about women surgeons in Boston. A third of it is devoted to Cordell. Her success. Her achievements. Plus there’s a color photo of her.” He handed the sheet to Zucker.

“Now this is interesting,” said Zucker. “What do you see when you look at this photo, Detective Moore?”

“An attractive woman.”

“Besides that? What does her posture, her expression, say to you?”

“Confidence.” Moore paused. “Distance.”

“That’s what I see, too. A woman at the top of her game. A woman who’s untouchable. Arms crossed, her chin high. Out of reach to most mortals.”

“What’s your point?” asked Marquette.

“Think about what turns on our unsub. Damaged women, contaminated by rape. Women who’ve symbolically been destroyed. And here is Catherine Cordell, the woman who killed his partner, Andrew Capra. She doesn’t look damaged. She doesn’t look like a victim. No, in this photo, she looks like a conqueror. What do you think he felt when he saw this?” Zucker looked at Moore.

“Anger.”

“Not just anger, Detective. Sheer, uncontrollable rage. After she left Savannah, he follows her to Boston, but he can’t get at her because she’s protected herself. So he bides his time, killing other targets. He probably imagines Cordell as a traumatized woman. A subhuman creature, just waiting around to be harvested as a victim. Then one day he opens the newspaper, and comes face-to-face, not with a victim, but with this conquering bitch .” Zucker handed the article back to Moore. “Our boy is trying to bring her back down. He’s using terror to do it.”

“What would be his end goal?” said Marquette.

“To reduce her to a level he can once again deal with. He only assaults women who act like victims. Women who are so damaged and humiliated, he doesn’t feel threatened by them. And if indeed Andrew Capra was his partner, then our unsub has another motivation as well. Revenge, for what she destroyed.”

Marquette said, “So where do we go with this hidden partner theory?”

“If Capra had a partner,” said Moore, “then this takes us right back to Savannah. We’re coming up empty-handed here. We’ve conducted nearly a thousand interviews so far, and have turned up no viable suspects. I think it’s time to take a look at everyone associated with Andrew Capra. See if one of those names has turned up here in Boston. Frost is already on the phone to Detective Singer, the Savannah lead. He can fly down and review the evidence.”

“Why Frost?”

“Why not?”

Marquette looked at Zucker. “We on a wild-goose chase?”

“Sometimes, you do catch a wild goose.”

Marquette nodded. “Okay. Let’s do Savannah.”

Moore rose to leave but stopped when Marquette said: “Can you stay a minute? I need to talk to you.” They waited until Zucker had left the office; then Marquette closed the door and said, “I don’t want Detective Frost to go.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because I want you to go to Savannah.”

“Frost is ready to go. He’s already prepared for it.”

“This isn’t about Frost. It’s about you. You need some separation from this case.”

Moore fell silent, knowing where this was leading.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Catherine Cordell,” said Marquette.

“She’s key to this investigation.”

“Too many evenings in her company. You were with her at midnight on Tuesday.”

Rizzoli. Rizzoli knew that.

“And Saturday, you stayed all night with her. What, exactly, is going on?”

Moore said nothing. What could he say? Yes, I’ve crossed the line. But I couldn’t help myself.

Marquette sank into his chair with a look of profound disappointment. “I can’t believe I’m talking to you about this. You, of all people.” He sighed. “It’s time for you to pull back. We’ll have someone else deal with her.”

“But she trusts me.”

“Is that all it is between you, trust ? What I’ve heard goes way beyond that. I don’t need to tell you how inappropriate this is. Look, we’ve both seen this happen before to other cops. It never works out. It won’t work out this time, either. Right now, she needs you, and you happen to be handy. You two get hot and heavy for a few weeks, a month. Then you both wake up one morning and bam, it’s over. Either she’s hurt or you’re hurt. And everyone’s sorry it ever happened.” Marquette paused, waiting for a response. Moore had none.

“Aside from the personal issues,” continued Marquette, “this complicates the investigation. And it’s fucking embarrassing to the whole unit.” He gave a brusque wave toward the door. “Go to Savannah. And stay the hell away from Cordell.”

“I need to explain to her—”

“Don’t even call her. We’ll see she gets the message. I’ll assign Crowe in your place.”

“ Not Crowe,” Moore said sharply.

“Who, then?”

“Frost.” Moore sighed. “Let Frost be the one.”

“Okay, Frost. Now go catch a plane. Getting out of town is just what you need to cool things down. You’re probably pissed at me now. But you know I’m only asking you to do the right thing.”

Moore did know, and it was painful to have a mirror held up to his own behavior. What he saw in that mirror was Saint Thomas the Fallen, brought down by his own desires. And the truth enraged him, because he could not rail against it. He could not deny it. He managed to hold his silence until he walked out of Marquette’s office, but when he saw Rizzoli sitting at her desk he could no longer contain his fury.

“Congratulations,” he said. “You got your payback. Feels good to draw blood, does it?”

“Have I?”

“You told Marquette.”