Tess Gerritsen: The Surgeon

Sitting behind her desk, she watched Moore and Rizzoli glance around the room, no doubt taking the measure of its occupant. Was that automatic for police officers, that quick visual survey, the appraisal of the subject’s personality? It made Catherine feel exposed and vulnerable.

“I realize this is a painful subject for you to revisit,” said Moore as he sat down.

“You have no idea how painful. It’s been two years. Why has this come up now?”

“In relation to two unsolved homicides, here in Boston.”

Catherine frowned. “But I was attacked in Savannah.”

“Yes, we know. There’s a national crime database called VICAP. When we did a search of VICAP, looking for crimes similar to our homicides here, Andrew Capra’s name came up.”

Catherine was silent for a moment, absorbing this information. Building the courage to pose the next logical question. She managed to ask it calmly. “What similarities are we talking about?”

“The manner in which the women were immobilized and controlled. The type of cutting instrument used. The…” Moore paused, struggling to phrase his words with the most delicacy possible. “The choice of mutilation,” he finished quietly.

Catherine gripped the desk with both hands, fighting to contain a sudden surge of nausea. Her gaze dropped to the files stacked so neatly in front of her. She spotted a streak of blue ink staining the sleeve of her lab coat. No matter how much you try to maintain order in your life, no matter how careful you are to guard against mistakes, against imperfections, there is always some smudge, some flaw, lurking out of sight. Waiting to surprise you.

“Tell me about them,” she said. “The two women.”

“We’re not at liberty to reveal very much.”

“What can you tell me?”

“No more than what was reported in Sunday’s Globe .”

It took a few seconds for her to process what he had just said. She stiffened in disbelief. “These Boston murders — they’re recent ?”

“The last one was early Friday.”

“So this has nothing to do with Andrew Capra! Nothing to do with me.”

“There are striking similarities.”

“Then they’re purely coincidental. They have to be. I thought you were talking about old crimes. Something Capra did years ago. Not last week.” Abruptly she shoved back her chair. “I don’t see how I can help you.”

“Dr. Cordell, this killer knows details that were never released to the public. He has information about Capra’s attacks that no one outside the Savannah investigation knows.”

“Then maybe you should look at those people. The ones who do know.”

“You’re one of them, Dr. Cordell.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, I was a victim .”

“Have you spoken in detail about your case to anyone?”

“Just the Savannah police.”

“You haven’t discussed it at length with your friends?”

“No.”

“Family?”

“No.”

“There must be someone you’ve confided in.”

“I don’t talk about it. I never talk about it.”

He fixed her with a disbelieving gaze. “Never?”

She looked away. “Never,” she whispered.

There was a long silence. Then Moore asked, gently, “Have you ever heard of the name Elena Ortiz?”

“No.”

“Diana Sterling?”

“No. Are they the women…”

“Yes. They’re the victims.”

She swallowed hard. “I don’t know their names.”

“You didn’t know about these murders?”

“I make it a point to avoid reading about anything tragic. It’s just something I can’t deal with.” She released a weary sigh. “You have to understand, I see so many terrible things in the emergency room. When I get home, at the end of the day, I want peace. I want to feel safe. What happens in the world — all the violence — I don’t need to read about it.”

Moore reached into his jacket and produced two photographs, which he slid across the desk to her. “Do you recognize either of these women?”

Catherine stared at the faces. The one on the left had dark eyes and a laugh on her lips, the wind in her hair. The other was an ethereal blonde, her gaze dreamy and distant.

“The dark-haired one is Elena Ortiz,” said Moore. “The other is Diana Sterling. Diana was murdered a year ago. Do these faces look at all familiar?”

She shook her head.

“Diana Sterling lived in the Back Bay, only half a mile from your residence. Elena Ortiz’s apartment is just two blocks south of this hospital. You may very well have seen them. Are you absolutely sure you don’t recognize either woman?”

“I’ve never seen them before.” She held out the photos to Moore and suddenly saw that her hand was trembling. Surely he noticed it as he took back the photos, as his fingers brushed hers. She thought he must notice a great deal; a policeman would. She’d been so focused on her own turmoil that she had scarcely registered much about this man. He’d been quiet and gentle, and she had not felt in any way threatened. Only now did she realize he’d been studying her closely, waiting for a glimpse of the inner Catherine Cordell. Not the accomplished trauma surgeon, not the cool and elegant redhead, but the woman beneath the surface.

Detective Rizzoli spoke now, and unlike Moore, she made no effort to soften her questions. She simply wanted answers, and she didn’t waste any time going after them. “When did you move here, Dr. Cordell?”

“I left Savannah a month after I was attacked,” said Catherine, matching Rizzoli’s businesslike tone.

“Why did you choose Boston?”

“Why not?”

“It’s a long way from the South.”

“My mother grew up in Massachusetts. She brought us to New England every summer. It felt like… I was coming home.”

“So you’ve been here over two years.”

“Yes.”

“Doing what?”

Catherine frowned, perplexed by the question. “Working here at Pilgrim, with Dr. Falco. On Trauma Service.”

“I guess the Globe got it wrong, then.”

“Excuse me?”

“I read the article about you a few weeks ago. The one on women surgeons. Great photo of you, by the way. It said you’ve been working here at Pilgrim for only a year.”

Catherine paused, then said, calmly, “The article was correct. After Savannah, I took some time to…” She cleared her throat. “I didn’t join Dr. Falco’s practice until last July.”

“And what about your first year in Boston?”

“I didn’t work.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.” That answer, so flat and final, was all she’d damn well say. She was not going to reveal the humiliating truth of what that first year had been like. The days, stretching into weeks, when she was afraid to emerge from her apartment. The nights when the faintest sound could leave her shaking in panic. The slow and painful journey back into the world, when just riding an elevator, or walking at night to her car, was an act of sheer courage. She’d been ashamed of her vulnerability; she was still ashamed, and her pride would never allow her to reveal it.

She looked at her watch. “I have patients coming in. I really have nothing more to add.”

“Let me re-check my facts here.” Rizzoli opened a small spiral-bound notebook. “A little over two years ago, on the night of June fifteenth, you were attacked in your home by Dr. Andrew Capra. A man you knew. An intern you worked with in the hospital.” She looked up at Catherine.

“You already know the answers.”

“He drugged you, stripped you. Tied you to your bed. Terrorized you.”

“I don’t see the point of—”

“Raped you.” The words, though spoken quietly, had an impact as brutal as a slap.