Michael Palmer - The Last Surgeon

“You were incredible,” Nick said finally. “Absolutely incredible.”

“I was Blanche in our school production of Streetcar . Reggie, please write down ‘Jillian and Jefferson Collins’ so we don’t forget our names.”

“You can borrow my wedding band,” Junie said.

Franz Koller’s mood brightened as soon as the surgeon began to stir. The gamma-hydroxybutyrate, one of the newer of the so-called date-rape drugs, was wearing off. It had been easier than he expected-much easier-to orchestrate her non-kill. The main problem he needed to overcome was that except for her surgical practice and teaching obligations, Dr. Abigail Spielmann lived a virtually monastic existence.

He had followed her for five days and had entered her East Side brownstone three times, each time easily disabling the antiquated security system. He had rigged up microcameras in her second-floor study and her third-floor bedroom, searching for any secret life-any deviance-on which he could build his kill. What he found was a dull woman of fifty, unmarried and, as far as he could tell, asexual. She returned home every evening at about nine, poured a large glass of a high-priced Syrah, and went to her study to write. At ten, having finished the wine, she repaired to her bedroom, read for ten or fifteen minutes-currently an Indira Gandhi biography-and drifted off to sleep. Somewhere in the early morning she awoke briefly, went to the bathroom, and then turned off the bedside light.

Dull. Unbelievably dull.

And soon, dead.

On his second visit, inspecting her kitchen, Koller hit pay dirt. A corked half-filled bottle of the Syrah on the counter, and a bee-sting kit with an epinephrine auto-injector in the refrigerator.

World-famous Abigail Spielmann, the foremost authority on surgery involving cardiac tumors, had an Achilles’ heel.

Koller wondered if he had made some sort of error in his calculations of the amount of GHB he had dropped into her wine. The half-life of the magnificent drug was just half an hour. It was a Friday evening, and she wouldn’t be discovered until there was nothing in her body left to detect. But by his estimate she should have been lucid an hour ago. Koller was confident the delay would not derail his plans any. The bees in his mason jar were doing just fine.

Spielmann could not sit up, although she was trying now. Koller had lashed his mark’s ankles and wrists to the posts of her mahogany bed frame using his beloved Velcro restraints. He had carefully inserted his little red ball into the woman’s mouth before she could scream. He found the confusion and fear exploding in her eyes intoxicating.

“Good evening, Doctor,” he began. “My name is Koller. Franz Koller. It’s a pleasure to meet such a distinguished physician.”

Spielmann’s attempt to talk, or scream, came out a muted, choked sob.

Once the security system was disabled, handling the lock on her front door was child’s play-for a very experienced, creative child. When he first started his research, while seated behind her in the vast hospital cafeteria, Koller slipped her key ring out from her purse, made clay impressions, and dropped it back. Later, using the molds, he created duplicates of the keys from flattened soda cans and used a tension wrench to insert and turn them. He had learned the trick years ago from a locksmith friend, who suggested that bringing a clay impression to a locksmith was asking for a report to the police.

The doctor kept up her struggle against the restraints, valiantly but without success. Koller, dressed in his surgical garb, placed a gloved hand on her shoulder to calm her. Clutched in his other hand was the bee-sting kit he had just taken from her purse. He made certain that she saw it.

“You know what this is, Dr. Spielmann,” Koller said in his calmest voice. “The kit, itself, isn’t at all frightening. This, however, would be worthy of a scream if you could.”

Koller leaned over the side of the bed and retrieved the mason jar containing eight large honeybees. Spielmann’s body shook violently. Beads of sweat formed on her brow then dripped into her eyes. Each bee had a white thread tied neatly around its body. The threads dangled down the outside of the mason jar like octopus arms. Holding one thread, Koller opened the top of the jar, extracting one of the bees, then quickly sealed the jar before any others could escape.

“Have you ever seen a man fly a bee before, Dr. Spielmann? A funny little sight, isn’t it. It’s blessedly simple to do, actually. You place the bee inside a film canister, then freeze it for about ten minutes. The cold knocks the little fella unconscious, allowing its keeper-me-to tie the string around its little body without getting stung myself, though that would only hurt me.

“You, of course, are a different story altogether.

“Without your EpiPen, this guy would kill you.”

Spielmann thrashed against her restraints. Koller pulled down on the thread, guiding the buzzing bee hovering above his head onto the exposed skin of Spielmann’s right arm.

“I wouldn’t struggle much if I were you,” Koller said. “Might piss him off. And you’d best not scream when I take out that ball. Bad things might happen.”

As usual, Koller was careful to avoid her teeth as he plucked the red ball from her mouth. The bee, perhaps tired from its brief flight, walked in a circle on her arm. Abigail’s respirations were labored, close to hyperventilation.

“What… what… do you want?” she breathed.

“I want to talk a moment,” Koller said. “But if you try to scream, the ball goes in, followed by the stinger. Understand?”

“Yes,” she whispered hoarsely. “What do you want from me? I have money.”

“I’m well paid to be here,” Koller said. “But thank you anyway. First, I want you to know just how truly impressed I am with you and your accomplishments, Doctor.”

Abigail stammered, “I… I don’t understand…”

“You’ve pioneered techniques for robotic surgery that I am certain will be a lasting legacy. You’re going to be well remembered, Dr. Spielmann. I do hope you know that.”

The bee floated off her arm and danced erratically above her head before coming to a rest on the comforter. Spielmann traced the insect’s path with frightened eyes as it slowly crawled up her shoulder, inching across her neck then onto her face before taking flight again.

“Please… stop…”

“See, we have a lot in common, you and I,” Koller continued. “Our life is our work. Neither of us has any children. We’ve never bothered with marriage. No, our passion has been our careers and you’ve done a marvelous job with yours.”

“I’ll pay you to leave,” Abigail sobbed. Her tears rolled unabated down her cheeks.

“Our work, I guess, is our children. Our labor of love. Isn’t it, Doctor? But have you ever stopped to truly appreciate each moment of your day? I mean, when you’re cutting out those nasty cardiac tumors with that robot of yours, have you ever asked yourself if this could be the last surgery you’ll perform? If you knew it was to be the last, would you treat that procedure any different from the others? Savor each cut and stitch in a way you never had before?”

“Why are you asking me this?” Her voice was weak and shaky. The bee was airborne again. This time it landed on Koller, who didn’t even flinch.

“You see, I think about these things,” Koller continued. “I constantly ask myself, is this the last time I’ll ever do this again? Most parents can’t remember the last night they carried their tired little munchkin off to beddy-bye, but sure as sunrise and sunset, that night does come. It’s a shame when such a monumental moment passes without proper acknowledgment. I won’t let that happen to me.”