Some of us, however, have not.
We walk among the rest, normal in every respect; perhaps we are more normal than anyone else because we have not allowed ourselves to be wrapped and mummified in civilization’s sterile bandages. We see blood, and we do not turn away. We recognize its lustrous beauty; we feel its primitive pull.
Everyone who drives past an accident and cannot help but look for the blood understands this. Beneath the revulsion, the urge to turn away, throbs a greater force. Attraction.
We all want to look. But not all of us will admit it.
It is lonely, walking among the anesthetized. In the afternoon, I wander the city and breathe in air so thick I can almost see it. It warms my lungs like heated syrup. I search the faces of people on the street, and I wonder which among them is my dearest blood brother, as once you were. Is there anyone else who has not lost touch with the ancient force that flows through us all? I wonder if we would recognize each other if we met, and I fear we would not, because we have hidden ourselves so deeply beneath the cloak that passes for normality.
So I walk alone. And I think of you, the only one who ever understood.
SEVENTEEN
As a physician, Catherine had looked at death so many times that its visage was familiar to her. She had stared into a patient’s face and watched life drain from the eyes, turning them blank and glassy. She had seen skin fade to gray, the soul in retreat, seeping away like blood. The practice of medicine is as much about death as it is about life, and Catherine had long ago made Death’s acquaintance over the cooling remains of a patient. She was not afraid of corpses.
Yet as Moore turned onto Albany Street and she saw the neat brick building of the Medical Examiner’s office, her hands broke out in a sweat.
He parked in the lot behind the building, next to a white van with the words “Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Office of the Medical Examiner” printed on the side. She did not want to leave the car, and only when he came around to open her door did she finally step out.
“Are you ready for this?” he asked.
“I’m not looking forward to it,” she admitted. “But let’s get it over with.”
Though she had viewed dozens of autopsies, she was not fully prepared for the smell of blood and ruptured intestines that hit her as they walked into the lab. For the first time in her medical career, she thought she would be sick at the sight of a body.
An older gentleman, eyes protected by a plastic face shield, turned to look at them. She recognized the M.E., Dr. Ashford Tierney, whom she had met at a forensic pathology conference six months before. A trauma surgeon’s failures were often the very subjects who ended up on Dr. Tierney’s autopsy table, and she had last spoken to him only a month ago, regarding the disturbing circumstances surrounding a child’s death from a ruptured spleen.
Dr. Tierney’s gentle smile contrasted jarringly with the blood-streaked rubber gloves he was wearing. “Dr. Cordell, it’s good to see you again.” He paused, as the irony of that statement struck him. “Though it could be under more pleasant circumstances.”
“You’ve already started cutting,” Moore noted in dismay.
“Lieutenant Marquette wants immediate answers,” said Tierney. “Every police shooting, the press is at his throat.”
“But I called ahead to arrange this viewing.”
“Dr. Cordell’s seen autopsies before. This is nothing new for her. Just let me finish this excision, and she can take a look at the face.”
Tierney turned his attention to the abdomen. With the scalpel, he finished slicing free the small bowel, pulled out loops of intestine, and dropped them into a steel basin. Then he stepped away from the table and nodded to Moore. “Go ahead.”
Moore touched Catherine’s arm. Reluctantly she approached the corpse. At first she focused on the gaping incision. An open abdomen was familiar territory, the organs impersonal landmarks, lumps of tissue that could belong to any stranger. Organs held no emotional significance, carried no personal stamp of identity. She could study them with the cool eye of a professional, and so she did, noting that the stomach and pancreas and liver were still in situ, waiting to be removed in a single bloc. The Y-incision, extending from the neck to the pubis, revealed both the chest and the abdominal cavity. The heart and lungs had already been excised, leaving the thorax an empty bowl. Visible in the chest wall were two bullet wounds, one entry just above the left nipple, the other a few ribs beneath it. Both bullets would have entered the thorax, piercing either heart or lung. In the left upper abdomen was yet a third entrance wound, tracking straight toward where the spleen would have been. Another catastrophic injury. Whoever had fired on Karl Pacheco had meant to kill him.
“Catherine?” said Moore, and she realized she had been silent too long.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the odor of blood and chilled flesh. By now she was well acquainted with Karl Pacheco’s internal pathology; it was time to confront his face.
She saw black hair. A narrow face, the nose as sharp as a blade. Flaccid jaw muscles, the mouth gaping. Straight teeth. She focused, at last, on the eyes. Moore had told her almost nothing about this man, just his name and the fact he had been shot by police while resisting arrest. Are you the Surgeon?
The eyes, corneas clouded by death, stirred no memory. She studied his face, trying to sense some trace of evil still lingering in Karl Pacheco’s corpse, but she felt nothing. This mortal shell was empty, and no trace of its former inhabitant remained.
She said, “I don’t know this man,” and she walked out of the room.
She was already waiting outside by his car when Moore emerged from the building. Her lungs had been fouled by the stench of that autopsy room, and she was taking breaths of scorchingly hot air, as though to wash out the contamination. Though she was now sweating, the chill of that air-conditioned building had settled in her bones, deep as the marrow.
“Who was Karl Pacheco?” she asked.
He looked off in the direction of Pilgrim Hospital, listening to the crescendoing wail of an ambulance. “A sexual predator,” he said. “A man who hunted women.”
“Was he the Surgeon?”
Moore sighed. “It appears not.”
“But you thought he might be.”
“DNA links him to Nina Peyton. Two months ago, he sexually assaulted her. But we have no evidence that connects him to Elena Ortiz or Diana Sterling. Nothing that places him in their lives.”
“Or in my life.”
“You’re sure you’ve never seen him?”
“I’m only sure that I don’t remember him.”
The sun had baked the car to oven heat, and they stood with the doors open, waiting for the interior to cool. Gazing across the car roof at Moore, she saw how tired he was. Already his shirt was blotted with sweat. A fine way to spend his Saturday afternoon, driving a witness to the morgue. In many respects, cops and doctors led similar lives. They worked long hours, at jobs for which there was no five o’clock whistle. They saw humanity in its darkest, most painful hours. They witnessed nightmares and learned to live with the images.
And what images did he carry? she wondered as he drove her home. How many victims’ faces, how many murder scenes, were stored like filed photographs in his head? She was only one element of this case, and she wondered about all the other women, living and dead, who had vied for his attention.
He pulled up in front of her building and turned off the engine. She looked up at her apartment window and was reluctant to step out of the car. To leave his company. They had spent so much time together over the last few days that she had come to rely on his strength and his kindness. Had they met under happier circumstances, his good looks alone would have caught her eye. Now what mattered most to her wasn’t his attractiveness, nor even his intelligence, but what lay in his heart. This was a man she could trust.
She considered her next words and what those words could lead to. And decided that she didn’t give a damn about the consequences.<
br />
She asked, softly: “Will you come in for a drink?”
He didn’t answer right away, and she felt her face flush as his silence took on unbearable significance. He was struggling to make a decision; he, too, understood what was happening between them, and was uncertain what to do about it.
When at last he looked at her and said, “Yes, I’d like to come in,” they both knew that more than a drink was on their minds.
They walked to the lobby door and his arm came around her. It was little more than a protective gesture, his hand resting casually on her shoulder, but the warmth of his touch, and her response to it, made her fumble with the security keypad. Anticipation made her slow and clumsy. Upstairs, she unlocked her apartment door with shaking hands, and they stepped through, into the delicious coolness of her flat. He paused only long enough to close the door and turn the dead bolts.
And then he took her in his arms.
It had been so long since she’d let herself be held. Once, the thought of a man’s hands on her body had filled her with panic. But in Moore’s embrace, panic was the last thing on her mind. She responded to his kisses with a need that surprised them both. She’d been deprived of love so long that she’d lost all sense of hunger. Only now, as every part of her came alive, did she remember what desire felt like, and her lips sought his with the eagerness of a starved woman. She was the one who tugged him up the hall toward the bedroom, kissing all the way. She was the one who unbuttoned his shirt and unfastened his belt buckle. He knew, somehow he knew, that he could not be the aggressor for it would frighten her. That for this, their first time, she must lead the way. But he could not hide his arousal, and she felt it as she opened the zipper, as his trousers slipped off.
He reached for the buttons on her blouse and stopped, his gaze searching hers. The look she gave him, the sound of her quickening breath, left no doubt that this was what she wanted. The blouse slowly parted, and slid off her shoulders. The bra whispered to the floor. He did it with it with utmost gentleness, not a stripping away of her defenses, but a welcome release. A liberation. She closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure as he bent to kiss her breast. Not an assault, but an act of reverence.
And so, for the first time in two years, did Catherine allow a man to make love to her. No thoughts of Andrew Capra intruded as she and Moore lay together on the bed. No flashes of panic, no frightening memories, returned as they shed the last of their clothes, as the weight of him pressed her into the mattress. What another man had done to her was an act so brutal it held no connection to this moment, to this body she inhabited. Violence is not sex, and sex is not love. Love was what she felt as Moore entered her, his hands cupping her face, his gaze on hers. She had forgotten what pleasure a man could give, and she lost herself in the moment, experiencing joy as though for the very first time.
It was dark when she awakened in his arms. She felt him stir and heard him ask: “What time is it?”
“Eight-fifteen.”
“Wow.” He gave a dazed laugh and rolled onto his back. “I can’t believe we slept all afternoon. I guess it caught up with me.”
“You haven’t been getting much sleep, either.”
“Who needs sleep?”
“Spoken like a doctor.”
“Something we have in common,” he said, and his hand slowly traced her body. “We’ve both been deprived too long.…”
They lay still for a moment. Then he asked softly: “How was it?”
“Are you asking me how good a lover are you?”
“No. I meant, how was it for you. Having me touch you.”
She smiled. “It was good.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong? I didn’t scare you?”
“You make me feel safe. That’s what I need, most of all. To feel safe. I think you’re the only man who ever understood that. The only man I’ve been able to trust.”
“Some men are worth trusting.”
“Yes, but which ones? I never know.”
“You won’t know until push comes to shove. He’ll be the one still standing beside you.”
“Then I guess I never found him. I’ve heard other women say that as soon as you tell a man what happened to you, as soon as you use the word rape, the men back away. As though we’re damaged goods. Men don’t want to hear about it. They prefer silence to confession. But the silence spreads. It takes over, until you can’t talk about anything at all. All of life becomes a taboo subject.”
“No one can live that way.”
“It’s the only way other people can stand to be around us. If we keep our silence. But even when I don’t talk about it, it’s there.”
He kissed her, and that simple act was more intimate than any act of love could be, because it came on the heels of confession.
“Will you stay with me tonight?” she whispered.
His breath was warm in her hair. “If you’ll let me take you to dinner.”
“Oh. I completely forgot about eating.”
“There’s the difference between men and women. A man never forgets to eat.”
Smiling, she sat up. “You make us drinks, then. I’ll feed you.”
He mixed two martinis, and they sipped as she tossed a salad, slid steaks under the broiler. Masculine food, she thought with amusement. Red meat for the new man in her life. The act of cooking had never seemed as pleasurable as it was tonight, Moore smiling as he handed her the salt and pepper shakers, her head buzzing from the gin. Nor could she remember the last time food had tasted so good. It was as if she’d just emerged from a sealed bottle and was experiencing the full vibrancy of tastes and smells for the very first time.
They ate at the kitchen table and sipped wine. Her kitchen, with its white tiles and white cabinets, suddenly seemed bright with color. The ruby wine, the crisp green lettuce, the blue-checked cloth napkins. And Moore sitting across from her. She had once thought him colorless, like all the other featureless men who walk past you on a city street, outlines sketched on a flat canvas. Only now did she really see him, the warm ruddiness of his skin, the web of laugh lines around his eyes. All the charming imperfections of a face well lived in.
We have all night, she thought, and the prospect of what lay ahead brought a smile to her lips. She rose, and held her hand out to him.
* * *
Dr. Zucker stopped the videotape of Dr. Polochek’s session and turned to Moore and Marquette. “It could be a false memory. Cordell has conjured up a second voice that didn’t exist. You see, that’s the problem with hypnosis. Memory is a fluid thing. It can be altered, rewritten to match expectations. She went into that session believing Capra had a partner. And presto, the memory’s there! A second voice. A second man in the house.” Zucker shook his head. “It’s not reliable.”
“It’s not just her memory that supports a second perp,” said Moore. “Our unsub sent hair clippings that could only have been collected in Savannah.”
“She says the hair was taken in Savannah,” Marquette pointed out.
“You don’t believe her, either?”
“The lieutenant raises a valid point,” said Zucker. “We’re dealing with an emotionally fragile woman here. Even two years after the attack, she may not be entirely stable.”
“She’s a trauma surgeon.”
“Yes, and she functions fine in the workplace. But she is damaged. You know that. The attack has left its mark.”
Moore fell silent, thinking about the first day he’d met Catherine. How her movements were precise, controlled. A different person from the carefree girl who had appeared during the hypnosis session, the young Catherine basking in the sunlight of her grandparents’ dock. And last night, that joyous young Catherine had re-emerged in his arms. She had been there all along, trapped inside that brittle shell, waiting to be released.
“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 telli
ng 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.”
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle Page 22
