“The world’s full of women. Why focus on her?”
“Unfinished business.”
“Yeah, well, I got a better theory.” Singer rose from his chair. “Cordell forgot to lock the chain on her kitchen door. Your boy in Boston is copying what he read in the newspapers. And your forensic hypnotist pulled up a false memory.” Shaking his head, he started toward the door. Tossed back a sarcastic parting shot: “Let me know when you catch the real killer.”
Moore allowed the exchange to bother him only briefly. He knew Singer was defending his own work on the case, and he could not blame him for being skeptical. He was beginning to wonder about his own instincts. He had come all the way to Savannah to either prove or disprove the partner theory, and thus far he had nothing to back it up.
He focused his attention on the TV screen and pressed Play.
The camera left the kitchen, advanced up the hallway. A pause to look into the bathroom—pink towels, a shower curtain with multicolored fish. Moore’s hands were sweating. He dreaded watching what came next, but he could not tear his gaze from the screen. The camera turned from the bathroom and continued up the hallway, past a framed watercolor of pink peonies hanging on the wall. On the wood floor, bloody shoeprints had been smeared and tracked over by the first officers on the scene and later by frantic paramedics. What was left was a confusing abstract in red. A doorway loomed ahead, the view jiggling in an unsteady hand.
Now the camera moved into the bedroom.
Moore felt his stomach turn, not because what he was staring at was any more shocking than other crime scenes he had witnessed. No, this horror was deeply visceral because he knew, and cared deeply about, the woman who had suffered here. He had studied the still photos of this room, but they did not convey the same lurid quality as this video. Even though Catherine was not in the frame—by this time she had already been taken to the hospital—the evidence of her ordeal shouted at him from the TV screen. He saw the nylon cord, which had bound her wrists and ankles, still attached to the four bedposts. He saw surgical instruments—a scalpel and retractors—left on the nightstand. He saw all this and the impact was so powerful that he actually swayed back in his chair, as though shoved by a fist.
When the camera lens shifted, at last, to Andrew Capra’s body lying on the floor, he felt barely a twitch of emotion; he was already numbed by what he’d seen seconds earlier. Capra’s abdominal wound had bled profusely, and a large pool had collected beneath his torso. The second bullet, into his eye, had inflicted the fatal wound. He remembered the five-minute gap between the two gunshots. The image he saw reinforced that timeline. Judging by the amount of pooling, Capra had lain alive and bleeding for at least a few minutes.
The videotape came to an end.
He stared at the blank screen, then stirred from his paralysis and turned off the VCR. He felt too drained to rise from the chair. When at last he did, it was only to escape this place. He picked up the box containing the photocopied documents from the Atlanta investigation. Since these papers were not originals but copies of documents on file in Atlanta, he could review them elsewhere.
Back in his hotel, he showered, ate a room-service hamburger and fries. Gave himself an hour with the TV to decompress. But the whole time he sat flipping between channels, what his hand really itched to do was call Catherine. Watching the last crime scene video had brought home exactly what sort of monster now stalked her, and he could not rest easy.
Twice he picked up the phone and put it down again. He picked it up yet again, and this time his fingers moved of their own accord, punching in a number he knew so well. Four rings, and he got Catherine’s answering machine.
He hung up without leaving a message.
He stared at the phone, ashamed by how easily his resolve had crumbled. He had promised himself to hold fast, had agreed to Marquette’s demand that he maintain his distance from Catherine for the duration of the investigation. When all this is over, somehow I will make things right between us.
He looked at the stack of Atlanta documents on the desk. It was midnight and he had not even started. With a sigh, he opened the first file from the Atlanta box.
The case of Dora Ciccone, Andrew Capra’s first victim, did not make for appetizing reading. He already knew the general details; they’d been summarized in Singer’s final report. But Moore had not read the raw reports from Atlanta, and now he was going back in time, examining the earliest work of Andrew Capra. This was where it all started. In Atlanta.
He read the initial crime report, then progressed through files of interviews. He read statements from Ciccone’s neighbors, from the bartender in the local watering hole where she was last seen alive, and from the girlfriend who discovered the body. There was also a file with a list of suspects and their photographs; Capra was not among them.
Dora Ciccone was a twenty-two-year-old grad student at Emory. On the night of her death, she was last seen around midnight, sipping a Margarita at La Cantina. Forty hours later, her body was discovered in her home, nude and tied to the bed with nylon cord. Her uterus had been removed and her neck slashed.
He found the police timeline. It was only a rough sketch in barely legible writing, as though the Atlanta detective had put it together merely to satisfy some internal checklist. He could almost smell failure in these pages, could read it in the depressive droop of the detective’s handwriting. He himself had experienced that heavy feeling that builds in your chest as you pass the twenty-four-hour mark, then a week, then a month, and you still have no tangible leads. This was what the Atlanta detective had—nothing. Dora Ciccone’s killer remained an unknown subject.
He opened the autopsy report.
The butchery of Dora Ciccone had been neither as swift nor as skillful as Capra’s later killings. Incisional jags indicated Capra lacked the confidence to make a single clean cut across the lower abdomen. Instead he had hesitated, his blade backtracking, macerating the skin. Once through the skin layer, the procedure degenerated to amateurish hacking, the blade deeply nicking both bladder and bowel as he excavated his prize. On this, his first victim, no suture was used to tie off any arteries. The bleeding was profuse, and Capra would have been working blind, his anatomical landmarks submerged in an ever-deepening pool of crimson.
Only the coup de grace was performed with any skill. It had been done in one clean slash, left to right, as though, with his hunger now sated and the frenzy fading, he was finally in control and could finish the job with cold efficiency.
Moore set aside the autopsy report and confronted the remains of his dinner, sitting on a tray beside him. Suddenly queasy, he carried the tray to the door and set it outside in the hall. Then he returned to the desk and opened the next folder, which contained the crime lab reports.
The first sheet was a microscopic: Spermatozoa identified in swab from victim’s vaginal vault.
He knew that DNA analysis of this sperm later confirmed it was Capra’s. Prior to killing Dora Ciccone, he had raped her.
Moore turned to the next page and found a bundle of reports from Hair and Fiber. The victim’s pubic area had been combed and the hairs examined. Among the samples was a reddish-brown pubic hair that matched Capra’s. He flipped through the next few pages of Hair and Fiber reports, which examined various stray hairs found at the crime scene. Most of the samples were from the victim herself, either pubic or head hairs. There was also a short blond strand retrieved from the blanket, later identified as nonhuman, based on the complex structural pattern of the medulla. A handwritten addendum said: “Vic’s mother owns Golden Retriever. Similar hairs found on backseat of vic’s car.”
He turned to the last page from Hair and Fiber, and stopped. It was an analysis of yet another hair, this one human but never identified. It had been found on the pillow. In any home, a variety of stray hairs can be found. Humans shed dozens of hairs a day, and depending on how fastidious a housekeeper you are and how often you vacuum, blankets and carpets and couches accumulate a microsco
pic record of every visitor who has ever spent significant time in your home. This single hair, found on the pillow, could have come from a lover, a houseguest, a relative. It was not Andrew Capra’s.
Single human head hair, light brown, A0 (curved), shaft length: 5 centimeters. Telogen phase. Trichorrhexis invaginata noted. Unidentified origin.
Trichorrhexis invaginata. Bamboo hair.
The Surgeon was there.
He sat back, stunned. Earlier that day he had read the Savannah lab reports for Fox, Voorhees, Torregrossa, and Cordell. In none of those crime scenes had a hair with Trichorrhexis invaginata been found.
But Capra’s partner had been there all along. He had remained invisible, leaving no semen, no DNA, behind. The only evidence of his presence was this single strand of hair, and Catherine’s buried memory of his voice.
Their partnership began with the very first killing. In Atlanta.
TWENTY
Peter Falco was up to his elbows in blood. He glanced up from the table as Catherine pushed into the trauma room. Whatever tensions had grown between them, whatever uneasiness she felt in Peter’s presence, were instantly shoved aside. They had assumed the roles of two professionals working together in the heat of battle.
“Another one coming in!” said Peter. “That makes four. They’re still cutting him out of the car.”
Blood spurted from the incision. He grabbed a clamp from the tray and thrust it into the open abdomen.
“I’ll assist,” said Catherine, and broke the tape seal on a sterile gown.
“No, I can handle this. Kimball needs you in Room Two.”
As if to emphasize his statement, an ambulance wail pierced the hubbub of the room.
“That one’s yours,” said Falco. “Have fun.”
Catherine ran out to the ambulance loading dock. Already, Dr. Kimball and two nurses were waiting outside as the beeping vehicle backed up. Even before Kimball yanked the ambulance door open, they could hear the patient screaming.
He was a young man, tattoos mapping his arms and shoulders. He thrashed and cursed as the crew rolled out his stretcher. Catherine took one glance at the blood-soaked sheet covering his lower extremities and knew why he was shrieking.
“We gave him a ton of morphine at the scene,” said the paramedic as they wheeled him into Trauma Two. “Didn’t seem to touch him!”
“How much?” said Catherine.
“Forty, forty-five milligrams IV. We stopped when his BP started dropping.”
“Transfer on my count!” said a nurse. “One, two, three!”
“Jesus fucking CHRIST! IT HURTS!”
“I know, sweetie; I know.”
“You don’t know a FUCKING THING!”
“You’ll feel better in a minute. What’s your name, son?”
“Rick … Oh Jesus, my leg—”
“Rick what?”
“Roland!”
“Do you have any allergies, Rick?”
“What’s wrong with you FUCKING PEOPLE?”
“We have vitals?” cut in Catherine as she pulled on gloves.
“BP one-oh-two over sixty. Pulse a hundred thirty.”
“Ten milligrams morphine, IV push,” said Kimball.
“SHIT! GIMME A HUNDRED!”
As the rest of the staff scurried around drawing bloods and hanging IV bags, Catherine peeled back the blood-soaked sheet and caught her breath when she saw the emergency tourniquet tied around what was barely recognizable as a limb. “Give him thirty,” she said. The lower right leg was attached by only a few shreds of skin. The nearly severed limb was a pulpy red mass, the foot twisted nearly backward.
She touched the toes and they were stone cold; of course there would be no pulse.
“They said the artery was pumping out,” said the paramedic. “First cop on the scene put on the tourniquet.”
“That cop saved his life.”
“Morphine’s in!”
Catherine directed the light onto the wound. “Looks like the popliteal nerve and artery are both severed. He’s lost vascular supply to this leg.” She looked at Kimball, and they both understood what had to be done.
“Let’s get him to O.R.,” said Catherine. “He’s stable enough to be moved. That’ll free up this trauma room.”
“Just in time,” said Kimball as they heard another ambulance siren wailing closer. He turned to leave.
“Hey. Hey!” The patient grabbed Kimball’s arm. “Aren’t you the doctor? It fucking hurts! Tell these bitches to do something!”
Kimball shot Catherine a wry look. And he said, “Be nice to ’em, bud. These bitches are running the show.”
Amputation was not a choice Catherine ever made lightly. If a limb could be saved, she would do everything in her power to reattach it. But when she stood in the O.R. a half hour later, scalpel in hand, and looked down at what remained of her patient’s right leg, the choice was obvious. The calf was macerated and both the tibia and fibula crushed to splinters. Judging by the uninjured left leg, his right limb had once been well formed and muscular, a leg deeply bronzed by the sun. The bare foot—strangely intact despite the shocking angle at which it pointed—had the tan lines of sandal straps, and there was sand under the toenails. She did not like this patient and had not appreciated his cursing or the insults he’d hurled in his pain at her and the other women on the hospital staff, but as her scalpel sliced through his flesh, shaping a posterior skin flap, as she sawed off the sharp edges of the fractured tibia and fibula, she worked with a sense of sadness.
The O.R. nurse removed the severed leg from the table and wrapped a drape over it. A foot that had once savored the warmth of beach sand would soon be reduced to ash, cremated with all the other sacrificed organs and limbs that found their way to the hospital’s pathology department.
The operation left Catherine depressed and drained. When at last she stripped off her gloves and gown and walked out of the O.R., she was not in any mood to see Jane Rizzoli waiting for her.
She went to the sink to wash the smell of talc and latex from her hands. “It’s midnight, Detective. Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Probably about as much as you do. I have some questions for you.”
“I thought you were no longer on the case.”
“I’ll never be off this case. No matter what anyone says.”
Catherine dried her hands and turned to look at Rizzoli. “You don’t like me much, do you?”
“Whether or not I like you isn’t important.”
“Was it something I said to you? Something I did?”
“Look, are you finished up here for the night?”
“It’s because of Moore, isn’t it? That’s why you resent me.”
Rizzoli’s jaw squared. “Detective Moore’s personal life is his business.”
“But you don’t approve.”
“He never asked my opinion.”
“Your opinion’s clear enough.”
Rizzoli eyed her with undisguised distaste. “I used to admire Moore. I thought he was one of a kind. A cop who never crossed the line. It turns out he’s no better than anyone else. What I can’t believe is that the reason he messed up was a woman.”
Catherine pulled off her O.R. cap and dropped it in the rubbish bin. “He knows it was a mistake,” she said, and she pushed out of the O.R. wing, into the hallway.
Rizzoli followed her. “Since when?”
“Since he left town without a word. I guess I was just a temporary lapse in judgment for him.”
“Is that what he was for you? A lapse in your judgment?”
Catherine stood in the hallway, blinking away tears. I don’t know. I don’t know what to think.
“You seem to be at the center of everything, Dr. Cordell. You’re right up there onstage, the focus of everyone’s attention. Moore’s. The Surgeon’s.”
Catherine turned in anger to Rizzoli. “You think I want any of this? I never asked to be a victim!”
“But it keeps happening to you, doesn�
�t it? There’s some kind of weird bond between you and the Surgeon. I didn’t see it at first. I thought he killed those other victims to play out his sick fantasies. Now I think it was all about you. He’s like a cat, killing birds and bringing them home to his mistress, to prove his worth as a hunter. Those victims were offerings meant to impress you. The more scared you get, the more successful he feels. That’s why he waited to kill Nina Peyton until she was in this hospital, under your care. He wanted you to witness his skill firsthand. You’re his obsession. I want to know why.”
“He’s the only one who can answer that.”
“You have no idea?”
“How could I? I don’t even know who he is.”
“He was in your house with Andrew Capra. If what you said under hypnosis is true.”
“Andrew was the only one I saw that night. Andrew’s the only one …” She stopped. “Maybe I’m not his real obsession, Detective. Have you thought about that? Maybe Andrew is.”
Rizzoli frowned, struck by that statement. Catherine suddenly realized that she had hit on the truth. The center of the Surgeon’s universe was not her but Andrew Capra. The man he emulated, perhaps even worshiped. The partner Catherine had wrenched from him.
She glanced up as her name was called over the hospital address system.
“Dr. Cordell, STAT, E.R. Dr. Cordell, STAT, E.R.”
God, will they never leave me alone?
She punched the Down button for the elevator.
“Dr. Cordell?”
“I don’t have time for any of your questions. I have patients to see.”
“When will you have the time?”
The door slid open and Catherine stepped in, the weary soldier called back to the front lines. “My night’s just begun.”
By their blood will I know them.
I survey the racks of test tubes the way one lusts over chocolates in a box, wondering which will be tastiest. Our blood is as unique as we are, and my naked eye discerns varying shades of red, from bright cardinal to black cherry. I am familiar with what gives us this broad palette of colors; I know the red is from hemoglobin, in varying states of oxygenation. It is chemistry, nothing more, but ah, such chemistry has the power to shock, to horrify. We are all moved by the sight of blood.
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle Page 25
