“Is it really my safety you’re concerned about?”
“Are you implying I have another agenda?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t figured you out yet.”
He stood and went to the VCR. Ejected the tape and slid it back in the envelope. He was stalling for time, trying to come up with a believable answer.
He sat down again and looked at her. “The truth is,” he said, “I haven’t figured you out, either.”
She laughed. “Me? What you see is what you get.”
“All you’ll let me see is the cop. What about Jane Rizzoli, the woman?”
“They’re one and the same.”
“You know that’s not true. You just won’t let anyone see past the badge.”
“What am I supposed to let them see? That I’m missing that precious Y chromosome? My badge is the only thing I want them to see.”
He leaned forward, his face close enough to invade her personal space. “This is about your vulnerability as a target. It’s about a perp who already knows how to twist the screws on you. A man who’s managed to get within striking distance. And you never even knew he was there.”
“Next time I will know.”
“Will you?”
They stared at each other, their faces as close as two lovers. The dart of sexual desire that shot through her was so sudden and unexpected it felt like both pain and pleasure at once. Abruptly she pulled back, her face hot, and even though her gaze met his from a safer distance, she still felt exposed. She was not good at hiding her emotions, and she’d always felt hopelessly inadequate when it came to flirting or engaging in all the other small dishonesties that play out between men and women. She strove to keep her expression unchanged but found she could not keep looking at him without feeling transparent to his gaze.
“You do understand there’ll be a next time,” he said. “It’s not just Hoyt now. There are two of them. If that doesn’t scare the hell out of you, it should.”
She looked down at the envelope containing the videotape, which Hoyt had meant her to see. The game was just beginning, advantage Hoyt, and yes, she was scared.
In silence she gathered up her papers.
“Jane?”
“I heard everything you said.”
“It doesn’t make a difference to you. Does it?”
She looked at him. “You know what? A bus could hit me when I cross the street outside. Or I could keel over at my desk from a stroke. But I don’t think about those things. I can’t let them take over. I almost did, you know. The nightmares—they just about wore me down. But now I’ve got my second wind. Or maybe I’ve just gone numb and I can’t feel anything anymore. So the best I can do is put one foot in front of the other and keep on marching. That’s how to get through this, just keep on marching. That’s all any of us can do.”
She was almost relieved when her beeper went off. It gave her a reason to break eye contact, to look down at the digital readout on her pager. She felt him watching her as she crossed to the conference room phone and dialed.
“Hair and Fiber. Volchko,” a voice answered.
“Rizzoli. You paged.”
“It’s about those green nylon fibers. The ones lifted from Gail Yeager’s skin. We found identical fibers on Karenna Ghent’s skin as well.”
“So he’s using the same fabric to wrap all his victims. No surprises there.”
“Oh, but I do have one little surprise for you.”
“What’s that?”
“I know which fabric he used.”
Erin pointed to the microscope. “The slides are all ready for you. Take a look.”
Rizzoli and Dean sat down facing each other, eyes pressed to the microscope’s double teaching head. Through the lenses, they saw the same view: two strands, laid side by side for comparison.
“The fiber on the left was lifted from Gail Yeager. The one on the right from Karenna Ghent,” said Erin. “What do you think?”
“They look identical,” said Rizzoli.
“They are. They’re both Dupont nylon type six, six, drab green. The filaments are thirty-denier, extremely fine.” Erin reached into a folder and took out two graphs, which she laid on the countertop. “And here’s the ATR spectra again. Number one is from Yeager, number two from Ghent.” She glanced at Dean. “You’re familiar with Attenuated Total Reflection techniques, Agent Dean?”
“It’s an infrared mode, isn’t it?”
“Right. We use it to distinguish surface treatments from the fiber itself. To detect any chemicals that have been applied to the fabric after weaving.”
“And were there any?”
“Yes, a silicone rub. Last week, Detective Rizzoli and I went over the possible reasons for such a surface treatment. We didn’t know what this fabric was designed for. What we did know was that these fibers are heat- and light-resistant. And that the threads are so fine that, if woven together, they’d be watertight.”
“We thought it might be a tent or a tarp,” said Rizzoli.
“And what would the silicone add?” asked Dean.
“Antistatic properties,” said Erin. “Some tear and water resistance. Plus, it turns out, it reduces the porosity of this fabric to almost zero. In other words, even air can’t pass through it.” Erin looked at Rizzoli. “Any guesses what it is?”
“You said you already know the answer.”
“Well, I had a little help. From the Connecticut State Police Lab.” Erin placed a third graph on the countertop. “They faxed that to me this afternoon. It’s an ATR spectrograph of fibers from a homicide case in rural Connecticut. The fibers were lifted from the suspect’s gloves and fleece jacket. Compare it to Karenna Ghent’s fibers.”
Rizzoli’s gaze flew back and forth between the graphs. “The spectra match. The fibers are identical.”
“Right. Only the color’s different. The fibers from our two cases are drab green. The fibers from the Connecticut homicide came in two different colors. Some were neon orange; others were a bright lime green.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Sounds pretty gaudy, right? But aside from the color, the Connecticut fibers match ours. Dupont nylon type six, six. Thirty-denier filaments, finished with a silicone rub.”
“Tell us about the Connecticut case,” said Dean.
“A skydiving accident. The victim’s chute failed to open properly. Only when these orange and lime-green fibers turned up on the suspect’s clothing did it turn into a homicide investigation.”
Rizzoli stared at the ATR spectra. “It’s a parachute.”
“Exactly. The suspect in the Connecticut homicide tampered with the victim’s chute the night before. This ATR is characteristic for parachute fabric. It’s tear-resistant, water-resistant. Easily packed away and stored between uses. That’s what your unsub is using to wrap his victims.”
Rizzoli looked up at her. “A parachute,” she said. “It makes the perfect shroud.”
nineteen
Papers were everywhere, file folders lying open on the conference table, crime scene photos layered like glossy shingles. Pens scratched on yellow legal pads. Although this was the age of computers—and there were a few laptops powered up, screens glowing—when information is spilling fast and furious, cops still reach for the comfort of paper. Rizzoli had left her own laptop back at her desk, preferring to jot down notes in her dark, assertive scrawl. The page was a tangle of words and looping arrows and little boxes emphasizing significant details. But there was order to the mess, and security in the permanence of ink. She flipped to a fresh page, trying to focus her attention on Dr. Zucker’s whispery voice. Trying not to be distracted by the presence of Gabriel Dean, who sat right next to her, taking his own notes, but in far neater script. Her gaze wandered to his hand, thick veins standing out on his skin as he gripped the pen, the cuff of his shirt peeking out white and crisp from the sleeve of his gray jacket. He’d walked into the meeting after she had and had chosen to sit beside her. Did that mean
anything? No, Rizzoli. It only means there was an empty chair next to you. It was a waste of time, a diversion, to be caught up in such thoughts. She felt scattered, her attention fracturing in different directions, even her notes starting to wander in a skewed line across the page. There were five other men in the room, but it was only Dean who held her attention. She knew his scent now and could pick it out, cool and clean, from the room’s olfactory symphony of aftershave scents. Rizzoli, who never wore perfume, was surrounded by men who did.
She looked down at what she’d just written:
Mutualism: symbiosis with mutual advantage to both or all organisms involved.
The word that defined Warren Hoyt’s pact with his new partner. The Surgeon and the Dominator, working as a team. Hunting and feeding off carrion together.
“Warren Hoyt has always worked best with a partner,” said Dr. Zucker. “It’s how he likes to hunt. The way he used to hunt with Andrew Capra, until Capra’s death. Indeed, Hoyt requires the participation of another man as part of his ritual.”
“But he was hunting on his own last year,” said Barry Frost. “He didn’t have a partner then.”
“In a way, he did,” said Zucker. “Think about the victims he chose, here in Boston. All of them were women who’d been sexually assaulted—not by Hoyt, but by other men. He’s attracted to damaged women, women who’ve been marked by rape. In his eyes, that made them dirty, contaminated. And therefore approachable. Deep down, Hoyt is afraid of normal women, and his fear makes him impotent. He can only feel empowered when he thinks of them as inferior. Symbolically destroyed. When he hunted with Capra, it was Capra who assaulted the women. Only then did Hoyt use his scalpel. Only then could he derive full satisfaction from the ritual that followed.” Zucker looked around the room and saw heads nodding. These were details that the cops in this room already knew. Except for Dean, they had all worked on the Surgeon investigation; they were all familiar with Warren Hoyt’s handiwork.
Zucker opened a file folder on the table. “Now we come to our second killer. The Dominator. His ritual is almost a mirror image of Warren Hoyt’s. He’s not afraid of women. Nor is he afraid of men. In fact, he chooses to attack women who live with male partners. It isn’t just a matter of the husband or boyfriend being inconveniently present. No, the Dominator seems to want the man there, and he goes in prepared to deal with him. A stun gun and duct tape to immobilize the husband. The positioning of the male victim so he’s forced to watch what happens next. The Dominator doesn’t just kill the man straightaway, which would be the practical move. He gets his thrills by having an audience. By knowing another man is there to watch him claim his prize.”
“And Warren Hoyt gets his thrills by watching,” said Rizzoli.
Zucker nodded. “Exactly. One killer likes to perform. One likes to watch. It’s a perfect example of mutualism. These two men are natural partners. Their cravings complement each other. Together, they’re more effective. They can better control their prey. They can combine their skills. Even while Hoyt was still in prison, the Dominator was copying Hoyt’s techniques. He was already borrowing elements from the Surgeon’s signature.”
This was a point Rizzoli had recognized before anyone else, but no one in the room acknowledged that particular detail. Perhaps they’d forgotten, but she hadn’t.
“We know Hoyt received a number of letters from the general public. Even from prison, he managed to recruit an admirer. He cultivated him, maybe even instructed him.”
“An apprentice,” said Rizzoli softly.
Zucker looked at her. “That’s an interesting word you use. Apprentice. Someone who acquires a skill or craft under the tutelage of a master. In this case, it’s the craft of the hunt.”
“But which one is the apprentice?” said Dean. “And which one is the master?”
Dean’s question unnerved Rizzoli. For the past year, Warren Hoyt had represented the worst evil she could imagine. In a world where hunters stalked, none could match him. Now Dean had brought up a possibility she didn’t want to consider: that the Surgeon was but an acolyte to someone even more monstrous.
“Whatever their relationship,” said Zucker, “they are far more effective as a team than as individuals. And as a team, it’s possible the pattern of their attacks will change.”
“How so?” asked Sleeper.
“Until now, the Dominator has chosen couples. He props up the man as his audience, someone to watch the assault. He wants another man there, to see him claim the prize.”
“But now he has a partner,” said Rizzoli. “A man who’ll watch. A man who wants to watch.”
Zucker nodded. “Hoyt just might fill the pivotal role in the Dominator’s fantasy. The watcher. The audience.”
“Which means he may not choose a couple next time,” she said. “He’d choose . . .” She stopped, not wanting to finish the thought.
But Zucker was waiting to hear her answer, an answer he had already arrived at. He sat with head cocked, pale eyes watching her with eerie intensity.
It was Dean who said it. “They’ll choose a woman, living alone,” he said.
Zucker nodded. “Easy to subdue, easy to control. With no husband to worry about, they can focus all their attention on the woman.”
My car. My home. Me.
Rizzoli pulled into a parking space at Pilgrim Hospital and turned off the ignition. For a moment she did not step out of the car but sat with doors locked, scanning the garage. As a cop, she’d always considered herself a warrior, a hunter. Never had she thought of herself as prey. But now she found herself behaving as prey, wary as a rabbit preparing to leave the safety of its den. She, who had always been fearless, was reduced to casting nervous glances out her car window. She, who had kicked down doors, who’d always joined the first wave of cops barreling into a suspect’s home. She caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror and saw the wan face, the haunted eyes, of a woman she scarcely knew. Not a conqueror, but a victim. A woman she despised.
She shoved open the door and stepped out. Stood straight, reassured by the weight of her weapon, holstered snugly at her hip. Let the bastards come; she was ready for them.
She rode alone in the garage elevator, shoulders squared, pride trumping fear. When she stepped off again, she saw other people, and now her weapon felt unnecessary, even excessive. She tugged down her suit jacket to keep the holster concealed as she walked into the hospital, and stepped into the elevator, joining a trio of fresh-faced medical students with stethoscopes poking out of their pockets. They traded medical-speak among themselves, showing off their freshly minted vocabulary, ignoring the tired-looking woman standing beside them. Yes, the one with the concealed weapon on her hip.
In the ICU, she walked straight past the ward clerk’s desk and headed to cubicle #5. There she halted, frowning through the glass partition.
A woman was lying in Korsak’s bed.
“Excuse me. Ma’am?” a nurse said. “Visitors need to check in.”
Rizzoli turned. “Where is he?”
“Who?”
“Vince Korsak. He should be in that bed.”
“I’m sorry; I came on duty at three—”
“You were supposed to call me if anything happened!”
By now, her agitation had attracted the attention of another nurse who quickly intervened, speaking in the soothing tones of one who has dealt often with upset relatives.
“Mr. Korsak was extubated this morning, ma’am.”
“What do you mean?”
“The tube in his throat—the one to help him breathe—we took it out. He’s doing fine now, so we transferred him to the intermediate care unit, down the hall.” She added, in defense: “We did call Mr. Korsak’s wife, you know.”
Rizzoli thought of Diane Korsak and her vacant eyes and wondered if the phone call had even registered, or if the information had simply dropped like a penny into a dark well.
By the time she reached Korsak’s room, she was calmer and back in contro
l. Quietly she poked her head inside.
He was awake and staring at the ceiling. His belly bulged beneath the sheets. His arms lay perfectly still at his sides, as though he was afraid to move them lest he disturb the tangle of wires and tubes.
“Hey,” she said softly.
He looked at her. “Hey,” he croaked back.
“You feel like having a visitor?”
In answer, he patted the bed, an invitation for her to settle in. To stay.
She pulled a chair over to his bedside and sat down. His gaze had lifted again, not to the ceiling, as she’d thought at first, but to a cardiac monitor that was mounted in the corner of the room. An EKG blipped across the screen.
“That’s my heart,” he said. The tube had left him hoarse, and what came out was barely a whisper.
“Looks like it’s ticking okay,” she said.
“Yeah.” There was a silence, his gaze still fixed on the monitor.
She saw the bouquet of flowers that she’d sent that morning resting on his bedside table. It was the only vase in the room. Had no one else thought to send flowers? Not even his wife?
“I met Diane yesterday,” she said.
He glanced at her, then quickly looked away, but not before she’d seen dismay in his eyes.
“I guess she didn’t tell you.”
He shrugged. “She hasn’t been in today.”
“Oh. She’ll probably be in later, then.”
“Hell if I know.”
His reply caught her by surprise. Perhaps he’d surprised himself as well; his face suddenly flushed.
“I shouldn’t’ve said that,” he said.
“You can say whatever you want to me.”
He looked up at the monitor again and sighed. “Okay, then. It sucks.”
The Apprentice: A Novel Page 24
