The Surgeon r-1

by Tess Gerritsen

  “How does this relate to Warren Hoyt?”

  “It has everything to do with him.”

  “The reason he withdrew?”

  “Yes.” He turned back to the window.

  Moore waited, his gaze on the professor’s broad back, allowing him the time to form the right words.

  “Dissection,” said Kahn, “is a lengthy process. Some students can’t complete the assignments during scheduled class hours. Some of them need extra time to review complicated anatomy. So I allow them access to the lab at all hours. They each have a key to this building, and they can come in and work in the middle of the night, if they need to. Some of them do.”

  “Did Warren?”

  A pause. “Yes.”

  A horrifying suspicion was beginning to prickle Moore’s neck.

  Kahn went to the filing cabinet, opened the drawer, and began searching through the crammed contents. “It was a Sunday. I’d spent the weekend out of town, and had to come in that night to prepare a specimen for Monday’s class. You know these kids, many of them are clumsy dissectors, and they make mincemeat of their specimens. So I try to have one good dissection on display, to show them the anatomy they may have damaged on their own cadavers. We were working on the reproductive system, and they’d already begun dissecting those organs. I remember it was late when I drove onto campus, sometime after midnight. I saw lights in the lab windows, and thought it was just some compulsive student, here to get a leg up on his classmates. I let myself in the building. Came up the hall. Opened the door.”

  “Warren Hoyt was here,” ventured Moore.

  “Yes.” Kahn found what he was looking for in the filing cabinet drawer. He took out the folder and turned to Moore. “When I saw what he was doing, I — well, I lost control. I grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him up against the sink. I was not gentle, I admit it, but I was so angry I couldn’t help myself. I still get angry, just thinking about it.” He released a deep breath, but even now, nearly seven years later, he could not calm himself. “After — after I finished yelling at him, I dragged him here, into my office. I had him sit down and sign a statement that he would withdraw from this school effective eight A.M. the next morning. I would not require him to give a reason for it, but he had to withdraw, or I would release my written report of what I saw in this lab. He agreed, of course. He didn’t have a choice. Nor did he even seem very disturbed by the whole thing. That’s what struck me as the strangest thing about him — nothing disturbed him. He could take it all calmly and rationally. But that was Warren. Very rational. Never upset by anything. He was almost…” Kahn paused. “Mechanical.”

  “What was it you saw? What was he doing in the lab?”

  Kahn handed Moore the folder. “It’s all written there. I’ve kept it on file all these years, just in case there’s ever any legal action on Warren’s part. You know, students can sue you for just about anything these days. If he ever tried to be readmitted to this school, I wanted to have a response prepared.”

  Moore took the folder. It was labeled simply: Hoyt, Warren. Inside were three typewritten pages.

  “Warren was assigned to a female cadaver,” said Kahn. “He and his lab partners had started the pelvic dissection, exposing the bladder and uterus. The organs were not to be removed, just laid bare. That Sunday night, Warren came in to complete the work. But what should have been a careful dissection turned into mutilation. As if he got his hand on the scalpel and lost control. He didn’t just expose the organs. He carved them out of the body. First he severed the bladder and left it lying between the cadaver’s legs. Then he hacked out the uterus. He did this without any gloves on, as though he wanted to feel the organs against his own skin. And that’s how I found him. In one hand, he was holding the dripping organ. And in his other hand…” Kahn’s voice trailed off in disgust.

  What Kahn could not bring himself to say was printed on the page that Moore now read. Moore finished the sentence for him. “He was masturbating.”

  Kahn went to the desk and sank into his chair. “That’s why I couldn’t let him graduate. God, what kind of doctor would he make? If he did that to a corpse, what would he do to a live patient?”

  I know what he does. I’ve seen his work with my own eyes.

  Moore turned to the third page in Hoyt’s file and read Dr. Kahn’s final paragraph.

  Mr. Hoyt agrees that he will voluntarily withdraw from school, effective 8:00 A.M. tomorrow. In return, I will maintain confidentiality regarding this incident. Due to cadaver damage, his lab partners at table 19 will be reassigned to other teams for this stage of dissection.

  Lab partners.

  Moore looked at Kahn. “How many lab partners did Warren have?”

  “There are four students to a table.”

  “Who were the other three students?”

  Kahn frowned. “I don’t recall. It was seven years ago.”

  “You don’t keep records of those assignments?”

  “No.” He paused. “But I do remember one of his partners. A young woman.” He swiveled around to face his computer and called up his medical student enrollment files. The class list from Warren Hoyt’s freshman year appeared onscreen. It took Kahn a moment to scan down the names; then he said:

  “Here she is. Emily Johnstone. I remember her.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, first because she was a real cutie. A Meg Ryan lookalike. Second because after Warren withdrew, she wanted to know why. I didn’t want to tell her the reason. So she came out and asked if it had something to do with women. It seems Warren had been following Emily around campus, and she was getting the willies. Needless to say, she was relieved when he left school.”

  “Do you think she’d remember her other two lab partners?”

  “There’s a chance.” Kahn picked up the phone and called Student Affairs. “Hey, Winnie? Do you have a current contact number for Emily Johnstone?” He reached for a pen and jotted the number, then hung up. “She’s in private practice in Houston,” he said, dialing again. “It’s eleven o’clock her time, so she should be in…. Hello, Emily?… This is a voice from your past. Dr. Kahn at Emory…. Right, anatomy lab. Ancient history, huh?”

  Moore leaned forward, his pulse quickening.

  When Kahn at last hung up and looked at him, Moore saw the answer in his eyes.

  “She does remember the other two anatomy partners,” said Kahn. “One was a woman named Barb Lippman. And the other…”

  “Capra?”

  Kahn nodded. “The fourth partner was Andrew Capra.”

  Twenty-two

  Catherine paused in the doorway to Peter’s office. He sat at his desk, unaware she was watching him, his pen scratching in a chart. She had never taken the time to truly observe him before, and what she saw now brought a faint smile to her lips. He worked with fierce concentration, the very picture of the dedicated physician, except for one whimsical touch: the paper airplane lying on the floor. Peter and his silly flying machines.

  She knocked on the door frame. He glanced up over his glasses, startled to see her there.

  “Can I talk to you?” she asked.

  “Of course. Come in.”

  She sat down in the chair facing his desk. He said nothing, just waited patiently for her to speak. She had the impression that no matter how long she took, he would still be there, waiting for her.

  “Things have been… tense between us,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “I know it bothers you as much as it does me. And it bothers me a lot. Because I’ve always liked you, Peter. It may not seem so, but I do.” She drew in a breath, struggling to come up with the right words. “The problems between us, they have nothing to do with you. It’s all because of me. There are so many things going on in my life right now. It’s hard for me to explain.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “It’s just that I see us falling apart. Not just our partnership, but our friendship. It’s funny how I never realized it was the
re between us. I didn’t realize how much it meant to me until I felt it slipping away.” She rose to her feet. “Anyway, I’m sorry. That’s what I came to say.” She started toward the door.

  “Catherine,” he said softly, “I know about Savannah.”

  She turned and stared at him. His gaze was absolutely steady.

  “Detective Crowe told me,” he said.

  “When?”

  “A few days ago, when I talked to him about the break-in here. He assumed I already knew.”

  “You didn’t say anything.”

  “It wasn’t my place to bring it up. I wanted you to feel ready to tell me. I knew you needed time, and I was willing to wait, as long as it took for you to trust me.”

  She released a sharp breath. “Well, then. Now you know the worst about me.”

  “No, Catherine.” He stood up to face her. “I know the best about you! I know how strong you are, how brave you are. All this time I had no idea what you were dealing with. You could have told me. You could have trusted me.”

  “I thought it would change everything between us.”

  “How could it?”

  “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I don’t ever want to be pitied.”

  “Pitied for what? For fighting back? For coming out alive against impossible odds? Why the hell would I pity you?”

  She blinked away tears. “Other men would.”

  “Then they don’t really know you. Not the way I do.” He stepped around his desk, so that it was no longer separating them. “Do you remember the day we met?”

  “When I came for the interview.”

  “What do you remember about it?”

  She gave a bewildered shake of her head. “We talked about the practice. About how I’d fit in here.”

  “So you recall it as just a business meeting.”

  “That’s what it was.”

  “Funny. I think of it quite differently. I hardly remember any of the questions I asked you, or what you asked me. What I remember is looking up from my desk and seeing you walk into my office. And I was stunned. I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound trite or stupid or just plain ordinary. I didn’t want to be ordinary, not for you. I thought: Here’s a woman who has it all. She’s smart; she’s beautiful. And she’s standing right in front of me.”

  “Oh god, you were so wrong. I didn’t have it all.” She blinked away tears. “I never have. I’m just barely holding it together….”

  Without a word he took her in his arms. It all happened so naturally, so easily, without the awkwardness of a first embrace. He was simply holding her, and making no demands. One friend comforting another.

  “Tell me what I can do to help,” he said. “Anything.”

  She sighed. “I’m so tired, Peter. Could you just walk me to my car?”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s what I really need right now. Someone I can trust to walk with me.”

  He stood back and smiled at her. “Then I’m definitely your man.”

  The fifth floor of the hospital parking garage was deserted, and the concrete echoed back their footsteps like the sound of trailing ghosts. Had she been alone, she would have been glancing over her shoulder the whole way. But Peter was beside her, and she felt no fear. He walked her to her Mercedes. Stood by while she slid behind the wheel. Then he shut her door and pointed to the lock.

  Nodding, she pressed the lock button and heard the comforting click as all the doors were secured.

  “I’ll call you later,” he said.

  As she drove away, she saw him in her rearview mirror, his hand raised in a wave. Then he slid from view as she turned down the ramp.

  She found herself smiling as she drove home to the Back Bay.

  Some men are worth trusting, Moore had told her.

  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.

  Whether as a friend or a lover, Peter would be one of those men.

  Slowing down at Commonwealth Avenue, she turned into the driveway for her building and pressed the garage remote. The security gate rumbled open and she drove through. In her rearview mirror she saw the gate close behind her. Only then did she swing into her stall. Caution was second nature to her, and these were rituals she never failed to perform. She checked the elevator before stepping in. Scanned the hallway before stepping out again. Secured all her locks as soon as she’d stepped into her apartment. Fortress secure. Only then could she allow the last of her tension to drain away.

  Standing at her window she sipped iced tea and savored the coolness of her apartment as she looked down at people walking on the street, sweat glistening on their foreheads. She’d had three hours of sleep in the last thirty-six hours. I have earned this moment of comfort, she thought as she pressed the icy glass to her cheek. I’ve earned an early night to bed and a weekend of doing nothing at all. She wouldn’t think of Moore. She wouldn’t let herself feel the pain. Not yet.

  She drained her glass and had just set it on the kitchen counter when her beeper went off. A page from the hospital was the last thing she wanted to deal with. When she called the Pilgrim Hospital operator, she could not keep the irritation out of her voice.

  “This is Dr. Cordell. I know you just paged me, but I’m not on call tonight. In fact, I’m going to turn off my beeper right now.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Dr. Cordell, but there was a call from the son of a Herman Gwadowski. He insists on meeting with you this afternoon.”

  “Impossible. I’m already home.”

  “Yes, I told him you were off for the weekend. But he said this is the last day he’ll be in town. He wants to see you before he visits his attorney.”

  An attorney?

  Catherine sagged against the kitchen counter. God, she had no strength to deal with this. Not now. Not when she was so tired she could barely think straight.

  “Dr. Cordell?”

  “Did Mr. Gwadowski say when he wants to meet?”

  “He said he’ll wait in the hospital cafeteria until six.”

  “Thank you.” Catherine hung up and stared numbly at the gleaming kitchen tiles. How meticulous she was about keeping those tiles clean! But no matter how hard she scrubbed or how thoroughly she organized every aspect of her life, she could not anticipate the Ivan Gwadowskis of the world.

  She picked up her purse and car keys and once again left the sanctuary of her apartment.

  In the elevator she glanced at her watch and was alarmed to see it was already 5:45. She would not make it to the hospital in time, and Mr. Gwadowski would assume she’d stood him up.

  The instant she slid into the Mercedes, she picked up the car phone and called the Pilgrim operator.

  “This is Dr. Cordell again. I need to reach Mr. Gwadowski to let him know I’ll be late. Do you know which extension he was calling from?”

  “Let me check the phone log…. Here it is. It wasn’t a hospital extension.”

  “A cell phone, then?”

  There was a pause. “Well, this is strange.”

  “What is?”

  “He was calling from the number you’re using now.”

  Catherine went still, fear blasting like a cold wind up her spine. My car. The call was made from my car.

  “Dr. Cordell?”

  She saw him then, rising like a cobra in the rearview mirror. She took a breath to scream, and her throat burned with the fumes of chloroform.

  The receiver dropped from her hand.

  Jerry Sleeper was waiting for him at the curb outside airport baggage claim. Moore threw his carry-on into the backseat, stepped into the car, and yanked the door shut with a slam.

  “Have you found her?” was the first question Moore asked.

  “Not yet,” said Sleeper as he pulled away from the curb. “Her Mercedes has vanished, and there’s no evidence of any disturbance in her apartment. Whatever happened, it was fast, an
d it was in or near her vehicle. Peter Falco was the last one to see her, around five-fifteen in the hospital garage. About a half hour later, the Pilgrim operator paged Cordell and spoke to her on the phone. Cordell called back again from her car. That conversation was abruptly cut off. The operator claims it was the son of Herman Gwadowski who called in the original page.”

  “Confirmation?”

  “Ivan Gwadowski was on a plane to California at twelve noon. He didn’t make that call.”

  They did not need to say who had called in the page. They both knew. Moore stared in agitation at the row of taillights, strung as densely as bright red beads in the night.

  He’s had her since 6:00 P.M. What has he done to her in those four hours?

  “I want to see where Warren Hoyt lives,” said Moore.

  “We’re headed there now. We know he got off his shift at Interpath Labs around seven A.M. this morning. At ten A.M., he called his supervisor to say he had a family emergency and wouldn’t be back at work for at least a week. No one’s seen him since. Not at his apartment, not at the lab.”

  “And the family emergency?”

  “He has no family. His only aunt died in February.”

  The row of taillights blurred into a streak of red. Moore blinked and turned his gaze so that Sleeper would not see his tears.

  Warren Hoyt lived in the North End, a quaint maze of narrow streets and redbrick buildings that made up the oldest neighborhood in Boston. It was considered a safe part of town, thanks to the watchful eyes of the local Italian population, who owned many of the businesses. Here, on a street where tourists and residents alike walked with little fear of crime, a monster had lived.