The Surgeon Page 18

  Rizzoli looked back at the video screen, where the image of the man in a white coat remained frozen in mid-stride. “This makes no sense. Why would he take such a risk?”

  “This was a mop-up job, to get rid of a loose end—the witness.”

  “But what did Nina Peyton actually witness? She saw a masked face. He knew she couldn’t identify him. He knew she posed almost no danger. Yet he went to a lot of trouble to kill her. He exposed himself to capture. What does he gain by it?”

  “Satisfaction. He finally finished his kill.”

  “But he could have finished it at her house. Moore, he let Nina Peyton live that night. Which means he planned to end it this way.”

  “In the hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “I don’t know. But I find it interesting that of all the patients on that ward, it was Herman Gwadowski he chose as his diversion. A patient of Catherine Cordell’s.”

  Moore’s beeper went off. As he took the call Rizzoli turned her attention back to the monitor. She pressed Play and watched the man in the white coat approach the door. He tilted his hip to hit the door’s opening bar and stepped into the stairwell. Not once did he allow any part of his face to be visible on camera. She hit Rewind, viewed the sequence again. This time, as his hip rotated slightly, she saw it: the bulge under his white coat. It was on his right side, at the level of his waist. What was he concealing there? A change of clothes? His murder kit?

  She heard Moore say into the phone: “Don’t touch it! Leave it right where it is. I’m on my way.”

  As he disconnected, Rizzoli asked: “Who’s that?”

  “It’s Catherine,” said Moore. “Our boy’s just sent her another message.”

  “It came up in interdepartmental mail,” said Catherine. “As soon as I saw the envelope, I knew it was from him.”

  Rizzoli watched as Moore pulled on a pair of gloves—a useless precaution, she thought, since the Surgeon had never left his prints on any evidence. It was a large brown envelope with a string-and-button closure. On the top blank line was printed in blue ink: “To Catherine Cordell. Birthday greetings from A.C.”

  Andrew Capra, thought Rizzoli.

  “You didn’t open it?” asked Moore.

  “No. I put it right down, on my desk. And I called you.”

  “Good girl.”

  Rizzoli thought his response was condescending, but Catherine clearly didn’t take it that way, and she flashed him a tense smile. Something passed between Moore and Catherine. A look, a warm current, that Rizzoli registered with a twinge of painful jealousy. It’s gone further than I realized between these two.

  “It feels empty,” he said. With gloved hands, he unwound the string clasp. Rizzoli slid a sheet of plain white paper on the countertop to catch the contents. He lifted the flap and turned the envelope upside down.

  Silky red-brown strands slid out and lay in a gleaming clump on the sheet of paper.

  A chill shot up Rizzoli’s spine. “It looks like human hair.”

  “Oh god. Oh god. . . .”

  Rizzoli turned and saw Catherine backing away in horror. Rizzoli stared at Catherine’s hair, then looked back at the strands that had fallen from the envelope. It’s hers. The hair is Cordell’s.

  “Catherine.” Moore spoke softly, soothingly. “It may not be yours at all.”

  She looked at him in panic. “What if it is? How did he—”

  “Do you keep a hairbrush in your O.R. locker? Your office?”

  “Moore,” said Rizzoli. “Check out these strands. They weren’t pulled off a hairbrush. The root ends have been cut.” She turned to Catherine. “Who last cut your hair, Dr. Cordell?”

  Slowly Catherine approached the countertop and regarded the clipped strands as though staring at a poisonous viper. “I know when he did it,” she said softly. “I remember.”

  “When?”

  “It was that night . . .” She looked at Rizzoli with a stunned expression. “In Savannah.”

  Rizzoli hung up the phone and looked at Moore. “Detective Singer confirms it. A clump of her hair was cut.”

  “Why didn’t that appear in Singer’s report?”

  “Cordell didn’t notice it until the second day of her hospitalization, when she looked in a mirror. Since Capra was dead, and no hair was found at the crime scene, Singer assumed the hair was cut by hospital personnel. Maybe during emergency treatment. Cordell’s face was pretty bruised up, remember? The E.R. may have snipped away some hair to clean her scalp.”

  “Did Singer ever confirm it was someone in the hospital who cut it?”

  Rizzoli tossed down her pencil and sighed. “No. He never followed up.”

  “He just left it at that? Never mentioned it in his report because it didn’t make sense.”

  “Well, it doesn’t make sense! Why weren’t the clippings found at the scene, along with Capra’s body?”

  “Catherine doesn’t remember a large part of that night. The Rohypnol wiped out a significant chunk of her memory. Capra may have left the house. Returned later.”

  “Okay. Here’s the biggest question of all. Capra’s dead. How did this souvenir end up in the Surgeon’s hands?”

  For this, Moore had no answer. Two killers, one alive, one dead. What bound these two monsters to each other? The link between them was more than merely psychic energy; it had now taken on a physical dimension. Something they could actually see and touch.

  He looked down at the two evidence bags. One was labeled: Unknown hair clippings. The second bag contained a sample of Catherine’s hair for comparison. He himself had snipped the coppery strands and had placed them into the Ziploc bag. Such hair would indeed make a tempting souvenir. Hair was so very personal. A woman wears it, sleeps with it. It carries fragrance and color and texture. A woman’s very essence. No wonder Catherine had been horrified to learn that a man she did not know possessed such an intimate part of her. To know that he had stroked it, sniffed it, acquainting himself like a lover with her scent.

  By now, the Surgeon knows her scent well.

  It was nearly midnight, but her lights were on. Through the closed curtains, he saw her silhouette glide past, and he knew she was awake.

  Moore walked over to the parked cruiser and bent to talk to the two patrolmen inside. “Anything to report?”

  “She hasn’t stepped outta the building since she got home. Doing a lot of pacing. Looks like she’s in for a restless night.”

  “I’m going in to talk to her,” said Moore, and turned to cross the street.

  “Staying all night?”

  Moore halted. Turned stiffly to look at the cop. “Excuse me?”

  “Are you staying all night? ’Cause if you are, we’ll pass it along to the next team. Just to let ’em know it’s one of ours upstairs with her.”

  Moore swallowed back his anger. The patrolman’s question had been a reasonable one, so why had he been so quick to take offense?

  Because I know how it must look, to be walking in her door at midnight. I know what must be going through their heads. It’s the same thing that’s going through my head.

  The instant he stepped into her apartment, he saw the question in her eyes, and he answered with a grim nod. “I’m afraid the lab confirmed it. It was your hair he sent.”

  She accepted the news in stunned silence.

  In the kitchen, a kettle whistled. She turned and walked out of the room.

  As he locked the door, his gaze lingered on the shiny new dead bolt. How insubstantial even tempered steel seemed, against an opponent who could walk through walls. He followed her into the kitchen and watched her turn off the heat to the squealing kettle. She fumbled with a box of tea bags, gave a startled gasp as they spilled out and scattered across the countertop. Such a minor mishap, yet it seemed to be the crushing blow. All at once she sagged against the counter, hands clenched, white knuckles against white tiles. She was fighting not to cry, not to fall apart before his eyes
, and she was losing the battle. He saw her draw in a deep breath. Saw her shoulders knot up, her whole body straining to stifle the sob.

  He could stand to watch this no longer. He went to her, pulled her against him. Held her as she shook in his embrace. All day he had thought about holding her, had longed for it. He had not wanted it to be like this, with her driven by fear into his arms. He wanted to be more than a safe haven, a reliable man to turn to.

  But that was exactly what she needed now. So he wrapped himself around her, shielding her from the terrors of the night.

  “Why is this happening again?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know, Catherine.”

  “It’s Capra—”

  “No. He’s dead.” He cupped her wet face, made her look at him. “Andrew Capra is dead.”

  Staring back at him, she went very still in his arms. “Then why has the Surgeon chosen me?”

  “If anyone knows the answer, it’s you.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe not on a conscious level. But you yourself told me you don’t remember everything that happened in Savannah. You don’t remember firing the second shot. You don’t remember who cut your hair, or when. What else don’t you remember?”

  She shook her head. Then blinked, startled, at the sound of his beeper.

  Why can’t they leave me alone? He crossed to the phone on the kitchen wall to answer the page.

  Rizzoli’s voice greeted him with what sounded like an accusation. “You’re at her place.”

  “Good guess.”

  “No, caller ID. It’s midnight. Have you thought about what you’re doing?”

  He said, irritably, “Why did you page me?”

  “Is she listening?”

  He watched Catherine walk out of the kitchen. Without her, the room suddenly seemed empty. Bled of any interest. “No,” he said.

  “I’ve been thinking about the hair clipping. You know, there’s one more explanation for how she got it.”

  “And that would be?”

  “She sent it to herself.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  “And I can’t believe it never even crossed your mind.”

  “What would be the motive?”

  “The same motive that makes men walk in off the street and confess to murders they never committed. Look at all the attention she’s getting! Your attention. It’s midnight, and you’re right there, fussing over her. I’m not saying the Surgeon hasn’t been stalking her. But this hair thing makes me step back and say whoa. It’s time to look at what else might be going on. How did the Surgeon get that hair? Did Capra give it to him two years ago? How could he do that when he’s lying dead on her bedroom floor? You saw the inconsistencies between her statement and Capra’s autopsy report. We both know she didn’t tell the whole truth.”

  “That statement was coaxed out of her by Detective Singer.”

  “You think he fed her the story?”

  “Think of the pressure Singer was under. Four murders. Everyone screaming for an arrest. And he had a nice, neat solution: the perp is dead, shot by his intended victim. Catherine closed the case for him, even if he had to put the words in her mouth.” Moore paused. “We need to know what really happened that night in Savannah.”

  “She’s the only one who was there. And she claims she doesn’t remember it all.”

  Moore looked up as Catherine came back into the room. “Not yet.”

  fourteen

  You’re certain Dr. Cordell’s willing to do this?” asked Alex Polochek.

  “She’s here and waiting for you,” said Moore.

  “You didn’t talk her into this? Because hypnosis won’t work if the subject is resistant. She has to be fully cooperative, or it’ll be a waste of time.”

  A waste of time was what Rizzoli had already called this session, and her opinion was shared by more than a few of the other detectives in the unit. They considered hypnosis a lounge act, the purview of Vegas entertainers and parlor magicians. At one time, Moore had agreed with them.

  The Meghan Florence case had changed his mind.

  On October 31, 1998, ten-year-old Meghan had been walking home from school when a car pulled up beside her. She was never again seen alive.

  The only witness to the abduction was a twelve-year-old boy standing nearby. Although the car was in plain view and he could recount its shape and color, he could not remember the license plate. Weeks later, with no new developments in the case, the girl’s parents had insisted on hiring a hypnotherapist to interview the boy. With every avenue of investigation exhausted, the police reluctantly agreed.

  Moore was present during the session. He watched Alex Polochek gently ease the boy into a hypnotic state and listened in amazement as the boy quietly recited the license number.

  Meghan Florence’s body was recovered two days later, buried in the abductor’s backyard.

  Moore hoped that the magic Polochek had worked on that boy’s memory could now be repeated on Catherine Cordell’s.

  The two men now stood outside the interview room, looking through the one-way mirror at Catherine and Rizzoli, seated on the other side of the window. Catherine appeared uneasy. She shifted in her chair and glanced at the window, as though aware she was being watched. A cup of tea sat untouched on the small table beside her.

  “This is going to be a painful memory to retrieve,” said Moore. “She may want to cooperate, but it won’t be pleasant for her. At the time of the attack, she was still under the influence of Rohypnol.”

  “A drugged memory from two years ago? Plus you said it’s not pure.”

  “A detective in Savannah may have planted a few suggestions through questioning.”

  “You know I can’t work miracles. And nothing we get from this session is going to be admissible as evidence. This will invalidate any future testimony she gives in court.”

  “I know.”

  “And you still want to proceed?”

  “Yes.”

  Moore opened the door and the two men stepped into the interview room. “Catherine,” said Moore, “this is the man I told you about, Alex Polochek. He’s a forensic hypnotist for the Boston PD.”

  As she and Polochek shook hands, she gave a nervous laugh.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

  “You thought I’d have a black cape and a magician’s wand,” said Polochek.

  “It’s a ridiculous image, but yes.”

  “And instead you get a chubby little bald guy.”

  Again she laughed, her posture relaxing a bit.

  “You’ve never been hypnotized?” he asked.

  “No. Frankly, I don’t think I can be.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because I don’t really believe in it.”

  “Yet you’ve agreed to let me try.”

  “Detective Moore thought I should.”

  Polochek sat down in a chair facing her. “Dr. Cordell, you don’t have to believe in hypnosis for this session to be useful. But you have to want it to work. You have to trust me. And you have to be willing to relax and let go. To let me guide you into an altered state. It’s a lot like the phase you go through just before you fall asleep at night. You won’t be asleep. I promise, you’ll be aware of what’s happening around you. But you’ll be so relaxed you’ll be able to reach into parts of your memory you don’t normally have access to. It’s like unlocking a filing cabinet that’s there, in your brain, and finally being able to open the drawers and take out the files.”

  “That’s the part I don’t believe. That hypnosis can make me remember.”

  “Not make you remember. Allow you to.”

  “All right, allow me to remember. It strikes me as unlikely that this can help me pull out a memory I can’t reach on my own.”

  Polochek nodded. “Yes, you’re right to be skeptical. It doesn’t seem likely, does it? But here’s an example of how memories can be blo
cked. It’s called the Law of Reversed Effect. The harder you try to remember something, the less likely it is you’ll be able to recall it. I’m sure you’ve experienced it yourself. We all have. For instance, you see a famous actress on the TV screen, and you know her name. But you just can’t retrieve it. It drives you crazy. You spend an hour wracking your brain for her name. You wonder if you’ve got early Alzheimer’s. Tell me it’s happened to you.”

  “All the time.” Catherine was smiling now. It was clear she liked Polochek and was comfortable with him. A good beginning.

  “Eventually, you do remember the actress’s name, don’t you?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “And when is that likely to happen?”

  “When I stop trying so hard. When I relax and think about something else. Or when I’m lying in bed about to fall asleep.”

  “Exactly. It’s when you relax, when your mind stops desperately clawing at that filing cabinet drawer. That’s when, magically, the drawer opens and the file pops out. Does this make the concept of hypnosis seem more plausible?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, that’s what we’re going to do. Help you relax. Allow you to reach into that filing cabinet.”

  “I’m not sure I can relax enough.”

  “Is it the room? The chair?”

  “The chair is fine. It’s . . .” She looked uneasily at the video camera. “The audience.”

  “Detectives Moore and Rizzoli will leave the room. And as for the camera, it’s just an object. A piece of machinery. Think of it that way.”

  “I suppose . . .”

  “You have other concerns?”

  There was a pause. She said, softly: “I’m afraid.”

  “Of me?”

  “No. Of the memory. Reliving it.”

  “I would never make you do that. Detective Moore told me it was a traumatic experience, and we’re not going to make you relive it. We’ll approach it a different way. So fear won’t block out the memories.”

  “And how do I know they’ll be real memories? Not something I made up?”

  Polochek paused. “It’s a concern, that your memories may no longer be pure. A lot of time has passed. We’ll just have to work with what’s there. I should tell you now that I myself know very little about your case. I try not to know too much, to avoid the danger of influencing your recall. All I’ve been told is that the event was two years ago, that it involved an attack against you, and that the drug Rohypnol was in your system. Other than that, I’m in the dark. So whatever memories come out are yours. I’m only here to help you open that filing cabinet.”