The Surgeon (23 page)

Moore watched, scarcely daring to breathe.
"He is standing on my front porch," said Catherine. "He
says he needs to speak to me."
"About what?"
"About the mistakes he made. In the hospital."
What she said next was no different from the statement she
had given to Detective Singer in Savannah. Reluctantly she
invited Capra into her home. It was a hot night, and he said he
was thirsty, so she offered him a beer. She opened a beer for
herself as well. He was agitated, worried about his future. Yes,
he had made mistakes. But didn't every doctor? It was a
waste of his talent, to cut him from the program. He knew a
medical student at Emory, a brilliant young man who'd made
just one mistake, and it had ended that student's career. It
wasn't right that Catherine should have the power to make or
break a career. People should get second chances.
Though she tried to reason with him, she heard his
mounting anger, saw how his hands shook. At last she left to
use the bathroom, to give him time to calm down.
"And when you returned from the bathroom?" asked
Polochek. "What happens in the movie? What do you see?"
"Andrew is quieter. Not so angry. He says he understands
my position. He smiles at me when I finish my beer."

"Smiles?"
"Strange. A very strange smile. Like the one he gave me in
the hospital . . ."
Moore could hear her breathing begin to quicken. Even as
a detached observer, watching the scene in an imaginary
movie, she was not immune to the approaching horror.
"What happens next?"
"I'm falling asleep."
"Do you see this on the movie screen?"
"Yes."
"And then?"
"I don't see anything. The screen is black."
The Rohypnol. She has no memory of this part.
"All right," said Polochek. "Let's fast-forward through the
black part. Move ahead, to the next part of the movie. To the
next image you see on the screen."
Catherine's breathing grew agitated.
"What do you see?"

"I--I'm lying in my bed. In my room. I can't move my arms or
my legs."
"Why not?"
"I'm tied to the bed. My clothes are gone, and he's lying on
top of me. He's inside me. Moving inside me . . ."
"Andrew Capra?"
"Yes. Yes. . . ." Her breathing was erratic now, the sound of
fear catching in her throat.
Moore's fists clenched and his own breathing accelerated.
He fought the urge to pound on the window and put an
immediate halt to the proceedings. He could barely stand to
listen to this. They must not force her to relive the rape.
But Polochek was already aware of the danger, and he
quickly guided her away from the painful memory of that
ordeal.
"You are still in your chair," said Polochek. "Safe in that
room with the movie screen. It's only a movie, Catherine.
Happening to someone else. You are safe. Secure. Confident.
"
Her breathing calmed again, slowing into a steady rhythm.
So did Moore's.

"All right. Let's watch the movie. Pay attention to what you
are doing. Not Andrew. Tell me what happens next."
"The screen has gone black again. I don't see anything."
She has not yet shaken off the Rohypnol.
"Fast-forward, past this black part. To the next thing you
see. What is it?"
"Light. I see light. . . ."
Polochek paused. "I want you to zoom out, Catherine. I want
you to pull back, to see more of the room. What is on the
screen?"
"Things. Lying on the nightstand."
"What things?"
"Instruments. A scalpel. I see a scalpel."
"Where is Andrew?"
"I don't know."
"He's not there in the room?"
"He's gone. I can hear water running."
"What happens next?"

She was breathing fast, her voice agitated. "I pull on the
ropes. Try to get myself free. I can't move my feet. But my right
hand--the rope is loose around my wrist. I pull. I keep pulling
and pulling. My wrist is bleeding."
"Andrew is still out of the room?"
"Yes. I hear him laughing. I hear his voice. But it's
somewhere else in the house."
"What is happening to the rope?"
"It's coming off. The blood makes it slippery, and my hand
slides out. . . ."
"What do you do then?"
"I reach for the scalpel. I cut the rope on my other wrist.
Everything takes so long. I'm sick to my stomach. My hands
don't work right. They're so slow, and the room keeps going
dark and light and dark. I can still hear his voice, talking. I
reach down and cut my left ankle free. Now I hear his
footsteps. I try to climb off the bed, but my right ankle is still
tied. I roll over the side and fall on the floor. On my face."
"And then?"
Andrew is there, in the doorway. He looks surprised. I reach
under the bed. And I feel the gun."

"There's a gun under your bed?"
"Yes. My father's gun. But my hand is so clumsy, I can barely
hold it. And things are starting to go black again."
"Where is Andrew?"
"He is walking toward me. . . ."
"And what happens, Catherine?"
"I'm holding the gun. And there's a sound. A loud sound."
"The gun has fired?"
"Yes."
"Did you fire the gun?"
"Yes."
"What does Andrew do?"
"He falls. His hands are on his stomach. There's blood
leaking through his fingers."
"And what happens next?"
A long pause.
"Catherine? What do you see on the movie screen?"

"Black. The screen has gone black."
"And when does the next image appear on that screen?"
"People. So many people in the room."
"Which people?"
"Policemen . . ."
Moore almost groaned in disappointment. This was the vital
gap in her memory. The Rohypnol, combined with the after-
effects of that blow on her head, had dragged her back into
unconsciousness. Catherine did not remember firing the
second shot. They still did not know how Andrew Capra had
ended up with a bullet in his brain.
Polochek was looking at the window, a question in his eyes.
Were they satisfied?
To Moore's surprise, Rizzoli suddenly opened the door and
gestured to Polochek to come into the next room. He did,
leaving Catherine alone, and shut the door.
"Make her go back, to before she shot him. When she's still
lying on the bed," said Rizzoli. "I want you to focus on what
she's hearing in the other room. The water running. Capra's
laughter. I want to know every sound she hears."
"Any particular reason?"

"Just do it."
Polochek nodded and went back to the interview room.
Catherine had not moved; she sat absolutely still, as though
Polochek's absence had left her in suspended animation.
"Catherine," he said gently, "I want you to rewind the movie.
We're going to go back, before the gunshot. Before you've
gotten your hands free and rolled onto the floor. We're at a
point in the movie where you're still lying on the bed and
Andrew is not in the room. You said you heard water running."
"Yes."
"Tell me everything you hear."
"Water. I hear it in the pipes. The hiss. And I hear it gurgling
down the drain."
"He's running water into a sink?"
"Yes."
"And you said you heard laughter."
"Andrew is laughing."
"Is he talking?"
A pause. "Yes."

"What does he say?"
"I don't know. He's too far away."
"Are you sure it's Andrew? Could it be the TV?"
"No, it's him. It's Andrew."
"Okay. Slow down the movie. Go second by second. Tell me
what you hear."
"Water, still running. Andrew says, `Easy.' The word `easy.' "
"That's all?"
"He says, `See one, do one, teach one.' "
" `See one, do one, teach one'? That's what he says?"
"Yes."
"And the next words you hear?"
" `It's my turn, Capra.' "
Polochek paused. "Can you repeat that?"
" `It's my turn, Capra.' "
"Andrew says that?"

"No. Not Andrew."
Moore froze, staring at the motionless woman in the chair.
Polochek glanced sharply at the window, amazement in his
face. He turned back to Catherine.
"Who says those words?" asked Polochek. "Who says, `It's
my turn, Capra'?"
"I don't know. I don't know his voice."
Moore and Rizzoli stared at each other.
There was someone else in the house.

fifteen
He's with her now.
Rizzoli's knife moved clumsily on the cutting board,
and pieces of chopped onion skittered off the counter onto the
floor. In the next room, her dad and two brothers had the TV
blaring. The TV was always blaring in this house, which meant
that everyone was always yelling above it. If you didn't yell in
Frank Rizzoli's house, you didn't get heard, and just a normal
family conversation sounded like an argument. She swept the
chopped onion into a bowl and started on the garlic, her eyes

burning, her mind still wrapped around the troubling image of
Moore and Catherine Cordell.
After the session with Dr. Polochek, Moore had been the
one to take Cordell home. Rizzoli had watched them walk
together to the elevator, had seen his arm go around Cordell's
shoulder, a gesture that struck her as more than just
protective. She could see the way he looked at Cordell, the
expression that came over his face, the spark in his eyes. He
was no longer a cop guarding a citizen; he was a man falling
in love.
Rizzoli pulled the garlic cloves apart, smashed them one by
one with the flat of her blade, and peeled off the skin. Her knife
slammed hard against the cutting board, and her mother,
standing at the stove, glanced at her but said nothing.
He's with her now In her home. Maybe in her bed.
.
She released some of her pent-up frustration by whacking
the cloves, bang-bang-bang. She didn't know why the thought
of Moore and Cordell disturbed her so much. Maybe it was
because there were so few saints in the world, so few people
who played strictly by the rules, and she'd thought Moore was
one of them. He had given her hope that not all of humanity
was flawed, and now he'd disappointed her.
Maybe it was because she saw this as a threat to the
investigation. A man with intensely personal stakes cannot
think or act logically.

Or maybe it's because you're jealous of her. Jealous of a
woman who can turn a man's head with just a glance. Men
were such suckers for women in distress.
In the next room, her father and brothers gave a noisy cheer
at the TV. She longed to be back in her own quiet apartment
and began formulating excuses to leave early. At the very least
she'd have to sit through dinner. As her mom kept reminding
her, Frank Jr. didn't get home very often, and how could Janie
not want to spend time with her brother? She'd have to endure
an evening of Frankie's boot camp stories. How pitiful the new
recruits were this year, how the youth of America was going
soft and he had to kick a lot more butt just to get those girly-
men through the obstacle course. Mom and Dad hung on his
every word. What ticked her off was that the family asked so
little about her work. So far in his career, Frankie the macho
Marine had only played at war. She saw battle every day,
against real people, real killers.
Frankie swaggered into the kitchen and got a beer from the
refrigerator. "So when's dinner?" he asked, popping off the
tab. Acting as though she were just the maid.
"Another hour," said their mom.
"Jesus, Ma. It's already seven-thirty. I'm starved."
"Don't curse, Frankie."

"You know," said Rizzoli, "we'd be eating a lot sooner if we
had a little help from the guys."
"I can wait," said Frankie, and turned back to the TV room.
In the doorway he stopped. "Oh, I almost forgot. You got a
message."
"What?"
"Your cell phone rang. Some guy named Frosty."
"You mean Barry Frost?"
"Yeah, that's his name. He wants you to call him back."
"When was this?"
"You were outside moving the cars."
"Goddamnit, Frankie! That was an hour ago!"
"Janie," said their mother.
Rizzoli untied her apron and threw it on the counter. "This is
my job, Ma! Why the hell doesn't anyone respect that?" She
grabbed the kitchen phone and punched in Barry Frost's cell
phone number.
He answered on the first ring.
"It's me," she said. "I just got the message to call back."

"You're gonna miss the takedown."
"What?"
"We got a cold hit on that DNA from Nina Peyton."
"You mean the semen? The DNA's in CODIS?"
"It matches a perp named Karl Pacheco. Arrested 1997,
charged with sexual assault, but acquitted. He claimed it was
consensual. The jury believed him."
"He's Nina Peyton's rapist?"
"And we got the DNA to prove it."
She gave a triumphant punch in the air. "What's the
address?"
"Four-five-seven-eight Columbus Ave. The team's just
about all here."
"I'm on my way."
She was already running out the door when her mother
called: "Janie! What about dinner?"
"Gotta go, Ma."
"But it's Frankie's last night!"

"We're making an arrest."
"Can't they do it without you?"
Rizzoli stopped, her hand on the doorknob, her temper
hissing dangerously toward detonation. And she saw, with
startling clarity, that no matter what she achieved or how
distinguished her career might be, this one moment would
always represent her reality: Janie, the trivial sister. The girl.
Without a word, she walked out and slammed the door.
Columbus Avenue was on the northern edge of Roxbury,
smack in the center of the Surgeon's killing grounds. To the
south was Jamaica Plain, the home of Nina Peyton. To the
southeast was Elena Ortiz's residence. To the northeast was
the Back Bay, and the homes of Diana Sterling and Catherine
Cordell. Glancing at the tree-lined streets, Rizzoli saw brick
row houses, a neighborhood populated by students and staff
from nearby Northeastern University. Lots of coeds.
Lots of good hunting.
The traffic light ahead turned yellow. Adrenaline spurting,
she floored the accelerator and barreled through the
intersection. The honor of making this arrest should be hers.
For weeks, Rizzoli had lived, breathed, even dreamed of the
Surgeon. He had infiltrated every moment of her life, both

awake and asleep. No one had worked harder to catch him,
and now she was in a race to claim her prize.
A block from Karl Pacheco's address, she screeched to a
halt behind a cruiser. Four other vehicles were parked helter-
skelter along the street.
Too late, she thought, running toward the building. They've
already gone in.
Inside she heard thudding footsteps and men's shouts
echoing in the stairwell. She followed the sound to the second
floor and stepped into Karl Pacheco's apartment.
There she confronted a scene of chaos. Splintered wood
from the door littered the threshold. Chairs had been
overturned, a lamp smashed, as though wild bulls had raged
through the room, trailing destruction. The air itself was
poisoned with testosterone, cops on a rampage, hunting for
the perp who a few days before had slaughtered one of their
own.
On the floor, a man lay facedown. Black--not the Surgeon.
Crowe had his heel brutally pressed to the back of the black
man's neck.
"I asked you a question, asshole," yelled Crowe. "Where's
Pacheco?"
The man whimpered and made the mistake of trying to lift