The Surgeon (33 page)

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,
and 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.
Hoyt's apartment was on the third floor of a brick walk-up.
Hours before, the team had combed the place for evidence,
and when Moore stepped inside and saw the sparse
furnishings, the nearly bare shelves, he felt he was standing in
a room that had already been swept clean of its soul. That
he'd find nothing left of whoever--whatever--Warren Hoyt
might be.

Dr. Zucker emerged from the bedroom and said to Moore,
"There's something wrong here."
"Is Hoyt our unsub or not?"
"I don't know."
"What do we have?" Moore looked at Crowe, who had met
them at the door.
"We've got a bingo on shoe size. Eight and a half, matches
the footprints from the Ortiz crime scene. We've got several
hair strands from the pillow--short, light brown. Also looks like
a match. Plus we found a long black hair on the bathroom
floor. Shoulder-length."
Moore frowned. "There was a woman here?"
"Maybe a friend."
"Or another victim," said Zucker. "Someone we don't know
about yet."
"I spoke to the landlady, who lives downstairs," said Crowe.
"She last saw Hoyt this morning, coming home from work. She
has no idea where he is now. Bet you can guess what she has
to say about him. Good tenant. Quiet man, never any
trouble."
Moore looked at Zucker. "What did you mean when you

said there's something wrong here?"
"There's no murder kit. No tools. His car's parked right
outside, and there's no kit in there, either." Zucker gestured to
the nearly empty living room. "This apartment looks barely
lived in. There are only a few items in the refrigerator. The
bathroom has soap, a toothbrush, and a razor. It's like a hotel
room. A place to sleep, nothing more. It's not where he keeps
his fantasies alive."
"This is where he lives," said Crowe. "His mail comes here.
His clothes are here."
"But this place is missing the most important thing of all,"
Zucker said. "His trophies. There are no trophies here."
A feeling of dread had seeped into Moore's bones. Zucker
was right. The Surgeon had carved an anatomical trophy out
of each of his victims; he would keep them around to remind
him of his kills. To tide him over between hunts.
"We're not looking at the whole picture," said Zucker. He
turned to Moore. "I need to see where Warren Hoyt worked. I
need to see the lab."
Barry Frost sat down at the computer keyboard and typed in
the patient's name: Nina Peyton. A new screen appeared,
filled with data.

"This terminal is his fishing hole," said Frost. "This is where
he finds his victims."
Moore stared at the monitor, startled by what he saw.
Elsewhere in the lab, machines whirred and phones rang and
medical technicians processed their clattering racks of blood
tubes. Here, in this antiseptic world of stainless steel and
white coats, a world devoted to the healing sciences, the
Surgeon had quietly hunted for prey. At this computer terminal,
he could call up the names of every woman whose blood or
body fluids had been processed at Interpath Labs.
"This is the primary diagnostic lab in the city," said Frost.
"Get your blood drawn at any doctor's office or any outpatient
clinic in Boston, and the chances are, that blood will come
right here to be analyzed."
Right here, to Warren Hoyt.
"He had her home address," said Moore, scanning the
information on Nina Peyton. "Her employer's name. Her age
and marital status--"
"And her diagnosis," said Zucker. He pointed to two words
on the screen: sexual assault. "This is exactly what the
Surgeon hunts for. It's what turns him on. Emotionally
damaged women. Women marked by sexual violence."
Moore heard the lilt of excitement in Zucker's voice. It was

the game that fascinated Zucker, the contest of wits. At last he
could see his opponent's moves, could appreciate the genius
behind them.
"Here he was," said Zucker. "Handling their blood. Knowing
their most shameful secrets." He straightened and gazed
around the lab, as though seeing it for the first time. "Did you
ever stop to think what a medical lab knows about you?" he
said. "All the personal information you give them when you
open your arm and let them stick a needle in your vein? Your
blood reveals your most intimate secrets. Are you dying of
leukemia or AIDS? Did you smoke a cigarette or drink a glass
of wine in the last few hours? Are you taking Prozac because
you're depressed, or Viagra because you can't get it up? He
was holding the very essence of those women. He could study
their blood, touch it, smell it. And they never knew. They never
knew that part of their own body was being fondled by a
stranger."
"The victims never knew him," said Moore. "Never met him."
"But the Surgeon knew them. And on the most intimate of
terms." Zucker's eyes were feverishly bright. "The Surgeon
doesn't hunt like any serial killer I've ever come across. He is
unique. He stays hidden from view, because he chooses his
prey sight unseen." He stared in wonder at a rack of tubes on
the countertop. "This lab is his hunting ground. This is how he
finds them. By their blood. By their pain."

*   *   *
When Moore stepped out of the medical center, the night air
felt cooler, crisper, than it had in weeks. Across the city of
Boston, fewer windows would be left open, fewer women lying
vulnerable to attack.
But tonight, the Surgeon will not be hunting. Tonight, he'll
be enjoying his latest catch.
Moore came to a sudden halt beside his car and stood
there, paralyzed by despair. Even now, Warren Hoyt might be
reaching for his scalpel. Even now . . .
Footsteps approached. He summoned the strength to raise
his head, to look at the man standing a few feet away in the
shadows.
"He has her, doesn't he?" said Peter Falco.
Moore nodded.
"God. Oh, god." Falco looked up in anguish at the night sky.
"I walked her to her car. She was right there with me, and I let
her go home. I let her drive away. . . ."
"We're doing everything we can to find her." It was a stock
phrase. Even as he said it, Moore heard the hollowness of his
own words. It's what you said when matters are grim, when
you know that even your best efforts will likely come to nothing.

"What are you doing?"
"We know who he is."
"But you don't know where he's taken her."
"It will take time to track him down."
"Tell me what I can do. Anything at all."
Moore fought to keep his voice calm, to hide his own fears,
his own dread. "I know how hard it is to stand on the sidelines
and let others do the work. But this is what we're trained to do.
"
"Oh yes, you're the professionals! So what the hell went
wrong?"
Moore had no answer.
In agitation, Falco crossed toward Moore and came to
stand beneath the parking lot lamp. The light fell on his face,
haggard with worry. "I don't know what happened between you
two," he said. "But I do know she trusted you. I hope to god
that means something to you. I hope she's more than just
another case. Just another name on the list."
"She is," said Moore.
The men stared at each other, acknowledging in silence

what they both knew. What they both felt.
"I care more than you'll ever know," said Moore.
And Falco said softly, "So do I."

twenty-three
H  e's going to keep her alive for a while," said Dr.
Zucker. "The way he kept Nina Peyton alive for a whole day.
He is now in complete control of the situation. He can take all
the time he wants."
A shudder went through Rizzoli as she considered what that
meant, All the time he wants. She considered how many
tender nerve endings the human body possessed and
wondered how much pain must be endured before Death took
pity. She looked across the conference room and saw Moore

drop his head into his hands. He looked sick, exhausted. It
was after midnight, and the faces she saw around the
conference table looked sallow and discouraged. Rizzoli
stood outside that circle, her back sagging against the wall.
The invisible woman, whom no one acknowledged, allowed to
listen in but not participate. Restricted to administrative duty,
deprived of her service weapon, she was now little more than
an observer in a case that she knew better than anyone at this
table.
Moore's gaze lifted in her direction, but he looked straight
through her, not at her. As though he didn't want to look at her.
Dr. Zucker summarized what they'd learned about Warren
Hoyt. The Surgeon.
"He's been working toward this one goal for a long time,"
said Zucker. "Now that he's attained it, he's going to prolong
the pleasure as long as possible."
"Then Cordell's always been his goal?" said Frost. "The
other victims--they were just for practice?"
"No, they gave him pleasure as well. They tided him over,
helped him release sexual tension while he worked toward
this prize. In any hunt, the predator's excitement is most
intense when he's stalking the most difficult of prey. And
Cordell was probably the one woman he could not easily
reach. She was always on alert, always careful about security.
She barricaded herself behind locks and alarm systems. She

avoided close relationships. She seldom went out at night,
except to work at the hospital. She was the most challenging
prey he could pursue, and the one he wanted most. He made
his hunt even more difficult by letting her know she was prey.
He used terror as part of the game. He wanted her to feel him
closing in. The other women were just the buildup. Cordell was
the main event."
"Is," said Moore, his voice tight with rage. "She's not dead
yet."
The room suddenly hushed, all eyes averted from Moore.
Zucker nodded, icy calm unbroken. "Thank you for
correcting me."
Marquette said, "You've read his background files?"
"Yes," said Zucker. "Warren was an only child. Apparently an
adored child, born in Houston. Father was a rocket scientist
--I kid you not. His mother came from an old oil family. Both of
them are dead now. So Warren was blessed with smart genes
and family money. There's no record of criminal behavior as a
child. No arrests, no traffic tickets, nothing that raised a red
flag. Except for that one incident in medical school, in the
anatomy lab, I find no warning signs. No clues that tell me he
was destined to be a predator. By all accounts, he was a
perfectly normal boy. Polite and reliable."
"Average," said Moore softly. "Ordinary."

Zucker nodded. "This is a boy who never stood out, never
alarmed anyone. This is the most frightening killer of all,
because there's no pathology, no psychiatric diagnosis. He's
like Ted Bundy. Intelligent, organized, and, on the surface,
quite functional. But he has one personality quirk: he enjoys
torturing women. This is someone you might work with every
day. And you'd never suspect that when he's looking at you,
smiling at you, he's thinking about some new and creative way
to rip out your guts."
Shuddering at Zucker's hiss of a voice, Rizzoli looked
around the room. What he's saying is true. I see Barry Frost
every day. He seems like a nice guy. Happily married.
Never in a foul mood. But I have no idea what he's really
thinking.
Frost caught her gaze, and he reddened.
Zucker continued. "After the incident in medical school,
Hoyt was forced to withdraw. He entered a med tech training
program, and followed Andrew Capra to Savannah. It appears
their partnership lasted several years. Airline and credit card
records indicate they often traveled together. To Greece and
Italy. To Mexico, where they both volunteered at a rural clinic. It
was an alliance of two hunters. Blood brothers who shared the
same violent fantasies."
"The catgut suture," said Rizzoli.

Zucker gave her a puzzled look. "What?"
"In third world countries, they still use catgut in surgery.
That's how he got his supply."
Marquette nodded. "She could be right."
I am right, thought Rizzoli, prickling with resentment.
"When Cordell killed Andrew Capra," said Zucker, "she
destroyed the perfect killing team. She took away the one
person Hoyt felt closest to. And that's why she became his
ultimate goal. His ultimate victim."
"If Hoyt was in the house that night Capra died, why didn't
he kill her then?" asked Marquette.
"I don't know. There's a lot about that night in Savannah that
only Warren Hoyt knows. What we do know is that he moved
to Boston two years ago, shortly after Catherine Cordell came
here. Within a year, Diana Sterling was dead."
At last Moore spoke, his voice haunted. "How do we find
him?"
"You can keep his apartment under surveillance, but I don't
think he'll be returning there soon. It's not his lair. That's not
where he indulges his fantasies." Zucker sat back, eyes
unfocused. Channeling what he knew about Warren Hoyt into
words and images. "His real lair will be a place he keeps