The Surgeon (19 page)

he took my picture."
"And then?"
She looked at him. "Then he was gone."
"He left you alone in the house?"
"Not alone. I could hear him, walking around. And the TV
--all night, I heard the TV."
The pattern has changed, thought Moore, and he and Frost
exchanged stunned looks. The Surgeon was now more
confident. More daring. Instead of completing his kill within a
few hours, he had delayed. All night, and the next day, he had
left his prey tied to her bed, to contemplate her coming ordeal.
Heedless of the risks, he had drawn out her terror. Drawn out
his pleasure.
The heartbeats on the monitor had sped up again. Though
her voice sounded flat and lifeless, beneath the calm facade
the fear remained.
"What happened then, Nina?" he asked.
"Sometime in the afternoon, I must have fallen asleep.
When I woke up, it was dark again. I was so thirsty. It was all I
could think about, how much I wanted water. . . ."
"Did he leave you at any time? Were you ever alone in the

house?"
"I don't know. All I could hear was the TV. When he turned it
off, I knew. I knew he was coming back into my room."
"And when he did, did he turn on the light?"
"Yes."
"Did you see his face?"
"Just his eyes. He was wearing a mask. The kind that
doctors wear."
"But you did see his eyes."
"Yes."
"Did you recognize him? Had you ever seen this man
before in your life?"
There was a long silence. Moore felt his own heart
pounding as he waited for the answer he hoped for.
Then she said, softly: "No."
He sank back in his chair. The tension in the room had
suddenly collapsed. To this victim, the Surgeon was a
stranger, a man without a name, whose reasons for choosing
her remained a mystery.

Masking the disappointment in his voice, he said:
"Describe him for us, Nina."
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, as though to
conjure up the memory. "He had . . . he had short hair. Cut very
neatly . . ."
"What color?"
"Brown. A light shade of brown."
Consistent with the strand of hair they'd found in Elena
Ortiz's wound. "So he was Caucasian?" said Moore.
"Yes."
"Eyes?"
"A pale color. Blue or gray. I was afraid to look straight at
them."
"And the shape of his face? Round, oval?"
"Narrow." She paused. "Ordinary."
"Height and weight?"
"It's hard to--"
"Your best guess."

She sighed. "Average."
Average. Ordinary. A monster who looked like any other
man.
Moore turned to Frost. "Let's show her the six-packs."
Frost handed him the first book of mug shots, called six-
packs because there were six photographs per page. Moore
set the book on a bedside tray table and wheeled it in front of
the patient.
For the next half hour they watched with sinking hopes as
she flipped through the books without pausing. No one spoke;
there was only the hiss of the oxygen and the sound of the
pages being turned. These photos were of known sex
offenders, and as Nina turned page after page it seemed to
Moore that there was no end to the faces, that this parade of
images represented the dark side of every man, the reptilian
impulse disguised by a human mask.
He heard a tap on the cubicle window. Looking up, he saw
Jane Rizzoli gesturing to him.
He stepped out to speak to her.
"Any ID yet?" she asked.
"We're not going to get one. He was wearing a surgeon's
mask."

Rizzoli frowned. "Why a mask?"
"It could be part of his ritual. Part of what turns him on.
Playing doctor is his fantasy. He told her he was going to cut
out the organ that had been defiled. He knew she was a rape
victim. And what did he cut out? He went right for the womb."
Rizzoli gazed into the cubicle. She said quietly: "I can think
of another reason why he wore that mask."
"Why?"
"He didn't want her to see his face. He didn't want her to
identify him."
"But that would mean . . ."
"It's what I've been saying all along." Rizzoli turned and
looked at Moore. "The Surgeon fully intended for Nina Peyton
to survive."
How little we truly see into the human heart, thought Catherine
as she studied the X ray of Nina Peyton's chest. Standing in
semidarkness, she gazed at the film clipped to the light box,
studying the shadows cast by bones and organs. The rib
cage, the trampoline of diaphragm, and resting atop it the
heart. Not the seat of the soul, but merely a muscular pump,
unendowed with any more mystical purpose than the lungs or

the kidneys. Yet even Catherine, so grounded in science,
could not look at Nina Peyton's heart without being moved by
its symbolism.
It was the heart of a survivor.
She heard voices in the next room. It was Peter, requesting
a patient's films from the file clerk. A moment later he walked
into the reading room and paused when he saw her, standing
by the light box.
"You're still here?" he said.
"So are you."
"But I'm the one on call tonight. Why don't you go home?"
Catherine turned back to Nina's chest X ray. "I want to be
sure this patient is stable first."
He came to stand right beside her, so tall, so imposing, that
she had to fight the impulse to step away. He scanned the film.
"Other than some atelectasis, I don't see much there to
worry about." He focused on the name "Jane Doe" in the
corner of the film. "Is this the woman in Bed Twelve? The one
with all the cops hanging around?"
"Yes."
"I see you extubated her."

"I see you extubated her."
"A few hours ago," she said reluctantly. She had no wish to
talk about Nina Peyton, no wish to reveal her personal
involvement in the case. But Peter kept asking questions.
"Her blood gases okay?"
"They're adequate."
"And she's otherwise stable?"
"Yes."
"Then why don't you go home? I'll cover for you."
"I'd like to keep an eye on this patient myself."
He placed his hand on her shoulder. "Since when did you
stop trusting your own partner?"
At once she froze at his touch. He felt it and withdrew his
hand.
After a silence, Peter moved away and began hanging his
X rays on the box, shoving them briskly into place. He'd
brought in an abdominal CT series, and the films took up an
entire row of clips. When he had finished hanging them, he
stood very still, his eyes hidden by the X ray images reflected
in his glasses.
"I'm not the enemy, Catherine," he said softly, not looking at

her but focusing instead on the light box. "I wish I could make
you believe that. I keep thinking there's got to be something I
did, something I said, that's changed things between us." At
last he looked at her. "We used to rely on each other. As
partners, at the very least. Hell, the other day, we practically
held hands in that man's chest! And now you won't even let me
cover for one patient. By now, don't you know me well enough
to trust me?"
"There's no other surgeon I trust more than you."
"Than what's going on here? I get to work in the morning,
and find out we've had a break-in. And you won't talk to me
about it. I ask you about your patient in Bed Twelve, and you
won't talk to me about her, either."
"The police have asked me not to."
"The police seem to be running your life these days. Why?"
"I'm not at liberty to discuss it."
"I'm not just your partner, Catherine. I thought I was your
friend." He took a step toward her. He was a physically
imposing man, and his mere approach suddenly made her
feel claustrophobic. "I can see you're scared. You lock yourself
in your office. You look like you haven't slept in days. I can't
stand by and watch this."
Catherine yanked Nina Peyton's X ray off the light box and

slid it into the envelope. "It has nothing to do with you."
"Yes, it does, if it affects you."
Her defensiveness instantly turned to anger. "Let's get
something straight here, Peter. Yes, we work together, and
yes, I respect you as a surgeon. I like you as a partner. But we
don't share our lives. And we certainly don't share our secrets.
"
"Why don't we?" he said softly. "What are you afraid of
telling me?"
She stared at him, unnerved by the gentleness of his voice.
In that instant, she wanted more than anything to unburden
herself, to tell him what had happened to her in Savannah in all
its shameful detail. But she knew the consequences of such a
confession. She understood that to be raped was to be
forever tainted, forever a victim. She could not tolerate pity.
Not from Peter, the one man whose respect meant everything
to her.
"Catherine?" He reached out.
Through tears she looked at his outstretched hand. And like
a drowning woman who chooses the black sea instead of
rescue, she did not take it.
Instead she turned and walked out of the room.

twelve
Jane Doe has moved.
I hold a tube of her blood in my hand, and am
disappointed that it is cool to the touch. It has been sitting in
the phlebotomist's rack too long, and the body heat this tube
once contained has radiated through the glass and
dissipated into the air. Cold blood is a dead thing, without
power or soul, and it does not move me. It is the label I focus
on, a white rectangle affixed to the glass tube, printed with
the patient's name, room number, and hospital number.

the patient's name, room number, and hospital number.
Though the name says "Jane Doe," I know who this blood
really belongs to. She is no longer in the Surgical Intensive
Care Unit. She has been moved to Room 538--the surgery
ward.
I put the tube back in the rack, where it sits with two dozen
other tubes, capped with rubber stoppers of blue and purple
and red and green, each color signifying a different
procedure to be done. The purple tops are for blood counts,
the blue tops for clotting tests, the red tops for chemistries
and electrolytes. In some of the red-top tubes, the blood has
already congealed into columns of dark gelatin. I look
through the bundle of lab orders and find the slip for Jane
Doe. This morning, Dr. Cordell ordered two tests: a complete
blood count and serum electrolytes. I dig deeper into last
night's lab orders, and find the carbon copy of another
requisition with Dr. Cordell's name as ordering physician.
"STAT arterial blood gas, post-extubation. 2 liters oxygen
by nasal prongs."
Nina Peyton has been extubated. She is breathing on her
own, taking in air without mechanical assistance, without a
tube in her throat.
I sit motionless at my workstation, thinking not of Nina
Peyton, but of Catherine Cordell. She thinks she has won
this round. She thinks she is Nina Peyton's savior. It is time

to teach her her place. It is time she learned humility.
I pick up the phone and call Hospital Dietary. A woman
answers, her speech pressured, the sound of trays clanging
in the background. It is near the dinner hour, and she has no
time to waste in chitchat.
"This is Five West," I lie. "I think we may have mixed up
the dietary orders on two of our patients. Can you tell me
which diet you have listed for Room Five-thirty-eight?"
There is a pause as she taps on her keyboard and calls
up the information.
"Clear liquids," she answers. "Is that correct?"
"Yes, that's correct. Thank you." I hang up.
In the newspaper this morning, Nina Peyton was said to
remain comatose and in critical condition. This is not true.
She is awake.
Catherine Cordell has saved her life, as I knew she would.
A phlebotomist crosses to my station and sets her tray full
of blood tubes on the counter. We smile at each other, as we
do every day, two friendly coworkers who by default assume
the best about each other. She is young, with firm high
breasts that bulge like melons against her white uniform,

and she has fine, straight teeth. She picks up a new sheaf of
lab requisitions, waves, and walks out. I wonder if her blood
tastes salty.
The machines hum and gurgle a continuous lullaby.
I go to the computer and call up the patient list for 5 West.
There are twenty rooms in that ward, which is arranged in the
shape of an H, with the nursing station located in the
crossbar of the H. I go down the list of patients, thirty-three in
all, scanning their ages and diagnoses. I stop at the twelfth
name, in Room 521.
"Mr. Herman Gwadowski, age 69. Attending physician: Dr.
Catherine Cordell. Diagnosis: S/P emergency laparotomy
for multiple abdominal trauma."
Room 521 is located in a parallel hallway to Nina
Peyton's. From 521, Nina's room is not visible.
I click on Mr. Gwadowski's name and access his lab
flowsheet. He has been in the hospital two weeks and his
flowsheet goes on for screen after screen. I can picture his
arms, the veins a highway of needle punctures and bruises.
From his blood sugar levels, I see he is diabetic. His high
white blood cell counts indicate he has an infection of some
sort. I notice, too, that there are cultures pending from a
wound swab of his foot. The diabetes has affected the

circulation in his limbs, and the flesh of his legs is starting to
necrose. I also see a culture pending on a swab from his
central venous line site.
I focus on his electrolytes. His potassium levels have
been steadily climbing. 4.5 two weeks ago. 4.8 last week. 5.1
yesterday. He is old and his diabetic kidneys are struggling
to excrete the everyday toxins that accumulate in the
bloodstream. Toxins such as potassium.
It will not take much to tip him over the edge.
I have never met Mr. Herman Gwadowski--at least, not
face-to-face. I go to the rack of blood tubes which have been
sitting on the counter and look at the labels. The rack is
from 5 East and West, and there are twenty-four tubes in the
various slots. I find a red-top tube from Room 521. It is Mr.
Gwadowski's blood.
I pick up the tube and study it as I slowly turn it under the
light. It has not clotted, and the fluid within looks dark and
brackish, as though the needle that punctured Mr.
Gwadowski's vein has instead hit a stagnant well. I uncap the
tube and sniff its contents. I smell the urea of old age, the
gamey sweetness of infection. I smell a body that has
already begun to decay, even as the brain continues to deny
the shell is dying around it.