The Surgeon (28 page)

A silhouette moved past the window--a woman's, slender
and long-haired. Very much like Catherine's.
He saw it now, in his mind's eye. The young man on the
porch, knocking on the front door. The door opening, spilling
golden light into the darkness. Catherine standing there,
haloed by that light, inviting in the young colleague she knew
from the hospital, never suspecting the horrors he had in mind
for her.
And the second voice, the second man--where does he
come in?
Moore sat for a long time, studying the house, noting the
windows and the shrubbery. He stepped out of his car and
walked along the sidewalk, to see around the side of the
house. The shrubbery was mature and dense, and he could
not see past it, into the backyard.
Across the street, a porch light came on.
He turned and saw a stout woman standing at her window,
staring at him. She was holding a telephone to her ear.
He got back in his car and drove away. There was one
more address he wished to see. It was near the State
College, several miles south. He wondered how often
Catherine had driven this very road, whether that little pizza
shop on the left or that dry-cleaning shop on the right was a
place she had frequented. Everywhere he looked, he seemed

to see her face, and this disturbed him. It meant he'd allowed
his emotions to become entwined in this investigation, and it
would serve no one well.
He arrived at the street he'd been looking for. After a few
blocks, he stopped at what should have been the address.
What he found was merely an empty lot, thick with weeds. He
had expected to find a building here, owned by Mrs. Stella
Poole, a widow, age fifty-eight. Three years ago, Mrs. Poole
had rented out her upstairs apartment to a surgical intern
named Andrew Capra, a quiet young man who always paid
his rent on time.
He stepped out of his car and stood on the sidewalk where
Andrew Capra had surely walked. He gazed up and down the
street that had been Capra's neighborhood. It was only a few
blocks from the State College, and he assumed that many of
the houses on this street were rented to students--short-term
tenants who might not know the story of their infamous
neighbor.
A wind stirred the soupy air, and he did not like the smell
that arose. It was the damp odor of decay. He looked up at a
tree in Andrew Capra's old front yard and saw a clump of
Spanish moss drooping from a branch. He shuddered and
thought: Strange fruit, remembering a grotesque Halloween
from his childhood, when a neighbor, thinking it a fine display
to scare trick-or-treaters, had tied a rope around a
scarecrow's neck and hung it from a tree. Moore's father had

been livid when he saw it. Immediately he'd stormed next door
and, ignoring the protests of the neighbor, cut down the
scarecrow.
Moore felt the same impulse now, to climb into the tree and
yank down that dangling moss.
Instead he returned to his car and drove back to the hotel.
Detective Mark Singer set a carton on the table and clapped
dust from his hands. "This is the last one. Took us the
weekend to track 'em down, but they're all here."
Moore eyed the dozen evidence boxes lined up on the table
and said, "I should bring a sleeping bag and just move in."
Singer laughed. "Might as well, if you expect to get through
every piece of paper in those there boxes. Nothin' leaves the
building, okay? Photocopier's down the hall; just log in your
name and agency. Bathroom's thataway. Most times, there'll
be doughnuts and coffee in the squad room. If you take any
doughnuts, the boys'd surely `preciate it if you'd slip a few
bucks in the jar." Though all this was said with a smile, Moore
heard the underlying message in that soft southern drawl: We
have our ground rules, and even you big boys from Boston
have to follow them.
Catherine had not liked this cop, and Moore understood

why. Singer was younger than he'd expected, not yet forty, a
muscular overachiever who would not take kindly to criticism.
There can be only one alpha dog in a pack, and for the
moment Moore would let Singer be that dog.
"These here four boxes, they hold the investigation control
files," said Singer. "Might want to start with 'em. Cross-index
files're in that box, action files are in this one here." He walked
along the table, slapping boxes as he spoke. "And this has the
Atlanta files on Dora Ciccone. It's just photocopies."
"Atlanta PD has those originals?"
Singer nodded. "First victim, only one he killed there."
"Since they're photocopies, may I take that box out?
Review the documents in my hotel?"
"Long as you bring 'em back." Singer sighed, looking
around at the boxes. "Y'know, I'm not sure what you think
you're lookin' for. Never get a more open-and-shut case.
Every one of them, we got Capra's DNA. We got fiber
matches. We got the timeline. Capra's living in Atlanta, Dora
Ciccone gets killed in Atlanta. He moves to Savannah, our
ladies here start turning up dead. He was always in the right
place, at the right time."
"I don't question for a minute that Capra was your man."
"So why you diggin' through this now? Some of this stuff is

three, four years old."
Moore heard defensiveness in Singer's voice and knew
diplomacy was key here. Any hint that Singer had made
mistakes during the Capra investigation, that he'd missed the
vital detail that Capra had a partner, and there'd be no hope of
cooperation from the Savannah PD.
Moore chose an answer that would in no way cast blame.
"We have a copycat theory," he said. "Our unsub in Boston
appears to be an admirer of Capra's. He's reproducing his
crimes in painstaking detail."
"How would he know the details?"
"They may have corresponded while Capra was still alive."
Singer seemed to relax. Even laughed. "A sick fucker's fan
club, huh? Nice."
"Since our unsub is intimately familiar with Capra's work, I
need to be, as well."
Singer waved at the table. "Y'all go for it, then."
After Singer had left the room, Moore surveyed the labels
on the evidence boxes. He opened the one marked: IC #1.
The Savannah Investigation Control Files. Inside were three
accordion file folders, each pocket filled to capacity. And this
was just one of four IC boxes. The first accordion folder

contained the occurrence reports for the three Savannah
attacks, witness statements, and executed warrants. The
second accordion folder held suspects files, criminal record
checks, and lab reports. There was enough, just in this first
box, to keep him reading all day.
And there were eleven more boxes to go.
He started by reviewing Singer's final summary. Once
again he was struck by how airtight the evidence was against
Andrew Capra. There were a total of five attacks on record,
four of them fatal. The first victim was Dora Ciccone, killed in
Atlanta. One year later, the murders began in Savannah.
Three women in one year: Lisa Fox, Ruth Voorhees, and
Jennifer Torregrossa.
The killings ended when Capra was shot to death in
Catherine Cordell's bedroom.
In every case, sperm was found in the victim's vaginal vault
and the DNA matched Capra's. Hair strands left at the Fox
and Torregrossa crime scenes matched Capra's. The first
victim, Ciccone, was killed in Atlanta the same year Capra
was finishing his final year of medical school in Atlanta's
Emory University.
The murders followed Capra to Savannah.
Every thread of evidence wove neatly into a tight pattern,
and the fabric appeared indestructible. But Moore realized he

was reading only a case summary, which pulled together the
elements in favor of Singer's conclusions. Contradictory
details might be left out. It was these very details, the small but
significant inconsistencies, that he hoped to ferret out of these
evidence boxes. Somewhere in here, he thought, the Surgeon
has left his footprints.
He opened the first accordion folder and began to read.
When he finally rose from his chair three hours later and
stretched the kinks from his back, it was already noon and he
had barely begun to scale the mountain of paper. He had not
caught even a whiff of the Surgeon's scent. He walked around
the table, eyeing the labels on the boxes that had not yet been
opened,      and     spotted      one    that    said:     "#12
Fox/Torregrossa/Voorhees/Cordell.                         Press
clippings/Videos/Misc."
He opened the box and found half a dozen videotapes on
top of a thick stack of folders. He took out the video labeled:
Capra Residence. It was dated June 16. The day after the
attack on Catherine.
He found Singer at his desk, eating a sandwich. A deli
special, piled high with roast beef. The desk itself told him
much about Singer. It was organized to the nth degree, the
stacks of papers lined up with corners squared. A cop who
was great with details but probably a pain in the ass to work
with.

"Is there a VCR I could use?" said Moore.
"We keep it locked up."
Moore waited, his next request so obvious he didn't bother
to voice it. With a dramatic sigh, Singer reached into his desk
for the keys and stood up. "I guess you want it right now, don't
you?"
From the storage room, Singer took out the cart with the
VCR and TV and rolled it into the room where Moore had
been working. He plugged in the cords, pressed the power
buttons, and grunted in satisfaction when everything came on.
"Thanks," said Moore. "I'll probably need it for a few days."
"You come up with any big-time revelations yet?" There was
no mistaking the note of sarcasm in his voice.
"I'm just getting started."
"I see you got the Capra video." Singer shook his head.
"Man, was there weird shit in that house."
"I drove past the address last night. There's only an empty
lot."
"Building burned down 'bout a year ago. After Capra, the
landlady couldn't rent out the upstairs apartment. So she
started chargin' for tours, and believe it or not, she got herself

a lot of takers. Y'know, the sick as shit Anne Rice crowd,
come to worship at the monster's den. Hell, landlady herself
was somethin' weird."
"I'll need to speak to her."
"Not unless you can talk to the dead."
"The fire?"
"Crispy critter." Singer laughed. "Smokin' is bad for your
health. She sure proved it."
Moore waited until Singer walked out. Then he inserted the
"Capra Residence" tape into the VCR slot.
The first images were exterior, daylight, a view of the front
of the house where Capra had lived. Moore recognized the
tree in the front yard with the Spanish moss. The house itself
was charmless, a two-story box in need of paint. The voice-
over of the cameraman gave the date, time, and location. He
identified himself as Savannah detective Spiro Pataki.
Judging by the quality of daylight, Moore guessed the video
had been shot in the early morning. The camera panned the
street, and he saw a jogger run past, face turned toward the
lens in curiosity. Traffic was heavy (the morning commute
hour?) and a few neighbors stood on the sidewalk, staring at
the cameraman.
Now the view swung back to the house and approached the

front door with handheld jerkiness. Once inside, Detective
Pataki briefly panned the first floor, where the landlady, Mrs.
Poole, lived. Moore glimpsed faded carpets, dark furniture, an
ashtray overflowing with cigarettes. The fatal habit of a future
crispy critter. The camera moved up some narrow stairs, and
through a door with a heavy dead bolt installed, into the
upstairs apartment of Andrew Capra.
Moore felt claustrophobic just looking at it. The second floor
had been cut into small rooms, and whoever had done this
"renovation" must have gotten a special deal on wood
paneling. Every wall was covered in dark veneer. The camera
moved up a hallway so narrow it seemed to be burrowing
through a tunnel. "Bedroom on the right," said Pataki on
camera, swinging the lens through the doorway to catch a
view of a twin bed, neatly made up, a nightstand, a dresser. All
the furniture that would fit in that dim little cave.
"Moving toward the rear living area," said Pataki as the
camera jerked once again into the tunnel. It emerged in a
larger room where other people stood around, looking grim.
Moore spotted Singer by a closet door. Here's where the
action was.
The camera focused on Singer. "This door was padlocked,"
Singer said, pointing to the broken lock. "We had to pry off the
hinges. Inside we found this." He opened the closet door and
yanked on the light chain.
The camera went briefly out of focus, then abruptly

sharpened again, the image filling the screen with startling
clarity. It was a black-and-white photograph of a woman's
face, eyes wide and lifeless, the neck slashed so deeply the
tracheal cartilage was laid open.
"I believe this is Dora Ciccone," said Singer. "Okay, focus
on this one now."
The camera moved to the right. Another photograph,
another woman.
"These appear to be postmortem photos, taken of four
different victims. I believe we are looking at the death images
of Dora Ciccone, Lisa Fox, Ruth Voorhees, and Jennifer
Torregrossa."
It was Andrew Capra's private photo gallery. A retreat in
which to relive the pleasure of his slaughters. What Moore
found more disturbing than the images themselves was the
remaining blank space on the walls, and the little package of
thumbtacks sitting on a shelf. Plenty of room for more.
The camera shifted dizzingly out of the closet and was once
again in the larger room. Slowly Pataki swung around,
capturing on camera a couch, a TV, a desk, a phone.
Bookshelves filled with medical textbooks. The camera
continued its pan until it came to the kitchen area. It focused
on the refrigerator.
Moore leaned closer, his throat suddenly dry. He already

knew what that refrigerator contained, yet he found his pulse
quickening, his stomach turning in dread, as he saw Singer
walk to the refrigerator. Singer paused and looked at the
camera.
"This is what we found inside," he said, and opened the
door.

nineteen
H   e took a walk around the block, and this time he
scarcely noticed the heat, he was so chilled by the images on
that videotape. He felt relieved just to be out of the conference
room, which was now intimately associated with horror.
Savannah itself, with its syrupy air and its soft green light,
made him uneasy. The city of Boston had sharp edges and
jarring voices, every building, every scowling face, in harsh
focus. In Boston, you knew you were alive, if only because you
were so irritated. Here, nothing seemed in focus. He saw
Savannah as though through gauze, a city of genteel smiles