The Surgeon (5 page)

Capra made his first known kill while he was a senior
medical student at Emory University in Atlanta. The victim was
Dora Ciccone, a twenty-two-year-old Emory graduate student,
whose body was found tied to the bed in her off-campus
apartment. Traces of the date-rape drug Rohypnol were found
in her system on autopsy. Her apartment showed no signs of
forced entry.
The victim had invited the killer into her home.
Once drugged, Dora Ciccone was tied to her bed with
nylon cord, and her screams were muffled with duct tape. First
the killer raped her. Then he proceeded to cut.
She was alive during the operation.
When he had completed the excision, and had taken his
souvenir, he administered the coup de grace: a single deep
slash across the neck, from left to right. Though the police had
DNA from the killer's semen, they had no leads. The
investigation was complicated by the fact Dora was known as
a party girl who liked to cruise the local bars and often brought
home men she'd only just met.
On the night she died, the man she brought home was a
medical student named Andrew Capra. But Capra's name did
not come to the attention of the police until three women had
been slaughtered in the city of Savannah, two hundred miles
away.

Finally, on a muggy night in June, the killings ended.
Thirty-one-year-old Catherine Cordell, the chief surgical
resident in Savannah's Riverland Hospital, was startled by
someone knocking at her door. When she opened it, she
found Andrew Capra, one of her surgery interns, standing on
her porch. Earlier that day, in the hospital, she had
reprimanded him about a mistake he'd made, and now he
was desperate to find out how he could redeem himself.
Could he please come in to talk about it?
Over a few beers, they'd reviewed Capra's performance as
an intern. All the errors he'd made, the patients he might have
harmed because of his carelessness. She did not sugarcoat
the truth: that Capra was failing and would not be allowed to
finish the surgery program. At some point in the evening,
Catherine left the room to use the toilet, then returned to
resume the conversation and finish her beer.
When she regained consciousness, she found herself
stripped naked and tied to the bed with nylon cord.
The police report described, in horrifying detail, the
nightmare that followed.
Photographs taken of her in the hospital revealed a woman
with haunted eyes, a bruised and horribly swollen cheek. What
he saw, in these photos, was summed up in the generic word:
victim.

It was not a word that applied to the eerily composed
woman he had met today.
Now, re-reading Cordell's statement, he could hear her
voice in his head. The words no longer belonged to an
anonymous victim, but to a woman whose face he knew.
I don't know how I got my hand free. My wrist is all
scraped now so I must have pulled it through the cord. I'm
,
sorry, but things aren't clear in my mind. All I remember is
reaching for the scalpel. Knowing that I had to get the
scalpel off the tray. That I had to cut the cords, before
Andrew came back. . . .
I remember rolling toward the side of the bed. Falling half
onto the floor and hitting my head. Then I was trying to find
the gun. It's my father's gun. After the third woman was killed
in Savannah, he insisted I keep it.
I remember reaching under my bed. Grabbing the gun. I
remember footsteps, coming into the room. Then--I'm not
sure. That must be when I shot him. Yes, that's what I think
happened. They told me I shot him twice. I guess it must be
true.

Moore paused, mulling over the statement. Ballistics had
confirmed that both bullets were fired from the weapon,
registered to Catherine's father, that was found lying beside
the bed. Blood tests in the hospital confirmed the presence of
Rohypnol, an amnesiac drug, in her bloodstream, so she
might very well have blank spots in her memory. When Cordell
was brought to the E.R., the doctors described her as
confused, either from the drug or from a possible concussion.
Only a heavy blow to the head could have left such a bruised
and swollen face. She did not recall how or when she received
that blow.
Moore turned to the crime scene photos. On the bedroom
floor, Andrew Capra lay dead, flat on his back. He had been
shot twice, once in the abdomen, once in the eye, both times
at close range.
For a long time he studied the photos, noting the position of
Capra's body, the pattern of the bloodstains.
He turned to the autopsy report. Read it through twice.
Looked once again at the crime scene photo.
Something is wrong here, he thought. Cordell's statement
does not make sense.
A report suddenly landed on his desk. He glanced up,
startled, to see Rizzoli.

"Did you get a load of this?" she asked.
"What is it?"
"The report on that strand of hair found in Elena Ortiz's
wound margin."
Moore scanned down to the final sentence. And he said: "I
have no idea what this means."
In 1997, the various branches of the Boston Police
Department were moved under one roof, located inside the
brand-new complex at One Schroeder Plaza in Boston's
rough-and-tumble Roxbury neighborhood. The cops referred
to their new digs as "the marble palace" because of the
extensive use of polished granite in the lobby. "Give us a few
years to trash the place, and it'll feel like home" was the joke.
Schroeder Plaza bore little resemblance to the shabby police
stations seen on TV cop shows. It was a sleek and modern
building, brightened by large windows and skylights. The
homicide unit, with its carpeted floors and computer
workstations, could have passed for a corporate office. What
the cops liked best about Schroeder Plaza was the
integration of the various BPD branches.
For homicide detectives, a visit to the crime lab was only a
walk down the hallway, to the south wing of the building.

In Hair and Fiber, Moore and Rizzoli watched as Erin
Volchko, a forensic scientist, sifted through her collection of
evidence envelopes. "All I had to work with was that single
hair," said Erin. "But it's amazing what one hair can tell you.
Okay, here it is." She'd located the envelope with Elena Ortiz's
case number, and now she removed a microscope slide. "I'll
just show you what it looks like under the lens. The numerical
scores are in the report."
"These numbers?" said Rizzoli, looking down at the long
series of scoring codes on the page.
"Correct. Each code describes a different characteristic of
hair, from color and curl to microscopic features. This
particular strand is an A01--a dark blond. Its curl is B01.
Curved, with a curl diameter of less than eighty. Almost, but
not quite, straight. The shaft length is four centimeters.
Unfortunately, this strand is in its telogen phase, so there's no
epithelial tissue adhering to it."
"Meaning there's no DNA."
"Right. Telogen is the terminal stage of root growth. This
strand fell out naturally, as part of the shedding process. In
other words, it was not yanked out. If there were epithelial cells
on the root, we could use their nuclei for DNA analysis. But
this strand doesn't have any such cells."
Rizzoli and Moore exchanged looks of disappointment.

"But," added Erin, "we do have something here that's pretty
damn good. Not as good as DNA, but it might hold up in court
once you nail a suspect. It's too bad we don't have any hairs
from the Sterling case to compare." She focused the
microscope lens, then scooted aside. "Take a look."
The scope had a teaching eyepiece, so both Rizzoli and
Moore could examine the slide simultaneously. What Moore
saw, peering through the lens, was a single strand beaded
with tiny nodules.
"What are the little bumps?" said Rizzoli. "That's not normal.
"
"Not only is it abnormal, it's rare," said Erin. "It's a condition
called Trichorrhexis invaginata, otherwise known as `bamboo
hair.' You can see how it gets its nickname. Those little
nodules make it look like a stalk of bamboo, don't they?"
"What are the nodules?" asked Moore.
"They're focal defects in the hair fiber. Weak spots which
allow the hair shaft to fold back on itself, forming a sort of ball
and socket. Those little bumps are the weak spots, where the
shaft has telescoped on itself, making a bulge."
"How do you get this condition?"
"Occasionally it can develop from too much hair
processing. Dyes, permanents, that sort of thing. But since

we're most likely dealing with a male unsub, and since I see
no evidence of artificial bleaching, I'm inclined to say this is
not due to processing, but to some sort of genetic
abnormality."
"Like what?"
"Netherton's Syndrome, for instance. That's an autosomal
recessive condition that affects keratin development. Keratin
is a tough, fibrous protein found in hair and nails. It's also the
outer layer of our skin."
"If there's a genetic defect, and the keratin doesn't develop
normally, then the hair is weakened?"
Erin nodded. "And it's not just the hair that can be affected.
People with Netherton's Syndrome may have skin disorders
as well. Rashes and flaking."
"We're looking for a perp with a bad case of dandruff?"
said Rizzoli.
"It may be even more obvious than that. Some of these
patients have a severe form known as icthyosis. Their skin
can be so dry it looks like the hide of an alligator."
Rizzoli laughed. "So we're looking for reptile man! That
should narrow down the search."
"Not necessarily. It's summertime."

"What does that have to do with it?"
"This heat and humidity improves skin dryness. He may
look entirely normal this time of year."
Rizzoli and Moore glanced at each other, simultaneously
struck by the same thought.
Both victims were slaughtered during the summertime.
"As long as this heat holds up," said Erin, "he probably
blends right in with everyone else."
"It's only July," said Rizzoli.
Moore nodded. "His hunting season's just begun."
*     *   *
John Doe now had a name. The E.R. nurses had found an ID
tag attached to his key ring. He was Herman Gwadowski, and
he was sixty-nine years old.
Catherine stood in her patient's SICU cubicle, methodically
surveying the monitors and equipment arrayed around his
bed. A normal EKG rhythm blipped across the oscilloscope.
The arterial waves spiked at 110/70, and the readings from
his central venous pressure line rose and fell like swells on a
windblown sea. Judging by the numbers, Mr. Gwadowski's
operation was a success.

But he's not waking up, thought Catherine as she flashed
her penlight into the left pupil, then the right. Nearly eight hours
after surgery, he remained in a deep coma.
She straightened and watched his chest rise and fall with
the cycling of the ventilator. She had stopped him from
bleeding to death. But what had she really saved? A body with
a beating heart and no functioning brain.
She heard tapping on the glass. Through the cubicle
window she saw her surgical partner, Dr. Peter Falco, waving
to her, a concerned expression on his usually cheerful face.
Some surgeons are known to throw temper tantrums in the
O.R. Some sweep arrogantly into the operating suite and don
their surgical gowns the way one dons royal robes. Some are
coldly efficient technicians for whom patients are merely a
bundle of mechanical parts in need of repair.
And then there was Peter. Funny, exuberant Peter, who
sang earsplittingly off-key Elvis songs in the O.R., who
organized paper airplane contests in the office and happily
got down on his hands and knees to play Legos with his
pediatric patients. She was accustomed to seeing a smile on
Peter's face. When she saw him frowning at her through the
window, she immediately stepped out of her patient's cubicle.
"Everything all right?" he asked.

"Just finishing rounds."
Peter eyed the tubes and machinery bristling around Mr.
Gwadowski's bed. "I heard you made a great save. A twelve-
unit bleeder."
"I don't know if you'd call it a save." Her gaze returned to her
patient. "Everything works but the gray matter."
They said nothing for a moment, both of them watching Mr.
Gwadowski's chest rise and fall.
"Helen told me two policemen came by to see you today,"
said Peter. "What's going on?"
"It wasn't important."
"Forgot to pay those parking tickets?"
She forced a laugh. "Right, and I'm counting on you to bail
me out."
They left the SICU and walked into the hallway, lanky Peter
striding beside her in that easy lope of his. As they rode the
elevator, he asked:
"You okay, Catherine?"
"Why? Don't I look okay?"
"Honestly?" He studied her face, his blue eyes so direct she

felt invaded. "You look like you need a glass of wine and a
nice dinner out. How about joining me?"
"A tempting invitation."
"But?"
"But I think I'll stay in for the night."
Peter clutched his chest, as though mortally wounded. "Shot
down again! Tell me, is there any line that works on you?"
She smiled. "That's for you to find out."
"How about this one? A little bird told me it's your birthday
on Saturday. Let me take you up in my plane."
"Can't. I'm on call that day."
"You can switch with Ames. I'll talk to him."
"Oh, Peter. You know I don't like to fly."
"Don't tell me you have phobias about flying?"
"I'm just not good at relinquishing control."
He nodded gravely. "Classic surgical personality."
"That's a nice way of saying I'm uptight."

"So it's a no-go on the flying date? I can't change your
mind?"
"I don't think so."
He sighed. "Well, that's it for my lines. I've gone through my
entire repertoire."
"I know. You're starting to recycle them."
"That's what Helen says, too."
She shot him a look of surprise. "Helen's giving you tips on
how to ask me out?"
"She said she couldn't stand the pathetic spectacle of a
man banging his head against an impregnable wall."
They both laughed as they stepped off the elevator and
walked to their suite. It was the comfortable laugh of two
colleagues who knew this game was all tongue-in-cheek.
Keeping it on that level meant no feelings were hurt, no
emotions were at stake. A safe little flirtation that kept them
both insulated from real entanglements. Playfully he'd ask her
out; just as playfully she'd turn him down, and the whole office
was in on the joke.
It was already five-thirty, and their staff was gone for the day.
Peter retreated to his office and she went into hers to hang up
her lab coat and get her purse. As she put the coat on the