The Surgeon (7 page)

Detective Jane Rizzoli was not easily spooked, but Dr.
Zucker gave her the creeps. He looked like a pale and hulking
John Malkovich, and his voice was whispery, almost feminine.
As he spoke, his fingers moved with serpentine elegance. He
was not a cop but a criminal psychologist from Northeastern
University, a consultant for the Boston Police Department.
Rizzoli had worked with him once before on a homicide case,
and he'd given her the creeps then, too. It was not just his
appearance but the way he so thoroughly insinuated himself
into the perp's mind and the obvious pleasure he derived from
wandering in that satanic dimension. He enjoyed the journey.
She could hear that almost subliminal hum of excitement in his
voice.
She glanced around the conference room at the other four
detectives and wondered if anyone else was spooked by this
weirdo, but all she saw was tired expressions and varying
shades of five o'clock shadows.
They were all tired. She herself had slept scarcely four
hours last night. This morning she'd awakened in the dark pre-
dawn, her mind zooming straight into fourth gear as it
processed a kaleidoscope of images and voices. She had
absorbed the Elena Ortiz case so deeply into her
subconscious that in her dreams she and the victim had
engaged in a conversation, albeit a nonsensical one. There
had been no supernatural revelations, no clues from beyond
the grave, merely images generated by the twitches of brain
cells. Still, Rizzoli considered the dream significant. It told her

just how much this case meant to her. Being lead detective on
a high-profile investigation was like walking the high wire
without a net. Nail the perp, and everyone applauded. Screw
up, and the whole world watched you splat.
This was now a high-profile case. Two days ago, the
headline hit the front page of the local tabloid: "The Surgeon
Cuts Again." Thanks to the Boston Herald, their unsub had his
own moniker, and even the cops were using it. The Surgeon.
God, she'd been ready to take on a high-wire act, ready for
the chance to either soar or crash on her own merits. A week
ago, when she'd walked into Elena Ortiz's apartment as lead
detective, she had known, in an instant, that this was the case
that would make her career, and she was anxious to prove
herself.
How quickly things changed.
Within a day, her case had ballooned into a much wider
investigation, led by the unit's Lieutenant Marquette. The
Elena Ortiz case had been folded into the Diana Sterling
case, and the team had grown to five detectives, in addition to
Marquette: Rizzoli and her partner, Barry Frost; Moore and his
heavyset partner, Jerry Sleeper; plus a fifth detective, Darren
Crowe. Rizzoli was the only woman on the team; indeed, she
was the only woman in the entire homicide unit, and some
men never let her forget it. Oh, she got along fine with Barry
Frost, despite his irritatingly sunny disposition. Jerry Sleeper

was too phlegmatic to get anybody pissed off at him or to be
pissed off at anyone else. And as for Moore--well, despite
her initial reservations, she was actually beginning to like him
and truly respect him for his quietly methodical work. Most
important, he seemed to respect her. Whenever she spoke,
she knew that Moore listened.
No, it was the fifth cop on the team, Darren Crowe, she had
issues with. Major issues. He sat across the table from her
now, his tanned face wearing its usual smirk. She'd grown up
with boys like him. Boys with lots of muscle, lots of girlfriends.
Lots of ego.
She and Crowe despised each other.
A stack of papers came around the table. Rizzoli took a
copy and saw it was a criminal profile that Dr. Zucker had just
completed.
"I know some of you think my work is hocus-pocus," said
Zucker. "So let me explain my reasoning. We know the
following things about our unknown subject. He enters the
victim's residence through an open window. He does this in
the early morning hours, sometime between midnight and two
A.M. He surprises the victim in her bed. Immediately
incapacitates her with chloroform. He removes her clothes. He
restrains her by binding her to the bed using duct tape around
her wrists and ankles. He reinforces that with strips across her
upper thighs and mid-torso. Finally, he tapes her mouth shut.
Utter control is what he achieves. When the victim awakens

Utter control is what he achieves. When the victim awakens
shortly thereafter, she cannot move, cannot scream. It's as
though she's paralyzed, yet she's awake and aware of
everything that happens next.
"And what happens next is surely anyone's worst
nightmare." Zucker's voice had faded to a monotone. The
more grotesque the details, the softer he spoke, and they
were all leaning forward, hanging on his words.
"The unsub begins to cut," said Zucker. "According to the
autopsy report, he takes his time. He is meticulous. He slices
through the lower abdomen, layer by layer. First the skin, then
the subcutaneous layer, the fascia, the muscle. He uses suture
to control the bleeding. He identifies and removes only the
organ he wants. Nothing more. And what he wants is the
womb."
Zucker looked around the table, taking note of their
reactions. His gaze fell on Rizzoli, the only cop in the room
who possessed the organ of which they spoke. She stared
back, resentful that her gender had caused him to focus on
her.
"What does that tell us about him, Detective Rizzoli?" he
asked.
"He hates women," she said. "He cuts out the one thing that
makes them women."
Zucker nodded, and his smile made her shudder. "It's what

Jack the Ripper did to Annie Chapman. By taking the womb,
he defeminizes his victim. He steals her power. He ignores
their jewelry, their money. He wants just one thing, and once
he's harvested his souvenir, he can proceed to the finale. But
first, there is a pause before the ultimate thrill. The autopsy on
both victims indicates that he stops at this point. Perhaps an
hour passes, as the victims continue to bleed slowly. A pool of
blood collects in their wound. What is he doing during that
time?"
"Enjoying himself," said Moore softly.
"You mean, like jerking off?" said Darren Crowe, posing the
question with his usual crudeness.
"There was no ejaculate left at either crime scene," pointed
out Rizzoli.
Crowe tossed her an aren't you smart look. "The absence
o f e-jac-u-late," he said, sarcastically emphasizing every
syllable, "doesn't rule out jerking off."
"I don't believe he was masturbating," said Zucker. "This
particular unsub would not relinquish that much control in an
unfamiliar environment. I think he waits until he's in a safe
place to achieve sexual release. Everything about the crime
scene screams control. When he proceeds to the final act, he
does it with confidence and authority. He cuts the victim's
throat with a single deep slash. And then he performs one last
ritual."

ritual."
Zucker reached into his briefcase and took out two crime
scene photos, which he laid on the table. One was of Diana
Sterling's bedroom, the other of Elena Ortiz's.
"He meticulously folds their nightclothes and places them
near the body. We know the folding was done after the
slaughter, because blood splatters were found on the inside
folds."
"Why does he do that?" asked Frost. "What's the
symbolism there?"
"Control again," said Rizzoli.
Zucker nodded. "That's certainly part of it. By this ritual, he
demonstrates he's in control of the scene. But at the same
time, the ritual controls him. It's an impulse he may not be able
to resist."
"What if he's prevented from doing it?" asked Frost. "Say
he's interrupted and can't complete it?"
"It will leave him frustrated and angry. He may feel
compelled to immediately start hunting for the next victim. But
so far, he's always managed to complete the ritual. And each
killing has been satisfying enough to tide him over for long
periods of time." Zucker looked around the room. "This is the
worst kind of unsub we can face. He went a whole year
between attacks--that's extremely rare. It means he can go

months between hunts. We could run ourselves ragged
looking for him, while he sits patiently waiting for the next kill.
He is careful. He is organized. He will leave few, if any, clues
behind." He glanced at Moore, seeking confirmation.
"We have no fingerprints, no DNA, at either crime scene,"
Moore said. "All we have is a single strand of hair, collected
from Ortiz's wound. And a few dark polyester fibers from the
window frame."
"I take it you've found no witnesses, either."
"We had thirteen hundred interviews on the Sterling case.
One hundred eighty interviews so far on the Ortiz case. No
one saw the intruder. No one was aware of any stalker."
"But we have had three confessions," said Crowe. "They all
walked in off the street. We took their statements and sent
them on their way." He laughed. "Wackos."
"This unsub is not insane," said Zucker. "I would guess he
appears perfectly normal. I believe he's a white male in his
late twenties or early thirties. Neatly groomed, of above-
average intelligence. He is almost certainly a high school
graduate, perhaps with a college education or even more. The
two crime scenes are over a mile apart, and the murders were
committed at a time of day when there was little public
transportation running. So he drives a car. It will be neat and
well maintained. He probably has no history of mental health
problems, but he may have a juvenile record of burglary or

voyeurism. If he's employed, it will be a job that requires both
intelligence and meticulousness. We know he is a planner, as
demonstrated by the fact he carries his murder kit with him
--scalpel, suture, duct tape, chloroform. Plus a container of
some kind in which to bring his souvenir home. It could be as
simple as a Ziploc bag. He works in a field that requires
attention to detail. Since he obviously has anatomical
knowledge, and surgical skills, we could be dealing with a
medical professional."
Rizzoli met Moore's gaze, both struck by the same thought:
There were probably more doctors per capita in the city of
Boston than anywhere else in the world.
"Because he is intelligent," said Zucker, "he knows we're
staking out the crime scenes. And he will resist the temptation
to return. But the temptation is there, so it's worth continuing
the stakeout of Ortiz's residence, at least for the near future.
"He is also intelligent enough to avoid choosing a victim in
his immediate neighborhood. He's what we call a `commuter,'
rather than a `marauder.' He goes outside his neighborhood
to hunt. Until we have more data points to work with, I can't
really do a geographical profile. I can't pinpoint which areas of
the city you should focus on."
"How many data points do you need?" asked Rizzoli.
"A minimum of five."

"Meaning, we need five murders?"
"The criminal geographic targeting program I use requires
five to have any validity. I've run the CGT program with as few
as four data points, and sometimes you can get an offender
residence prediction with that, but it's not accurate. We need
to know more about his movements. What his activity space
is, where his anchor points are. Every killer works inside a
certain comfort zone. They're like carnivores hunting. They
have their territory, their fishing holes, where they find their
prey." Zucker looked around the table at the detectives'
unimpressed faces. "We don't know enough about this unsub
yet to make any predictions. So we need to focus on the
victims. Who they were, and why he chose them."
Zucker reached into his briefcase and took out two folders,
one labeled Sterling, the other Ortiz. He produced a dozen
photographs, which he spread out on the table. Images of the
two women when they were alive, some dating all the way
back to childhood.
"You haven't seen some of these photos. I asked their
families to provide them, just to give us a sense of the history
of these women. Look at their faces. Study who they were as
people. Why did the unsub choose them? Where did he see
them? What was it about them that caught his eye? A laugh?
A smile? The way they walked down a city street?"
He began to read from a typewritten sheet.

"Diana Sterling, thirty years old. Blond hair, blue eyes. Five
foot seven, one hundred twenty-five pounds. Occupation:
travel agent. Workplace: Newbury Street. Residence:
Marlborough Street in the Back Bay. A graduate of Smith
College. Her parents are both attorneys, who live in a two-
million-dollar home in Connecticut. Boyfriends: none at the
time of her death."
He put that sheet of paper down, picked up another.
"Elena Ortiz, twenty-two years old. Hispanic. Black hair,
brown eyes. Five foot two, one hundred four pounds.
Occupation: retail clerk in her family's floral business in the
South End. Residence: an apartment in the South End.
Education: high school graduate. Has lived all her life in
Boston. Boyfriends: none at the time of her death."
He looked up. "Two women who lived in the same city but
moved in different universes. They shopped at different
stores, ate at different restaurants, and had no friends in
common. How does our unsub find them? Where does he find
them? Not only are they different from each other; they're
different from the usual sex crime victim. Most perps attack
the vulnerable members of society. Prostitutes or hitchhikers.
Like any hunting carnivore, they stalk the animal who's at the
edge of the herd. So why choose these two?" Zucker shook
his head. "I don't know."
Rizzoli looked at the photos on the table, and an image of

Diana Sterling caught her eye. It showed a beaming young
woman, the brand-new Smith College grad in her cap and
gown. The golden girl. What would it be like to be a golden
girl? Rizzoli wondered. She had no idea. She'd grown up the
scorned sister of two strappingly handsome brothers, the
desperate little tomboy who only wanted to be one of the
gang. Surely Diana Sterling, with her aristocratic cheekbones
and her swan neck, had never known what it was like to be
shut out, excluded. She'd never known what it was like to be
ignored.
Rizzoli's gaze paused on the gold pendant dangling around
Diana's throat. She picked up the photo and took a closer
look. Pulse accelerating, she glanced around the room to see
if any of the other cops had registered what she had just
noticed, but no one was looking at her or the photos; they
were focused on Dr. Zucker.
He had unfurled a map of Boston. Overlaid on the grid of
city streets were two shaded areas, one encompassing the
Back Bay, the other limited to the South End.
"These are the known activity spaces for our two victims.
The neighborhoods they lived in and worked in. All of us tend
to conduct our day-to-day lives in familiar areas. There's a
saying among geographic profilers: Where we go depends
upon what we know and what we know depends on where we
,
go. This is true for both victims and perps. You can see, from
this map, the separate worlds in which these two women lived.