The Surgeon Read Free Page B

an hour. Elena Ortiz
was conscious for at least part of that time. The skin on her
wrists and ankles was chafed, indicating she had struggled. In
her panic, her agony, she had emptied her bladder, and urine
had soaked into the mattress, mingling with her blood. The
operation was a delicate one, and he took the time to do it
right, to take only what he wanted, nothing more.
He did not rape her; perhaps he was incapable of doing so.
When he'd finished his terrible excision, she was still alive.
The pelvic wound continued to bleed, the heart to pump. How
long? Dr. Tierney had guessed at least half an hour. Thirty
minutes, which must have seemed an eternity to Elena Ortiz.

What were you doing during that time? Putting your tools
away? Packing your prize in a jar? Or did you merely stand
here, enjoying the view?
The final act was swift and businesslike. Elena Ortiz's
tormentor had taken what he wanted, and now it was time to
finish things. He'd moved to the head of the bed. With his left
hand he'd grasped a handful of her hair, yanking backward so
hard he tore out more than two dozen strands. These were
found later, scattered on the pillow and floor. The bloodstains
shrieked out the final events. With her head immobilized and
the neck fully exposed, he'd made a single deep slash starting
at the left jaw and moving rightward, across the throat. He had
severed the left carotid artery and the trachea. Blood spurted.
On the wall to the left of the bed were dense clusters of small
circular drops flowing downward, characteristic of arterial
spray as well as exhalation of blood from the trachea. The
pillow and sheets were saturated from downward dripping.
Several cast-off droplets, thrown off as the intruder swung
away the blade, had spattered the windowsill.
Elena Ortiz had lived long enough to see her own blood
spurt from her neck and hit the wall in a machine-gun spray of
red. She had lived long enough to aspirate blood into her
severed trachea, to hear it gurgle in her lungs, to cough it out
in explosive bursts of crimson phlegm.
She had lived long enough to know she was dying.

And when it was done, when her agonal struggles had
ceased, you left us a calling card. You neatly folded the
victim's nightshirt, and you left it on the dresser. Why? Is it
some twisted sign of respect for the woman you've just
slaughtered? Or is it your way of mocking us? Your way of
telling us that you are in control?
Moore returned to the living room and sank into an
armchair. It was hot and airless in the apartment, but he was
shivering. He didn't know if the chill was physical or emotional.
His thighs and shoulders ached, so maybe it was just a virus
coming on. A summer flu, the worst kind. He thought of all the
places he'd rather be at that moment. Adrift on a Maine lake,
his fishing line whicking through the air. Or standing at the
seashore, watching the fog roll in. Anywhere but this place of
death.
The chirp of his beeper startled him. He shut it off and
realized his heart was pounding. He made himself calm down
first before he took out the cell phone and punched in the
number.
"Rizzoli," she answered on the first ring, her greeting as
direct as a bullet.
"You paged me."
"You never told me you got a hit on VICAP," she said.
"What hit?"
"On Diana Sterling. I'm looking at her murder book now."
VICAP, the Violent Criminals Apprehension Program, was
a national database of homicide and assault information
gathered from cases across the country. Killers often
repeated the same patterns, and with this data investigators
could link crimes committed by the same perpetrator. As a
matter of routine, Moore and his partner at the time, Rusty
Stivack, had initiated a search on VICAP.
"We turned up no matches in New England," said Moore.
"We ran down every homicide involving mutilation, night entry,
and duct tape bindings. Nothing fit Sterling's profile."
"What about the series in Georgia? Three years ago, four
victims. One in Atlanta, three in