The Surgeon

Seven

It’s pulsating,” said the nurse.

Catherine stared, dry-mouthed with horror, at the man lying on the trauma table. A foot-long iron rod protruded straight up from his chest. One medical student had already fainted at the sight, and the three nurses stood with mouths agape. The rod was embedded deep in the man’s chest, and it was pulsing up and down in rhythm with his heartbeat.

“What’s our BP?” Catherine said.

Her voice seemed to snap everyone into action mode. The blood pressure cuff whiffed up, sighed down again.

“Seventy over forty. Pulse is up to one-fifty!”

“Turning both IV’s wide open!”

“Breaking open the thoracotomy tray—”

“Somebody get Dr. Falco down here STAT. I’m going to need help.” Catherine slipped into a sterile gown and pulled on gloves. Her palms were already slippery with sweat. The fact the rod was pulsing told her the tip had penetrated close to the heart — or, even worse, was actually embedded in it. The worst thing she could do was pull it out. It might open a hole through which he could exsanguinate in minutes.

The EMT’s at the scene had made the right decision: they had started an IV, intubated the victim, and brought him to the E.R. with the rod still in place. The rest was up to her.

She was just reaching for the scalpel when the door swung open. She looked up and gave a sigh of relief as Peter Falco walked in. He halted, his gaze taking in the patient’s chest, with the rod protruding like a stake through a vampire’s heart.

“Now that’s something you don’t see every day,” he said.

“BP’s bottoming out!” a nurse called.

“There’s no time for bypass. I’m going in,” said Catherine.

“I’ll be right with you.” Peter turned and said, in an almost casual tone, “Can I have a gown, please?”

Catherine swiftly opened an anterolateral incision, which would allow the best exposure to the vital organs of the thoracic cavity. She was feeling calmer, now that Peter had arrived. It was more than just having the extra pair of skilled hands; it was Peter himself. The way he could walk into a room and size up the situation with just a glance. The fact he never raised his voice in the O.R., never showed a hint of panic. He had five years’ more experience than she did on the front lines of trauma surgery, and it was with horrifying cases like this one where his experience showed.

He took his place across the table from Catherine, his blue eyes zeroing in on the incision. “Okeydoke. We having fun yet?”

“Barrel of laughs.”

He got right down to business, his hands working in concert with hers as they tore into the chest with almost brutal force. He and Catherine had operated as a team so many times before, each automatically knew what the other one needed and could anticipate moves ahead of time.

“Story on this?” asked Peter. Blood spurted, and he calmly snapped a hemostat over the bleeder.

“Construction worker. Tripped and fell on the site and got himself skewered.”

“That’ll ruin your day. Burford retractor, please.”

“Burford.”

“How we doing on blood?”

“Waiting on the O neg,” a nurse answered.

“Is Dr. Murata in-house?”

“His bypass team’s on its way in.”

“So we just need to buy a little time here. What’s our rhythm?”

“Sinus tach, one-fifty. A few PVC’s—”

“Systolic’s down to fifty!”

Catherine shot a glance at Peter. “We’re not going to make it to bypass,” she said.

“Then let’s just see what we can do here.”

There was sudden silence as he stared into the incision.

“Oh god,” said Catherine. “It’s in the atrium.”

The tip of the rod had pierced the wall of the heart, and with every beat fresh blood squirted out around the edge of the puncture site. A deep pool of it had already collected in the thoracic cavity.

“We pull it out, we’re going to have a real gusher,” said Peter.

“He’s already bleeding out around it.”

The nurse said, “Systolic’s barely palpable!”

“Ho-kay,” said Peter. No panic in his voice. No sign of any fear whatsoever. He said to one of the nurses, “Can you hunt me down a sixteen French Foley catheter with a thirty cc balloon?”

“Uh, Dr. Falco? Did you say a Foley?”

“Yep. A urinary catheter.”

“And we’ll need a syringe with ten cc’s of saline,” said Catherine. “Stand by to push it.” She and Peter didn’t have to explain a thing to each other; they both understood what the plan was.

The Foley catheter, a tube designed for insertion into a bladder to drain urine, was handed to Peter. They were about to put it to a use for which it was never intended.

He looked at Catherine. “You ready?”

“Let’s do it.”

Her pulse was throbbing as she watched Peter grasp the iron rod. Saw him gently pull it out of the heart wall. As it emerged, blood exploded from the puncture site. Instantly Catherine thrust the tip of the urinary catheter into the hole.

“Inflate the balloon!” said Peter.

The nurse pressed down the syringe, injecting ten cc’s of saline into the balloon at the tip of the Foley.

Peter pulled back on the catheter, jamming the balloon against the inside of the atrium wall. The gush of blood cut off. Barely a trickle oozed out.

“Vitals?” called out Catherine.

“Systolic’s still at fifty. The O neg’s here. We’re hanging it now.”

Heart still pounding, Catherine looked at Peter and saw him wink at her through his protective goggles.

“Wasn’t that fun?” he said. He reached for the clamp with the cardiac needle. “You want to do the honors?”

“You bet.”

He handed her the needle holder. She would sew together the edges of the puncture, then pull out the Foley before she closed off the hole entirely. With every deep stitch she took, she felt Peter’s approving gaze. Felt her face flush with the glow of success. Already she felt it in her bones: This patient would live.

“Great way to start the day, isn’t it?” he said. “Ripping open chests.”

“This is one birthday I’ll never forget.”

“My offer’s still on for tonight. How about it?”

“I’m on call.”

“I’ll get Ames to cover for you. C’mon. Dinner and dancing.”

“I thought the offer was for a ride in your plane.”

“Whatever you want. Hell, let’s do peanut butter sandwiches. I’ll bring the Skippy.”

“Ha! I always knew you were a big spender.”

“Catherine, I’m serious.”

Hearing the change in his voice, she looked up and met his steady gaze. Suddenly she noticed that the room had hushed and that everyone else was listening, waiting to find out if the unattainable Dr. Cordell would finally succumb to Dr. Falco’s charms.

She took another stitch as she thought about how much she liked Peter as a colleague, how much she respected him and he respected her. She didn’t want that to change. She didn’t want to endanger that precious relationship with an ill-fated step toward intimacy.

But oh, how she missed the days when she could enjoy a night out! When an evening was something to look forward to, not dread.

The room was still silent. Waiting.

At last she looked up at him.”Pick me up at eight.”

Catherine poured a glass of merlot and stood by the window, sipping wine as she gazed out at the night. She could hear laughter and could see people strolling below on Commonwealth Avenue. Fashionable Newbury Street was only one block away, and on a Friday night in summer this Back Bay neighborhood was a magnet for tourists. Catherine had chosen to live in the Back Bay for just that reason; she took comfort in knowing that other people were around, even if they were strangers. The sound of music and laughter meant she was not alone, not isolated.

Yet here she was, behind her sealed window, drinking her solitary glass of wine, trying to convince herself that she was ready to join that world out there.

A world Andrew Capra stole from me.

She pressed her hand to the window, fingers arched against the glass, as though to shatter her way out of this sterile prison.

Recklessly she drained her wine and set the glass down on the windowsill. I will not stay a victim, she thought. I won’t let him win.

She went into her bedroom and surveyed the clothes in her closet. She pulled a green silk dress from her closet and zipped herself into it. How long had it been since she’d worn this dress? She couldn’t remember.

From the other room came a cheery: “You’ve got mail!” announcement over her computer. She ignored the message and went into the bathroom to put on makeup. War paint, she thought as she brushed on mascara, dabbed on lipstick. A mask of courage, to help her face the world. With every stroke of the makeup brush, she was painting on confidence. In the mirror she saw a woman she scarcely recognized. A woman she had not seen in two years.

“Welcome back,” she murmured, and smiled.

She turned off the bathroom light and walked out to the living room, her feet reacquainting themselves with the torment of high heels. Peter was late; it was already eight-fifteen. She remembered the “You’ve got mail” announcement she’d heard from the bedroom and went to her computer to click on the mailbox icon.

There was one message from a sender named SavvyDoc, with the subject heading: “Lab Report.” She opened the e-mail.

Dr. Cordell,

Attached are pathology photos which will interest you.

It was unsigned.

She moved the arrow to the “download file” icon, then hesitated, her finger poised on the mouse. She did not recognize the sender, SavvyDoc, and normally she would not download a file from a stranger. But this message was clearly related to her work, and it had addressed her by name.

She clicked “download.”

A color photograph materialized on the screen.

With a gasp, she jerked from her seat as though scalded, and the chair toppled to the floor. She stumbled backward, hand clasped over her mouth.

Then she ran for the phone.

Thomas Moore stood in her doorway, his gaze tight on her face. “Is the photo still on the screen?”

“I haven’t touched it.”

She stepped aside and he walked in, all business, always the policeman. He focused at once on the man who was standing beside the computer.

“This is Dr. Peter Falco,” said Catherine. “My partner in the practice.”

“Dr. Falco,” said Moore, as the two men shook hands.

“Catherine and I were planning to go out for dinner tonight,” said Peter. “I was held up at the hospital. Got here just before you did, and…” He paused and looked at Catherine. “I take it dinner’s off?”

She answered with a sickly nod.

Moore sat down at the computer. The screen saver had activated and bright tropical fish swam across the monitor. He nudged the mouse.

The downloaded photograph appeared.

At once Catherine turned away and went to the window, where she stood hugging herself, trying to block out the image she’d just seen on the monitor. She could hear Moore tapping on the keyboard behind her. Heard him make a phone call and say, “I’ve just forwarded the file. Got it?” The darkness below her window had fallen strangely silent. Is it already so late? she wondered. Looking down at the deserted street, she could scarcely believe that only an hour ago she’d been ready to step out into that night and rejoin the world.

Now she wanted only to bolt the doors and hide.

Peter said, “Who the hell would send you something like this? It’s sick.”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” she said.

“Have you gotten stuff like this before?”

“No.”

“Then why are the police involved?”

“Please stop, Peter. I don’t want to discuss it!”

A pause. “You mean you don’t want to discuss it with me.”

“Not now. Not tonight.”

“But you will talk about it with the police?”

“Dr. Falco,” said Moore, “it really would be better if you left now.”

“Catherine? What do you want?”

She heard the hurt in his voice, but she did not turn to look at him. “I’d like you to go. Please.”

He didn’t answer. Only when the door closed did she know Peter had left.

A long silence passed.

“You haven’t told him about Savannah?” asked Moore.

“No. I could never bring myself to tell him.” Rape is a subject too intimate, too shameful, to talk about. Even with someone who cares about you.

She asked: “Who is the woman in the picture?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know who sent it, either.”

The chair creaked as he stood up. She felt his hand on her shoulder, his warmth penetrating the green silk. She had not changed clothes and was still dressed up, glossied up for the evening. The whole idea of stepping out on the town now struck her as pitiful. What had she been thinking? That she could go back to being like everyone else? That she could be whole again?

“Catherine,” he said. “You need to talk to me about this photo.”

His fingers tightened on her shoulder, and she was suddenly aware that he’d called her by her first name. He was standing close enough for her to feel his breath warm her hair, yet she did not feel threatened. Any other man’s touch would have seemed like an invasion, but Moore’s was genuinely comforting.

She nodded. “I’ll try.”

He pulled up another chair and they both sat down in front of the computer. She forced herself to focus on the photograph.

The woman had curly hair, splayed out like corkscrews on the pillow. Her lips were sealed beneath a silvery strip of duct tape, but her eyes were open and aware, the retinas reflecting bloodred in the camera’s flash. The photograph showed her from the waist up. She was bound to the bed, and she was nude.

“Do you recognize her?” he asked.

“No.”

“Is there anything about this photo that strikes you as familiar? The room, the furniture?”

“No. But…”

“What?”

“He did it to me, too,” she whispered. “Andrew Capra took photos of me. Tied to my bed…” She swallowed, humiliation washing over her, as though it were her own body so intimately exposed to Moore’s gaze. She found herself crossing her arms over her chest, to shield her breasts from further violation.

“This file was transmitted at seven fifty-five P.M. And the sender’s name, SavvyDoc — do you recognize it?”

“No.” She focused again on the woman, who stared back with bright red pupils. “She’s awake. She knows what he’s about to do. He waits for that. He wants you to be awake, to feel the pain. You have to be awake, or he won’t enjoy it….” Although she was talking about Andrew Capra, she had somehow slipped into the present tense, as though Capra were still alive.

“How would he know your e-mail address?”

“I don’t even know who he is.”

“He sent this to you, Catherine. He knows what happened to you in Savannah. Is there anyone you can think of who might do this?”

Only one, she thought. But he’s dead. Andrew Capra is dead.

Moore’s cell phone rang. She almost jumped out of her chair. “Jesus,” she said, her heart pounding, and sank back again.

He flipped open the phone. “Yes, I’m with her now….” He listened for a moment and suddenly looked at Catherine. The way he was staring alarmed her.

“What is it?” asked Catherine.

“It’s Detective Rizzoli. She says she traced the source of the e-mail.”

“Who sent it?”

“You did.”

He might as well have slapped her in the face. She could only shake her head, too shocked to respond.

“The name ‘SavvyDoc’ was created this evening, using your America Online account,” he said.

“But I keep two separate accounts. One is for my personal use—”

“And the other?”

“For my office staff, to use during…” She paused. “The office. He used the computer in my office.”

Moore lifted the cell phone to his ear. “You got that, Rizzoli?” A pause, then: “We’ll meet you there.”

Detective Rizzoli was waiting for them right outside Catherine’s medical suite. A small group had already gathered in the hallway — a building security guard, two police officers, and several men in plainclothes. Detectives, Catherine assumed.

“We’ve searched the office,” said Rizzoli. “He’s long gone.”

“Then he was definitely here?” said Moore.

“Both computers are turned on. The name SavvyDoc is still on the America Online sign-on screen.”

“How did he gain entry?”

“The door doesn’t appear to be forced. There’s a housekeeping service under contract to clean these offices, so there are a number of passkeys floating around. Plus there are the employees who work in this suite.”

“We have a billing clerk, a receptionist, and two clinic assistants,” said Catherine.

“And there’s you and Dr. Falco.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that makes six more keys that could’ve been lost or borrowed,” was Rizzoli’s brusque reaction. Catherine did not care for this woman, and she wondered if the feeling was mutual.

Rizzoli gestured toward the suite. “Okay, let’s take you through the rooms, Dr. Cordell, and see if anything’s missing. Just don’t touch anything, okay? Not the door, not the computers. We’ll be dusting them for prints.”

Catherine looked at Moore, who placed a reassuring arm around her shoulder. They stepped into her suite.

She spared only a brief glance around the patient waiting room, then went into the receptionist’s area, where the office staff worked. The billing computer was on. The A drive was empty; the intruder had not left any floppy disks behind.

With a pen, Moore tapped the computer mouse to inactivate the screen saver, and the AOL sign-on window appeared. “SavvyDoc” was still in the “selected name” box.

“Does anything in this room look different to you?” asked Rizzoli.

Catherine shook her head.

“Okay. Let’s go in your office.”

Her heart was pounding faster as she walked up the hallway, past the two exam rooms. She stepped into her office. Instantly her gaze shot to the ceiling. With a gasp, she jerked backward, almost colliding with Moore. He caught her in his arms and held her steady.

“That’s where we found it,” said Rizzoli, pointing to the stethoscope dangling from the overhead light. “Just hanging there. I take it that’s not where you left it.”

Catherine shook her head. She said, her voice muted by shock: “He’s been in here before.”

Rizzoli’s gaze sharpened on hers. “When?”

“The last few days. I’ve been finding things missing. Or moved around.”

“What things?”

“The stethoscope. My lab coat.”

“Look around the room,” said Moore, gently coaxing her forward. “Has anything else changed?”

She scanned the bookshelves, the desk, the filing cabinet. This was her private space, and she’d organized every inch of it. She knew where things should be and where they should not be.

“The computer’s on,” she said. “I always turn it off when I leave for the day.”

Rizzoli tapped on the mouse, and the AOL screen appeared, with Catherine’s screen name, “CCord,” in the sign-on box.

“This is how he got your e-mail address,” said Rizzoli. “All he had to do was turn on your computer.”

She stared at the keyboard. You typed on these keys. You sat in my chair.

Moore’s voice gave her a start.

“Is anything missing?” he asked. “It’s likely to be something small, something very personal.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s his pattern.”

So it had happened to the other women, she thought. The other victims.

“It might be something you’d wear,” said Moore. “Something you alone would use. A piece of jewelry. A comb, a key chain.”

“Oh god.” Immediately she reached down to yank open the top desk drawer.

“Hey!” said Rizzoli. “I said not to touch anything.”

But Catherine was already thrusting her hand into the drawer, frantically searching among the pens and pencils. “It’s not here.”

“What isn’t?”

“I keep a spare key ring in my desk.”

“Which keys are on it?”

“An extra key to my car. To my hospital locker…” She paused, and her throat was suddenly dry. “If he’s been in my locker during the day, then he’s had access to my purse.” She looked up at Moore. “To my house keys.”

The techs were already dusting for prints when Moore returned to the medical suite.

“Tucked her in bed, did you?” said Rizzoli.

“She’s going to sleep in the E.R. call room. I don’t want her going home until it’s secure.”

“You gonna personally change all her locks?”

He frowned, reading her expression. Not liking what he saw there. “You have a problem?”

“She’s a nice-looking woman.”

I know where this is headed, he thought, and gave a tired sigh.

“A little damaged. A little vulnerable,” said Rizzoli. “Jeez, it makes a guy want to rush right in and protect her.”

“Isn’t that our job?”

“Is that all it is, a job?”

“I’m not going to talk about this,” he said, and walked out of the suite.

Rizzoli followed him into the hallway like a bulldog snapping at his heels. “She’s at the center of this case, Moore. We don’t know if she’s being straight with us. Please don’t tell me you’re getting involved with her.”

“I’m not involved.”

“I’m not blind.”

“What do you see, exactly?”

“I see the way you look at her. I see the way she looks at you. I see a cop who’s losing his objectivity.” She paused. “A cop who’s going to get hurt.”

Had she raised her voice, had she said it with hostility, he might have responded in kind. But she had said those last words quietly, and he could not muster the necessary outrage to fight back.

“I wouldn’t say this to just anyone,” said Rizzoli. “But I think you’re one of the good guys. If you were Crowe, or some other asshole, I’d say sure, go get your heart reamed out, I don’t give a shit. But I don’t want to see it happen to you.”

They regarded each other for a moment. And Moore felt a twinge of shame that he could not look past Rizzoli’s plainness. No matter how much he admired her quick mind, her unceasing drive to succeed, he would always focus on her utterly average face and her shapeless pantsuits. In some ways he was no better than Darren Crowe, no better than the jerks who stuffed tampons in her water bottle. He did not deserve her admiration.

They heard the sound of a throat being cleared and turned to see the crime scene tech standing in the doorway.

“No prints,” he said. “I dusted both computers. The keyboards, the mice, the disk drives. They’ve all been wiped clean.”

Rizzoli’s cell phone rang. As she flipped it open, she muttered: “What did we expect? We’re not dealing with a moron.”

“What about the doors?” asked Moore.

“There’s a few partials,” said the tech. “But with all the traffic that probably comes in and out of here — patients, staff — we’re not going to be able to ID anything.”

“Hey, Moore,” said Rizzoli, and she clapped her cell phone shut. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Headquarters. Brody says he’s gonna show us the miracle of pixels.”

“I put the image file on the Photoshop program,” said Sean Brody. “The file takes up three megabytes, which means it’s got lots of detail. No fuzzy pics for this perp. He sent a quality image, right down to the victim’s eyelashes.”

Brody was the BPD’s techno-wiz, a pasty-faced youngster of twenty-three who now slouched in front of the computer screen, his hand practically grafted to the mouse. Moore, Rizzoli, Frost, and Crowe stood behind him, all gazing over his shoulder at the monitor. Brody had an irritating laugh, like a jackal’s, and he gave little chortles of delight as he manipulated the image on the screen.

“This is the full-frame photo,” said Brody. “Vic tied to the bed. Awake, eyes open, bad case of red eye from the flash. Looks like duct tape on her mouth. Now see, down here in the left-hand corner of the pic, there’s the edge of the nightstand. You can see an alarm clock sitting on top of two books. Zoom in, and see the time?”

“Two twenty,” said Rizzoli.

“Right. Now the question is, A.M. or P.M.? Let’s go up to the top of the photo, where you see a corner of the window. The curtain’s closed, but you can just make out this little chink here, where the edges of the fabric don’t quite meet. There’s no sunlight coming through. If the time on that clock is correct, this photo was taken at two-twenty A.M.”

“Yeah, but which day?” said Rizzoli. “This could have been last night or last year. Hell, we don’t even know if the Surgeon’s the guy who snapped this pic.”

Brody tossed her an annoyed glance. “I’m not done yet.”

“Okay, what else?”

“Let’s just slide lower down the image. Check out the woman’s right wrist. It’s got duct tape obscuring it. But see that dark little blotch there? What do you suppose that is?” He pointed and clicked, and the detail got larger.

“Still doesn’t look like anything,” said Crowe.

“Okay, we’ll zoom in again.” He clicked once more. The dark lump took on a recognizable shape.

“Jesus,” said Rizzoli. “It looks like a tiny horse. That’s Elena Ortiz’s charm bracelet!”

Brody glanced back at her with a grin. “Am I good or what?”

“It’s him,” said Rizzoli. “It’s the Surgeon.”

Moore said, “Go back to the nightstand.”

Brody clicked back to the full frame and moved the arrow to the lower left corner. “What do you want to look at?”

“We’ve got the clock telling us it’s two-twenty. And then there’s those two books under the clock. Look at their spines. See how that top book jacket reflects light?”

“Yeah.”

“That has a clear plastic cover protecting it.”

“Okay…” said Brody, clearly not understanding where this was headed.

“Zoom in on the top spine,” said Moore. “See if we can read that book title.”

Brody pointed and clicked.

“Looks like two words,” said Rizzoli. “I see the word the.”

Brody clicked again, zooming in closer.

“The second word begins with an S,” said Moore. “And look at this.” He tapped on the screen. “See this little white square here, at the base of the spine?”

“I know what you’re getting at!” Rizzoli said, her voice suddenly excited. “The title. Come on; we need the goddamn title!”

Brody pointed and clicked one last time.

Moore stared at the screen, at the second word on the book’s spine. Abruptly he turned and reached for the telephone.

“What am I missing?” asked Crowe.

“The title of the book is The Sparrow,” said Moore, punching in “O.” “And that little square on the spine — I’m betting that’s a call number.”

“It’s a library book,” said Rizzoli.

A voice came on the line. “Operator.”

“This is Detective Thomas Moore, Boston PD. I need an emergency contact number for the Boston Public Library.”

“Jesuits in space,” said Frost, sitting in the backseat. “That’s what the book’s about.”

They were speeding down Centre Street, Moore at the wheel, emergency lights flashing. Two cruisers were leading the way.

“My wife belongs to this reading group, see,” said Frost. “I remember her talking about The Sparrow.”

“So it’s science fiction?” asked Rizzoli.

“Naw, it’s more like deep religious stuff. What’s the nature of God? That kind of thing.”

“Then I don’t need to read it,” said Rizzoli. “I know all the answers. I’m Catholic.”

Moore glanced at the cross street and said, “We’re close.”

The address they sought was in Jamaica Plain, a west Boston neighborhood tucked between Franklin Park and the bordering town of Brookline. The woman’s name was Nina Peyton. A week ago, she had borrowed a copy of The Sparrow from the library’s Jamaica Plain branch. Of all the patrons in the greater Boston area who had checked out copies of the book, Nina Peyton was the only one who, at 2:00 A.M., was not answering her telephone.

“This is it,” said Moore, as the cruiser just ahead of them turned right onto Eliot Street. He followed suit and, a block later, pulled up behind it.

The cruiser’s dome light shot surreal flashes of blue into the night as Moore, Rizzoli, and Frost stepped through the front gate and approached the house. Inside, one faint light glowed.

Moore shot a look at Frost, who nodded and circled toward the rear of the building.

Rizzoli knocked on the front door and called out: “Police!”

They waited a few seconds.

Again Rizzoli knocked, harder. “Ms. Peyton, this is the police! Open the door!”

There was a three-beat pause. Suddenly Frost’s voice crackled over their com units: “There’s a screen pried off the back window!”

Moore and Rizzoli exchanged glances, and without a word the decision was made.

With the butt of his flashlight, Moore smashed the glass panel next to the front door, reached inside, and slid open the bolt.

Rizzoli was first into the house, moving in a semicrouch, her weapon sweeping an arc. Moore was right behind her, adrenaline pulsing as he registered a quick succession of images. Wood floor. An open closet. Kitchen straight ahead, living room to the right. A single lamp glowing on an end table.

“The bedroom,” said Rizzoli.

“Go.”

They started up the hallway, Rizzoli taking the lead, her head swiveling left and right as they passed a bathroom, a spare bedroom, both empty. The door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar; they could not see past it, into the dark bedroom beyond.

Hands slick on his weapon, heart thudding, Moore edged toward the door. Gave it a nudge with his foot.

The smell of blood, hot and foul, washed over him. He found the light switch and flicked it on. Even before the image hit his retinas, he knew what he would see. Yet he was not fully prepared for the horror.

The woman’s abdomen had been flayed open. Loops of small bowel spilled out of the incision and hung like grotesque streamers over the side of the bed. Blood dribbled from the open neck wound and collected in a spreading pool on the floor.

It took Moore an eternity to process what he was seeing. Only then, as he fully registered the details, did he understand their significance. The blood, still fresh, still dripping. The absence of arterial spray on the wall. The ever-widening pool of dark, almost black blood.

At once he crossed to the body, his shoes tracking straight through the blood.

“Hey!” yelled Rizzoli. “You’re contaminating the scene!”

He pressed his fingers to the intact side of the victim’s neck.

The corpse opened her eyes.

Dear god. She’s still alive.