Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

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.