Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

victim?”
    It was Moore who turned the question on its head. “What if she isn’t just another in a string of prey? What if she’s
always
been the object of his attention? Each of these attacks has been a reenactment of what was done to those women in Georgia. What was almost done to Cordell. We’ve never explained why he imitates Andrew Capra. We’ve never explained why he’s zeroed in on Capra’s only survivor.” He pointed to the list. “These other women, Sterling, Ortiz, Peyton—what if they’re merely placeholders? Surrogates for his primary victim?”
    “The theory of the retaliatory target,” said Zucker. “You can’t kill the woman you really hate because she’s too powerful. Too intimidating. So you kill a substitute, a woman who represents that target.”
    Frost said, “You’re saying his real target’s always been Cordell? But he’s afraid of her?”
    “It’s the same reason Edmund Kemper didn’t kill his mother until the very end of his murder spree,” said Zucker. “
She
was the real target all along, the woman he despised. Instead he vented his rage against other victims. With each attack he symbolically destroyed his mother again and again. He couldn’t actually kill her, not at first, because she wielded too much authority over him. On some level, he was afraid of her. But with each killing he gained confidence. Power. And in the end, he finally achieved his goal. He crushed his mother’s skull, decapitated her, raped her. And as the final insult, he tore out her larynx and shoved it into the garbage disposal. The real target of his rage was finally dead. That’s when his spree ended. That’s when Edmund Kemper turned himself in.”
    Barry Frost, who was usually the first cop to toss his cookies at a crime scene, looked a little queasy at the thought of Kemper’s brutal finale. “So these first three attacks,” he said, “they could be just the warm-up for the main event?”
    Zucker nodded. “The killing of Catherine Cordell.”
     
    It almost hurt Moore to see the smile on Catherine’s face as she walked into the clinic waiting room to greet him, because he knew the questions he brought would surely destroy this welcome. Looking at her now, he did not see a victim but a warm and beautiful woman who immediately took his hand in hers and seemed reluctant to release it.
    “I hope this is a convenient time to talk,” he said.
    “I’ll always make time for you.” Again, that bewitching smile. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
    “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
    “Let’s go into my office, then.”
    She settled in behind her desk and waited expectantly for whatever news he had brought. In the last few days she had learned to trust him, and her gaze was unguarded. Vulnerable. He had earned her confidence as a friend, and now he was about to shatter it.
    “It’s clear to everyone,” he said, “that the Surgeon is focused on you.”
    She nodded.
    “What we’re wondering is
why
. Why does he reenact Andrew Capra’s crimes? Why have you become the center of his attention? Do you know the answer to that?”
    Bewilderment flickered in her eyes. “I have no idea.”
    “We think you do.”
    “How could I possibly know the way he thinks?”
    “Catherine, he could stalk any other woman in Boston. He could choose someone who’s unprepared, who has no idea she’s being hunted. That would be the logical thing for him to do, to go after the easy victim. You’re the most difficult prey he could choose, because you’re already on your guard against attack. And then he makes the hunt even more difficult by warning you. Taunting you. Why?”
    The welcome was gone from her eyes. Suddenly her shoulders squared and her hands closed into fists on her desk. “I keep telling you, I don’t
know
.”
    “You’re the one physical connection between Andrew Capra and the Surgeon,” he said. “The common victim. It’s as if Capra is still alive, picking up where he left off. And where he left off was you. The one who got away.”
    She stared down at her desk, at the files so neatly stacked in their in and out boxes. At the medical note she’d been writing in tight and precise script. Though she sat perfectly still, the knuckles of her hands stood out, stark as ivory.
    “What haven’t you told me about Andrew Capra?” he asked quietly.
    “I haven’t kept anything from you.”
    “The night he attacked you, why did he come to your house?”
    “How is this