Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

leaned closer, his throat suddenly dry. He already knew what that refrigerator contained, yet he found his pulse quickening, his stomach turning in dread, as he saw Singer walk to the refrigerator. Singer paused and looked at the camera.
    “This is what we found inside,” he said, and opened the door.
     

nineteen
    H e took a walk around the block, and this time he scarcely noticed the heat, he was so chilled by the images on that videotape. He felt relieved just to be out of the conference room, which was now intimately associated with horror. Savannah itself, with its syrupy air and its soft green light, made him uneasy. The city of Boston had sharp edges and jarring voices, every building, every scowling face, in harsh focus. In Boston, you knew you were alive, if only because you were so irritated. Here, nothing seemed in focus. He saw Savannah as though through gauze, a city of genteel smiles and sleepy voices, and he wondered what darkness lay hidden from view.
    When he returned to the squad room, he found Singer typing at a laptop. “Hold on,” said Singer, and he hit Spellcheck. God forbid there be any misspellings in
his
reports. Satisfied, he looked at Moore. “Yeah?”
    “Did you ever find Capra’s address book?”
    “What address book?”
    “Most people keep a personal address book near their telephone. I didn’t see one in the video of his apartment, and I didn’t find one on your property list.”
    “You’re talking over two years ago. If it wasn’t on our list, then he didn’t have one.”
    “Or it was removed from his apartment before you got there.”
    “What’re you fishing for? I thought you came to study Capra’s technique, not solve the case again.”
    “I’m interested in Capra’s friends. Everyone who knew him well.”
    “Hell, no one did. We interviewed the doctors and nurses he worked with. His landlady, the neighbors. I drove out to Atlanta to talk to his aunt. His only living relative.”
    “Yes, I read the interviews.”
    “Then you know he had ’em all fooled. I kept hearing the same comments: ‘Compassionate doctor! Such a
polite
young man!’ ” Singer snorted.
    “They had no idea who Capra really was.”
    Singer swiveled back to his laptop. “Hell, no one ever knows who the monsters are.”
     
    Time to view the last videotape. Moore had put this one off till the very end, because he had not been ready to deal with the images. He had managed to watch the others with detachment, taking notes as he studied the bedrooms of Lisa Fox and Jennifer Torregrossa and Ruth Voorhees. He had viewed, again and again, the pattern of blood splatters, the knots in the nylon cord around the victims’ wrists, the glaze of death in their eyes. He could look at the tapes with a minimum of emotion because he did not know these women and he heard no echo of their voices in his memory. He was focused not on the victims but on the malevolent presence that had passed through their rooms. He ejected the tape of the Voorhees crime scene and set it on the table. Reluctantly he picked up the remaining tape. On the label was the date, the case number, and the words: “Catherine Cordell Residence.”
    He thought about putting it off, waiting until tomorrow morning, when he’d be fresh. It was now nine o’clock, and he had been in this room all day. He held the tape, weighing what to do.
    It was a moment before he realized Singer was standing in the doorway, watching him.
    “Man. You’re still here,” said Singer.
    “I’ve got a lot to go over.”
    “You watched all the tapes?”
    “All except this one.”
    Singer glanced at the label. “Cordell.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Go ahead; play it. Maybe I can fill in a few details.”
    Moore inserted it into the VCR slot and pressed Play.
    They were looking at the front of Catherine’s house. Nighttime. The porch was lit up and the lights all on inside. On audio, he heard the videographer give the date and time—2:00 A.M. —and his name. Again, it was Spiro Pataki, who seemed to be everyone’s favorite cameraman. Moore heard a lot of background noise—voices, the fading wail of a siren. Pataki did his routine pan of the surroundings, and Moore saw a grim gathering of neighbors staring over crime scene tape, their faces illuminated by the lights of several police cruisers parked on the street. This surprised him, knowing the hour of night. It must have been a considerable disturbance to awaken so many neighbors.
    Pataki turned back