The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

scrub sinks, past a CST who scarcely gave her a glance. No one challenged her, even as she stepped into O.R. #4 and halted, appalled by the evidence of carnage. Though no victims remained in the room, their blood was everywhere, spattering walls, cabinets, and countertops and tracked across the floor by all those who had come in murder’s wake.
    “Ma’am? Ma’am?”
    Two men in plainclothes stood by the instrument cabinet, frowning at her. The taller one crossed toward her, his paper shoe covers sucking against the sticky floor. He was in his mid-thirties, and he carried himself with that cocky air of superiority that all heavily muscled men exhibited. Masculine compensation, she thought, for his rapidly receding hairline.
    Before he could ask the obvious question, she held out her badge. “Jane Rizzoli, Homicide. Boston P.D.”
    “What’s Boston doing here?”
    “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name,” she answered.
    “Sergeant Canady. Fugitive Apprehension Section.”
    A Massachusetts State Police officer. She started to shake his hand, then saw he was wearing latex gloves. He didn’t seem inclined to offer her the courtesy, in any event.
    “Can we help you?” Canady asked.
    “Maybe I can help
you.
”
    Canady did not seem particularly thrilled by the offer. “How?”
    She looked at the multiple streamers of blood flung across the wall. “The man who did this—Warren Hoyt—”
    “What about him?”
    “I know him very well.”
    Now the shorter man joined them. He had a pale face and ears like Dumbo’s, and although he, too, was obviously a cop, he did not seem to share Canady’s sense of territoriality. “Hey, I know you. Rizzoli. You’re the one put him away.”
    “I worked with the team.”
    “Naw, you’re the one cornered him out in Lithia.” Unlike Canady, he was not wearing gloves and he gave her a handshake. “Detective Arlen. Fitchburg P.D. You drive all the way out here just for this?”
    “As soon as I heard.” Her gaze drifted back to the walls. “You realize who you’re up against, don’t you?”
    Canady cut in: “We have things under control.”
    “Do you know his history?”
    “We know what he did here.”
    “But do you know
him
?”
    “We have his files from Souza-Baranowski.”
    “And the guards there had no idea who they were dealing with. Or this wouldn’t have happened.”
    “I’ve never failed to bring one back,” said Canady. “They all make the same mistakes.”
    “Not this one.”
    “He’s only had six hours.”
    “Six hours?” She shook her head. “You’ve already lost him.”
    Canady bristled. “We’re canvassing the neighborhood. Set up roadblocks and vehicle checks. Media’s been alerted, and his photo’s been broadcast on every local TV station. As I said, it’s under control.”
    She didn’t respond but turned her attention back to the ribbons of blood. “Who died in here?” she asked softly.
    It was Arlen who answered. “The anesthetist and the O.R. nurse. Anesthetist was lying there, at that end of the table. The nurse was found over here, by the door.”
    “They didn’t scream? They didn’t alert the guard?”
    “They would have had a hard time making any noise at all. Both women were slashed right through the larynx.”
    She moved to the head of the table and looked at the metal pole where a bag of I.V. solution hung, the plastic tube and catheter trailing toward a pool of water on the floor. A glass syringe lay shattered beneath the table.
    “They had his I.V. going,” she said.
    “It was started in the E.R.,” said Arlen. “He was moved directly here, after the surgeon examined him downstairs. They diagnosed a ruptured appendix.”
    “Why didn’t the surgeon come up with him? Where was he?”
    “He was seeing another patient in the E.R. Came up probably ten, fifteen minutes after all this happened. Walked through the double doors, saw the dead MCI guard lying out in the reception area, and ran straight for the phone. Practically the entire E.R. staff rushed up, but there was nothing they could do for any of the victims.”
    She looked at the floor and saw the swipes and smears of too many shoes, too much chaos to ever be interpreted.
    “Why wasn’t the guard in here, watching the prisoner?” she asked.
    “The O.R.’s supposed to be a sterile zone. No street clothes allowed. He was probably told to wait outside the room.”
    “But isn’t it MCI policy for their prisoners to be shackled at all times when