The Surgeon: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel: With Bonus Content

smiling as he handed her the salt and pepper shakers, her head buzzing from the gin. Nor could she remember the last time food had tasted so good. It was as if she’d just emerged from a sealed bottle and was experiencing the full vibrancy of tastes and smells for the very first time.
    They ate at the kitchen table and sipped wine. Her kitchen, with its white tiles and white cabinets, suddenly seemed bright with color. The ruby wine, the crisp green lettuce, the blue-checked cloth napkins. And Moore sitting across from her. She had once thought him colorless, like all the other featureless men who walk past you on a city street, outlines sketched on a flat canvas. Only now did she really see him, the warm ruddiness of his skin, the web of laugh lines around his eyes. All the charming imperfections of a face well lived in.
    We have all night, she thought, and the prospect of what lay ahead brought a smile to her lips. She rose, and held her hand out to him.
    *     *     *
    Dr. Zucker stopped the videotape of Dr. Polochek’s session and turned to Moore and Marquette. “It could be a false memory. Cordell has conjured up a second voice that didn’t exist. You see, that’s the problem with hypnosis. Memory is a fluid thing. It can be altered, rewritten to match expectations. She went into that session
believing
Capra had a partner. And presto, the memory’s there! A second voice. A second man in the house.” Zucker shook his head. “It’s not reliable.”
    “It’s not just her memory that supports a second perp,” said Moore. “Our unsub sent hair clippings that could only have been collected in Savannah.”
    “She
says
the hair was taken in Savannah,” Marquette pointed out.
    “You don’t believe her, either?”
    “The lieutenant raises a valid point,” said Zucker. “We’re dealing with an emotionally fragile woman here. Even two years after the attack, she may not be entirely stable.”
    “She’s a trauma surgeon.”
    “Yes, and she functions fine in the workplace. But she
is
damaged. You know that. The attack has left its mark.”
    Moore fell silent, thinking about the first day he’d met Catherine. How her movements were precise, controlled. A different person from the carefree girl who had appeared during the hypnosis session, the young Catherine basking in the sunlight of her grandparents’ dock. And last night, that joyous young Catherine had re-emerged in his arms. She had been there all along, trapped inside that brittle shell, waiting to be released.
    “So what do we make of this hypnosis session?” asked Marquette.
    Zucker said, “I’m not saying she doesn’t believe it. Doesn’t remember it vividly. It’s like telling a child there was an elephant in the backyard. After a while, the child believes it so strongly she can describe the elephant’s trunk, the pieces of straw on the back. The broken tusk. The memory becomes reality. Even when it never happened.”
    “We can’t completely discount the memory,” said Moore. “You may not believe Cordell is reliable, but she
is
the focus of our unsub’s interest. What Capra started—the stalking, the killing—it hasn’t stopped. It’s followed her here.”
    “A copycat?” said Marquette.
    “Or a partner,” said Moore. “There are precedents.”
    Zucker nodded. “Partnerships of killers aren’t all that uncommon. We think of serial killers as being lone wolves, but up to a quarter of serial killings are done by partners. Henry Lee Lucas had one. Kenneth Bianchi had one. It makes everything easier for them. Abduction, control. It’s cooperative hunting, to ensure success.”
    “Wolves hunt together,” said Moore. “Maybe Capra did, too.”
    Marquette picked up the VCR remote, pressed Rewind and then Play. On the TV screen, Catherine sat with eyes closed, arms limp.
    Who says those words, Catherine? Who says, “It’s my turn, Capra”?
    I don’t know. I don’t know his voice.
    Marquette pressed Pause and Catherine’s face froze on the screen. He looked at Moore. “It’s been over two years since she was attacked in Savannah. If he was Capra’s partner, why has he waited this long to come after her? Why is it happening now?”
    Moore nodded. “I wondered the same thing. I think I know the answer.” He opened the folder he’d brought into the meeting and took out a tear sheet from the
Boston Globe
. “This appeared seventeen days before Elena Ortiz’s murder. It’s an article about women surgeons in