“And the family emergency?”
“He has no family. His only aunt died in February.”
The row of taillights blurred into a streak of red. Moore blinked and turned his gaze so that Sleeper would not see his tears.
Warren Hoyt lived in the North End, a quaint maze of narrow streets and redbrick buildings that made up the oldest neighborhood in Boston. It was considered a safe part of town, thanks to the watchful eyes of the local Italian population, who owned many of the businesses. Here, on a street where tourists and residents alike walked with little fear of crime, a monster had lived.
Hoyt’s apartment was on the third floor of a brick walk-up. Hours before, the team had combed the place for evidence, and when Moore stepped inside and saw the sparse furnishings, the nearly bare shelves, he felt he was standing in a room that had already been swept clean of its soul. That he’d find nothing left of whoever—whatever—Warren Hoyt might be.
Dr. Zucker emerged from the bedroom and said to Moore, “There’s something wrong here.”
“Is Hoyt our unsub or not?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do we have?” Moore looked at Crowe, who had met them at the door.
“We’ve got a bingo on shoe size. Eight and a half, matches the footprints from the Ortiz crime scene. We’ve got several hair strands from the pillow—short, light brown. Also looks like a match. Plus we found a long black hair on the bathroom floor. Shoulder-length.”
Moore frowned. “There was a woman here?”
“Maybe a friend.”
“Or another victim,” said Zucker. “Someone we don’t know about yet.”
“I spoke to the landlady, who lives downstairs,” said Crowe. “She last saw Hoyt this morning, coming home from work. She has no idea where he is now. Bet you can guess what she has to say about him. Good tenant. Quiet man, never any trouble.”
Moore looked at Zucker. “What did you mean when you said there’s something wrong here?”
“There’s no murder kit. No tools. His car’s parked right outside, and there’s no kit in there, either.” Zucker gestured to the nearly empty living room. “This apartment looks barely lived in. There are only a few items in the refrigerator. The bathroom has soap, a toothbrush, and a razor. It’s like a hotel room. A place to sleep, nothing more. It’s not where he keeps his fantasies alive.”
“This is where he lives,” said Crowe. “His mail comes here. His clothes are here.”
“But this place is missing the most important thing of all,” Zucker said. “His trophies. There are no trophies here.”
A feeling of dread had seeped into Moore’s bones. Zucker was right. The Surgeon had carved an anatomical trophy out of each of his victims; he would keep them around to remind him of his kills. To tide him over between hunts.
“We’re not looking at the whole picture,” said Zucker. He turned to Moore. “I need to see where Warren Hoyt worked. I need to see the lab.”
Barry Frost sat down at the computer keyboard and typed in the patient’s name: Nina Peyton. A new screen appeared, filled with data.
“This terminal is his fishing hole,” said Frost. “This is where he finds his victims.”
Moore stared at the monitor, startled by what he saw. Elsewhere in the lab, machines whirred and phones rang and medical technicians processed their clattering racks of blood tubes. Here, in this antiseptic world of stainless steel and white coats, a world devoted to the healing sciences, the Surgeon had quietly hunted for prey. At this computer terminal, he could call up the names of every woman whose blood or body fluids had been processed at Interpath Labs.
“This is the primary diagnostic lab in the city,” said Frost. “Get your blood drawn at any doctor’s office or any outpatient clinic in Boston, and the chances are, that blood will come right here to be analyzed.”
Right here, to Warren Hoyt.
“He had her home address,” said Moore, scanning the information on Nina Peyton. “Her employer’s name. Her age and marital status—”
“And her diagnosis,” said Zucker. He pointed to two words on the screen: sexual assault. “This is exactly what the Surgeon hunts for. It’s what turns him on. Emotionally damaged women. Women marked by sexual violence.”
Moore heard the lilt of excitement in Zucker’s voice. It was the game that fascinated Zucker, the contest of wits. At last he could see his opponent’s moves, could appreciate the genius behind them.
“Here he was,” said Zucker. “Handling their blood. Knowing their most shameful secrets.” He straightened and gazed around the lab, as though seeing it for the first time. “Did you ever stop to think what a medical lab knows about you?” he said. “All the personal information you give them when you open your arm and let them stick a needle in your vein? Your blood reveals your most intimate secrets. Are you dying of leukemia or AIDS? Did you smoke a cigarette or drink a glass of wine in the last few hours? Are you taking Prozac because you’re depressed, or Viagra because you can’t get it up? He was holding the very essence of those women. He could study their blood, touch it, smell it. And they never knew. They never knew that part of their own body was being fondled by a stranger.”
“The victims never knew him,” said Moore. “Never met him.”
“But the Surgeon knew them. And on the most intimate of terms.” Zucker’s eyes were feverishly bright. “The Surgeon doesn’t hunt like any serial killer I’ve ever come across. He is unique. He stays hidden from view, because he chooses his prey sight unseen.” He stared in wonder at a rack of tubes on the countertop. “This lab is his hunting ground. This is how he finds them. By their blood. By their pain.”
* * *
When Moore stepped out of the medical center, the night air felt cooler, crisper, than it had in weeks. Across the city of Boston, fewer windows would be left open, fewer women lying vulnerable to attack.
But tonight, the Surgeon will not be hunting. Tonight, he’ll be enjoying his latest catch.
Moore came to a sudden halt beside his car and stood there, paralyzed by despair. Even now, Warren Hoyt might be reaching for his scalpel. Even now . . .
Footsteps approached. He summoned the strength to raise his head, to look at the man standing a few feet away in the shadows.
“He has her, doesn’t he?” said Peter Falco.
Moore nodded.
“God. Oh, god.” Falco looked up in anguish at the night sky. “I walked her to her car. She was right there with me, and I let her go home. I let her drive away. . . .”
“We’re doing everything we can to find her.” It was a stock phrase. Even as he said it, Moore heard the hollowness of his own words. It’s what you said when matters are grim, when you know that even your best efforts will likely come to nothing.
“What are you doing?”
“We know who he is.”
“But you don’t know where he’s taken her.”
“It will take time to track him down.”
“Tell me what I can do. Anything at all.”
Moore fought to keep his voice calm, to hide his own fears, his own dread. “I know how hard it is to stand on the sidelines and let others do the work. But this is what we’re trained to do.”
“Oh yes, you’re the professionals! So what the hell went wrong?”
Moore had no answer.
In agitation, Falco crossed toward Moore and came to stand beneath the parking lot lamp. The light fell on his face, haggard with worry. “I don’t know what happened between you two,” he said. “But I do know she trusted you. I hope to god that means something to you. I hope she’s more than just another case. Just another name on the list.”
“She is,” said Moore.
The men stared at each other, acknowledging in silence what they both knew. What they both felt.
“I care more than you’ll ever know,” said Moore.
And Falco said softly, “So do I.”
twenty-three
He’s going to keep her alive f
or a while,” said Dr. Zucker. “The way he kept Nina Peyton alive for a whole day. He is now in complete control of the situation. He can take all the time he wants.”
A shudder went through Rizzoli as she considered what that meant, All the time he wants. She considered how many tender nerve endings the human body possessed and wondered how much pain must be endured before Death took pity. She looked across the conference room and saw Moore drop his head into his hands. He looked sick, exhausted. It was after midnight, and the faces she saw around the conference table looked sallow and discouraged. Rizzoli stood outside that circle, her back sagging against the wall. The invisible woman, whom no one acknowledged, allowed to listen in but not participate. Restricted to administrative duty, deprived of her service weapon, she was now little more than an observer in a case that she knew better than anyone at this table.
Moore’s gaze lifted in her direction, but he looked straight through her, not at her. As though he didn’t want to look at her.
Dr. Zucker summarized what they’d learned about Warren Hoyt. The Surgeon.
“He’s been working toward this one goal for a long time,” said Zucker. “Now that he’s attained it, he’s going to prolong the pleasure as long as possible.”
“Then Cordell’s always been his goal?” said Frost. “The other victims—they were just for practice?”
“No, they gave him pleasure as well. They tided him over, helped him release sexual tension while he worked toward this prize. In any hunt, the predator’s excitement is most intense when he’s stalking the most difficult of prey. And Cordell was probably the one woman he could not easily reach. She was always on alert, always careful about security. She barricaded herself behind locks and alarm systems. She avoided close relationships. She seldom went out at night, except to work at the hospital. She was the most challenging prey he could pursue, and the one he wanted most. He made his hunt even more difficult by letting her know she was prey. He used terror as part of the game. He wanted her to feel him closing in. The other women were just the buildup. Cordell was the main event.”
“Is,” said Moore, his voice tight with rage. “She’s not dead yet.”
The room suddenly hushed, all eyes averted from Moore.
Zucker nodded, icy calm unbroken. “Thank you for correcting me.”
Marquette said, “You’ve read his background files?”
“Yes,” said Zucker. “Warren was an only child. Apparently an adored child, born in Houston. Father was a rocket scientist—I kid you not. His mother came from an old oil family. Both of them are dead now. So Warren was blessed with smart genes and family money. There’s no record of criminal behavior as a child. No arrests, no traffic tickets, nothing that raised a red flag. Except for that one incident in medical school, in the anatomy lab, I find no warning signs. No clues that tell me he was destined to be a predator. By all accounts, he was a perfectly normal boy. Polite and reliable.”
“Average,” said Moore softly. “Ordinary.”
Zucker nodded. “This is a boy who never stood out, never alarmed anyone. This is the most frightening killer of all, because there’s no pathology, no psychiatric diagnosis. He’s like Ted Bundy. Intelligent, organized, and, on the surface, quite functional. But he has one personality quirk: he enjoys torturing women. This is someone you might work with every day. And you’d never suspect that when he’s looking at you, smiling at you, he’s thinking about some new and creative way to rip out your guts.”
Shuddering at Zucker’s hiss of a voice, Rizzoli looked around the room. What he’s saying is true. I see Barry Frost every day. He seems like a nice guy. Happily married. Never in a foul mood. But I have no idea what he’s really thinking.
Frost caught her gaze, and he reddened.
Zucker continued. “After the incident in medical school, Hoyt was forced to withdraw. He entered a med tech training program, and followed Andrew Capra to Savannah. It appears their partnership lasted several years. Airline and credit card records indicate they often traveled together. To Greece and Italy. To Mexico, where they both volunteered at a rural clinic. It was an alliance of two hunters. Blood brothers who shared the same violent fantasies.”
“The catgut suture,” said Rizzoli.
Zucker gave her a puzzled look. “What?”
“In third world countries, they still use catgut in surgery. That’s how he got his supply.”
Marquette nodded. “She could be right.”
I am right, thought Rizzoli, prickling with resentment.
“When Cordell killed Andrew Capra,” said Zucker, “she destroyed the perfect killing team. She took away the one person Hoyt felt closest to. And that’s why she became his ultimate goal. His ultimate victim.”
“If Hoyt was in the house that night Capra died, why didn’t he kill her then?” asked Marquette.
“I don’t know. There’s a lot about that night in Savannah that only Warren Hoyt knows. What we do know is that he moved to Boston two years ago, shortly after Catherine Cordell came here. Within a year, Diana Sterling was dead.”
At last Moore spoke, his voice haunted. “How do we find him?”
“You can keep his apartment under surveillance, but I don’t think he’ll be returning there soon. It’s not his lair. That’s not where he indulges his fantasies.” Zucker sat back, eyes unfocused. Channeling what he knew about Warren Hoyt into words and images. “His real lair will be a place he keeps separate from his day-to-day life. A place he retreats to in anonymity, possibly quite distant from his apartment. It may not be rented under his real name.”
“You rent a place, you have to pay for it,” said Frost. “We follow the money.”
Zucker nodded. “You’ll know it’s his lair when you find it, because his trophies will be there. The souvenirs he took from his kills. It’s possible he’s even prepared this lair as a place to eventually bring his victims. The ultimate torture chamber. It’s a place where privacy is assured, where he won’t be interrupted. A stand-alone building. Or an apartment that’s well insulated for sound.”
So no one can hear Cordell screaming, thought Rizzoli.
“In this place, he can become the creature he truly is. He can feel relaxed and uninhibited. He’s never left semen at any of the crime scenes, which tells me he’s able to delay sexual gratification until he’s in a safe place. This lair is that place. He probably visits it from time to time, to re-experience the thrill of the slaughter. To sustain himself between kills.” Zucker looked around the room. “That’s where he’s taken Catherine Cordell.”
The Greeks call it dere, which refers to the front of the neck, or the throat, and it is the most beautiful, the most vulnerable, part of a woman’s anatomy. In the throat pulses life and breath, and beneath the milky white skin of Iphigenia, blue veins would have throbbed at the point of her father’s knife. As Iphigenia lay stretched upon the altar, did Agamemnon pause to admire the delicate lines of his daughter’s neck? Or did he study the landmarks, to choose the most efficient point at which his blade should pierce her skin? Though anguished by this sacrifice, at the instant his knife sank in, did he not feel just the slightest frisson in his loins, a jolt of sexual pleasure as he thrust his blade into her flesh?
Even the ancient Greeks, with their hideous tales of parents devouring offspring and sons coupling with mothers, do not mention such details of depravity. They did not need to; it is one of those secret truths we all understand without benefit of words. Of those warriors who stood with stony expressions and hearts hardened against a maiden’s screams, of those who watched as Iphigenia was stripped naked, and her swan neck was bared to the knife, how many of those soldiers felt the unexpected heat of pleasure flood their groins? Felt their cocks harden?
How many would ever again look at a woman’s throat, and not feel the urge to cut it?
* * *
Her throat is as pale as Iphigenia’s must have been. She has protected herself from the sun, as every redhead should, and there are only a few f
reckles marring the alabaster translucence of her skin. These two years, she has kept her neck flawless for me. I appreciate that.
I have waited patiently for her to regain consciousness. I know she is now awake and aware of me, because her pulse has quickened. I touch her throat, at the hollow just above the breastbone, and she takes in a sharp breath. She does not release it as I stroke up the side of her neck, tracing the course of her carotid artery. Her pulse throbs, heaving the skin with rhythmic quakes. I feel the gloss of her sweat beneath my finger. It has bloomed like mist on her skin, and her face glows with its sheen. As I stroke up to the angle of her jaw, she finally releases her breath; it comes out in a whimper, muffled by the tape over her mouth. This is not like my Catherine to whimper. The others were stupid gazelles, but Catherine is a tigress, the only one who ever struck back and drew blood.
She opens her eyes and looks at me, and I see that she understands. I have finally won. She, the worthiest of them all, is conquered.
I lay out my instruments. They make a pleasant clang as I set them on the metal tray by the bed. I feel her watching me, and know her gaze is drawn to the sharp reflection off stainless steel. She knows what each one is for, as she has certainly used such instruments many times. The retractor is to spread apart the edges of an incision. The hemostat is to clamp tissues and blood vessels. And the scalpel—well, we both know what a scalpel is used for.
I set the tray near her head, so she can see, and contemplate, what comes next. I don’t have to say a word; the glitter of the instruments says everything.
I touch her naked belly and her abdominal muscles snap tight. It is a virgin belly, without any scars marring its flat surface. The blade will part her skin like butter.
I pick up the scalpel, and press its tip to her abdomen. She gasps in a breath and her eyes go wide.
Once, I saw a photograph of a zebra just as a lion’s fangs have sunk into its throat, and the zebra’s eyes are rolled back in mortal terror. It is an image I will never forget. That is the look I see now, in Catherine’s eyes.