The Surgeon Read Online Free PDF Page B

The . . .” Moore paused, struggling to phrase his words with the most delicacy possible. “The choice of mutilation,” he finished quietly.
    Catherine gripped the desk with both hands, fighting to contain a sudden surge of nausea. Her gaze dropped to the files stacked so neatly in front of her. She spotted a streak of blue ink staining the sleeve of her lab coat.
No matter how much you try to maintain order in your life, no matter how careful you are to guard against mistakes, against imperfections, there is always some smudge, some flaw, lurking out of sight. Waiting to surprise you.
    “Tell me about them,” she said. “The two women.”
    “We’re not at liberty to reveal very much.”
    “What can you tell me?”
    “No more than what was reported in Sunday’s
Globe
.”
    It took a few seconds for her to process what he had just said. She stiffened in disbelief. “These Boston murders—they’re
recent
?”
    “The last one was early Friday.”
    “So this has nothing to do with Andrew Capra! Nothing to do with me.”
    “There are striking similarities.”
    “Then they’re purely coincidental. They have to be. I thought you were talking about old crimes. Something Capra did years ago. Not last week.” Abruptly she shoved back her chair. “I don’t see how I can help you.”
    “Dr. Cordell, this killer knows details that were never released to the public. He has information about Capra’s attacks that no one outside the Savannah investigation knows.”
    “Then maybe you should look at those people. The ones who do know.”
    “You’re one of them, Dr. Cordell.”
    “In case you’ve forgotten, I was a
victim
.”
    “Have you spoken in detail about your case to anyone?”
    “Just the Savannah police.”
    “You haven’t discussed it at length with your friends?”
    “No.”
    “Family?”
    “No.”
    “There must be someone you’ve confided in.”
    “I don’t talk about it. I never talk about it.”
    He fixed her with a disbelieving gaze. “Never?”
    She looked away. “Never,” she whispered.
    There was a long silence. Then Moore asked, gently, “Have you ever heard of the name Elena Ortiz?”
    “No.”
    “Diana Sterling?”
    “No. Are they the women . . .”
    “Yes. They’re the victims.”
    She swallowed hard. “I don’t know their names.”
    “You didn’t know about these murders?”
    “I make it a point to avoid reading about anything tragic. It’s just something I can’t deal with.” She released a weary sigh. “You have to understand, I see so many terrible things in the emergency room. When I get home, at the end of the day, I want peace. I want to feel safe. What happens in the world—all the violence—I don’t need to read about it.”
    Moore reached into his jacket and produced two photographs, which he slid across the desk to her. “Do you recognize either of these women?”
    Catherine stared at the faces. The one on the left had dark eyes and a laugh on her lips, the wind in her hair. The other was an ethereal blonde, her gaze dreamy and distant.
    “The dark-haired one is Elena Ortiz,” said Moore. “The other is Diana Sterling. Diana was murdered a year ago. Do these faces look at all familiar?”
    She shook her head.
    “Diana Sterling lived in the Back Bay, only half a mile from your residence. Elena Ortiz’s apartment is just two blocks south of this hospital. You may very well have seen them. Are you absolutely sure you don’t recognize either woman?”
    “I’ve never seen them before.” She held out the photos to Moore and suddenly saw that her hand was trembling. Surely he noticed it as he took back the photos, as his fingers brushed hers. She thought he must notice a great deal; a policeman would. She’d been so focused on her own turmoil that she had scarcely registered much about this man. He’d been quiet and gentle, and she had not felt in any way threatened. Only now did she realize he’d been studying her closely, waiting for a