The Surgeon Read Online Free PDF

patient."
"You did say you're from Homicide?"
"Yes." It was the quiet tone of his voice that alarmed her. A
gentle warning to prepare herself for bad news.
"Is this--oh god, I hope this isn't about someone I know."
"It's about Andrew Capra. And what happened to you in
Savannah."
For a moment she could not speak. Her legs suddenly felt
numb and she reached back toward the wall, as though to
catch herself from falling.
"Dr. Cordell?" he said with sudden concern. "Are you all
right?"
"I think . . . I think we should talk in my office," she
whispered. Abruptly she turned and walked out of the E.R.
whispered. Abruptly she turned and walked out of the E.R.
She did not look back to see if the detectives were following
her; she just kept walking, fleeing toward the safety of her
office, in the adjoining clinic building. She heard their
footsteps right behind her as she navigated through the
sprawling complex that was Pilgrim Medical Center.

What happened to you in Savannah?
She did not want to talk about it. She had hoped never to
talk about Savannah to anyone, ever again. But these were
police officers, and their questions could not be avoided.
At last they reached a suite with the plaque:

Peter Falco, M.D.
Catherine Cordell, M.D.
General and Vascular Surgery.

She stepped into the front office, and the receptionist
looked up with an automatic smile of greeting. It froze half-
formed on her lips when she saw Catherine's ashen face and
noticed the two strangers who had followed her in.
"Dr. Cordell? Is something wrong?"
"We'll be in my office, Helen. Please hold my calls."
"Your first patient's coming in at ten. Mr. Tsang, follow-up
splenectomy--"
"Cancel it."
"But he's driving all the way from Newbury. He's probably on
his way."
"All right, then have him wait. But please, don't put any calls
through."
    Ignoring Helen's bewildered look, Catherine headed
straight to her office, Moore and Rizzoli following right behind
her. Immediately she reached for her white lab coat. It was not
hanging on the door hook, where she always kept it. It was
only a minor frustration, but added to the turmoil she was
already feeling, it was almost more than she could handle.
She glanced around the room, searching for the lab coat as
though her life depended on it. She spotted it draped over the
filing cabinet and felt an irrational sense of relief as she
snatched it up and retreated behind her desk. She felt safer
there, barricaded behind the gleaming rosewood surface.
Safer and in control.
The room was a carefully ordered place, the way everything
in her life was carefully ordered. She had little tolerance for
sloppiness, and her files were organized in two neat stacks on
the desk. Her books were lined up alphabetically by author on
the shelves. Her computer hummed softly, the screen saver
building geometric patterns on the monitor. She slipped on the
lab coat to cover her bloodstained scrub top. The additional
layer of uniform felt like another shield of protection, another
barrier against the messy and dangerous vagaries of life.
Sitting behind her desk, she watched Moore and Rizzoli
glance around the room, no doubt taking the measure of its
occupant. Was that automatic for police officers, that quick
visual survey, the appraisal of the subject's personality? It
made Catherine feel exposed and vulnerable.
"I realize this is a painful subject for you to revisit," said
Moore as he sat down.
"You have no idea how painful. It's been two years. Why has
this come up now?"
"In relation to two unsolved homicides, here in Boston."
Catherine frowned. "But I was attacked in Savannah."
"Yes, we know. There's a national crime database called
VICAP. When we did a search of VICAP, looking for crimes
similar to our homicides here, Andrew Capra's name came
up."
Catherine was silent for a moment, absorbing this
information. Building the courage to pose the next logical
question. She managed to ask it calmly. "What similarities are
we talking