The Surgeon Read Online Free PDF Page B

about?"
"The manner in which the women were immobilized and
controlled. The type of cutting instrument used. 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 glimpse of the inner Catherine Cordell.
Not the accomplished trauma surgeon, not the cool and
elegant redhead,