intercourse, our unsub achieves his release by subjecting his victim to pain and terror. It’s the power that thrills him. Ultimate power, over life and death.”
Detective Jane Rizzoli was not easily spooked, but Dr. Zucker gave her the creeps. He looked like a pale and hulking John Malkovich, and his voice was whispery, almost feminine. As he spoke, his fingers moved with serpentine elegance. He was not a cop but a criminal psychologist from Northeastern University, a consultant for the Boston Police Department. Rizzoli had worked with him once before on a homicide case, and he’d given her the creeps then, too. It was not just his appearance but the way he so thoroughly insinuated himself into the perp’s mind and the obvious pleasure he derived from wandering in that satanic dimension. He
enjoyed
the journey. She could hear that almost subliminal hum of excitement in his voice.
She glanced around the conference room at the other four detectives and wondered if anyone else was spooked by this weirdo, but all she saw was tired expressions and varying shades of five o’clock shadows.
They were all tired. She herself had slept scarcely four hours last night. This morning she’d awakened in the dark pre-dawn, her mind zooming straight into fourth gear as it processed a kaleidoscope of images and voices. She had absorbed the Elena Ortiz case so deeply into her subconscious that in her dreams she and the victim had engaged in a conversation, albeit a nonsensical one. There had been no supernatural revelations, no clues from beyond the grave, merely images generated by the twitches of brain cells. Still, Rizzoli considered the dream significant. It told her just how much this case meant to her. Being lead detective on a high-profile investigation was like walking the high wire without a net. Nail the perp, and everyone applauded. Screw up, and the whole world watched you splat.
This was now a high-profile case. Two days ago, the headline hit the front page of the local tabloid: “The Surgeon Cuts Again.” Thanks to the
Boston Herald
, their unsub had his own moniker, and even the cops were using it.
The Surgeon.
God, she’d been ready to take on a high-wire act, ready for the chance to either soar or crash on her own merits. A week ago, when she’d walked into Elena Ortiz’s apartment as lead detective, she had known, in an instant, that this was the case that would make her career, and she was anxious to prove herself.
How quickly things changed.
Within a day, her case had ballooned into a much wider investigation, led by the unit’s Lieutenant Marquette. The Elena Ortiz case had been folded into the Diana Sterling case, and the team had grown to five detectives, in addition to Marquette: Rizzoli and her partner, Barry Frost; Moore and his heavyset partner, Jerry Sleeper; plus a fifth detective, Darren Crowe. Rizzoli was the only woman on the team; indeed, she was the only woman in the entire homicide unit, and some men never let her forget it. Oh, she got along fine with Barry Frost, despite his irritatingly sunny disposition. Jerry Sleeper was too phlegmatic to get anybody pissed off at him or to be pissed off at anyone else. And as for Moore—well, despite her initial reservations, she was actually beginning to like him and truly respect him for his quietly methodical work. Most important, he seemed to respect
her
. Whenever she spoke, she knew that Moore listened.
No, it was the fifth cop on the team, Darren Crowe, she had issues with. Major issues. He sat across the table from her now, his tanned face wearing its usual smirk. She’d grown up with boys like him. Boys with lots of muscle, lots of girlfriends. Lots of ego.
She and Crowe despised each other.
A stack of papers came around the table. Rizzoli took a copy and saw it was a criminal profile that Dr. Zucker had just completed.
“I know some of you think my work is hocus-pocus,” said Zucker. “So let me explain my reasoning. We know the
Detective Jane Rizzoli was not easily spooked, but Dr. Zucker gave her the creeps. He looked like a pale and hulking John Malkovich, and his voice was whispery, almost feminine. As he spoke, his fingers moved with serpentine elegance. He was not a cop but a criminal psychologist from Northeastern University, a consultant for the Boston Police Department. Rizzoli had worked with him once before on a homicide case, and he’d given her the creeps then, too. It was not just his appearance but the way he so thoroughly insinuated himself into the perp’s mind and the obvious pleasure he derived from wandering in that satanic dimension. He
enjoyed
the journey. She could hear that almost subliminal hum of excitement in his voice.
She glanced around the conference room at the other four detectives and wondered if anyone else was spooked by this weirdo, but all she saw was tired expressions and varying shades of five o’clock shadows.
They were all tired. She herself had slept scarcely four hours last night. This morning she’d awakened in the dark pre-dawn, her mind zooming straight into fourth gear as it processed a kaleidoscope of images and voices. She had absorbed the Elena Ortiz case so deeply into her subconscious that in her dreams she and the victim had engaged in a conversation, albeit a nonsensical one. There had been no supernatural revelations, no clues from beyond the grave, merely images generated by the twitches of brain cells. Still, Rizzoli considered the dream significant. It told her just how much this case meant to her. Being lead detective on a high-profile investigation was like walking the high wire without a net. Nail the perp, and everyone applauded. Screw up, and the whole world watched you splat.
This was now a high-profile case. Two days ago, the headline hit the front page of the local tabloid: “The Surgeon Cuts Again.” Thanks to the
Boston Herald
, their unsub had his own moniker, and even the cops were using it.
The Surgeon.
God, she’d been ready to take on a high-wire act, ready for the chance to either soar or crash on her own merits. A week ago, when she’d walked into Elena Ortiz’s apartment as lead detective, she had known, in an instant, that this was the case that would make her career, and she was anxious to prove herself.
How quickly things changed.
Within a day, her case had ballooned into a much wider investigation, led by the unit’s Lieutenant Marquette. The Elena Ortiz case had been folded into the Diana Sterling case, and the team had grown to five detectives, in addition to Marquette: Rizzoli and her partner, Barry Frost; Moore and his heavyset partner, Jerry Sleeper; plus a fifth detective, Darren Crowe. Rizzoli was the only woman on the team; indeed, she was the only woman in the entire homicide unit, and some men never let her forget it. Oh, she got along fine with Barry Frost, despite his irritatingly sunny disposition. Jerry Sleeper was too phlegmatic to get anybody pissed off at him or to be pissed off at anyone else. And as for Moore—well, despite her initial reservations, she was actually beginning to like him and truly respect him for his quietly methodical work. Most important, he seemed to respect
her
. Whenever she spoke, she knew that Moore listened.
No, it was the fifth cop on the team, Darren Crowe, she had issues with. Major issues. He sat across the table from her now, his tanned face wearing its usual smirk. She’d grown up with boys like him. Boys with lots of muscle, lots of girlfriends. Lots of ego.
She and Crowe despised each other.
A stack of papers came around the table. Rizzoli took a copy and saw it was a criminal profile that Dr. Zucker had just completed.
“I know some of you think my work is hocus-pocus,” said Zucker. “So let me explain my reasoning. We know the
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