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
following things about our unknown subject. He enters the
victim's residence through an open window. He does this in
the early morning hours, sometime between midnight and two
A.M. He surprises the victim in her bed. Immediately
incapacitates her with chloroform. He removes her clothes. He
restrains her by binding her to the bed using duct tape around
her wrists and ankles. He reinforces that with strips across her
upper thighs and mid-torso. Finally, he tapes her mouth shut.
Utter control is what he achieves. When the victim awakens
Utter control is what he achieves. When the victim awakens
shortly thereafter, she cannot move, cannot scream. It's as
though she's paralyzed, yet she's awake and aware of
everything that happens next.
"And what happens next is surely anyone's worst
nightmare." Zucker's voice had faded to a monotone. The
more grotesque the details, the softer he spoke, and they
were all leaning forward, hanging on his words.
"The unsub begins to cut," said Zucker. "According to the
autopsy report, he takes his time. He is meticulous. He slices
through the lower abdomen, layer by layer. First the skin, then
the subcutaneous layer, the fascia, the muscle. He uses suture
to control the
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
following things about our unknown subject. He enters the
victim's residence through an open window. He does this in
the early morning hours, sometime between midnight and two
A.M. He surprises the victim in her bed. Immediately
incapacitates her with chloroform. He removes her clothes. He
restrains her by binding her to the bed using duct tape around
her wrists and ankles. He reinforces that with strips across her
upper thighs and mid-torso. Finally, he tapes her mouth shut.
Utter control is what he achieves. When the victim awakens
Utter control is what he achieves. When the victim awakens
shortly thereafter, she cannot move, cannot scream. It's as
though she's paralyzed, yet she's awake and aware of
everything that happens next.
"And what happens next is surely anyone's worst
nightmare." Zucker's voice had faded to a monotone. The
more grotesque the details, the softer he spoke, and they
were all leaning forward, hanging on his words.
"The unsub begins to cut," said Zucker. "According to the
autopsy report, he takes his time. He is meticulous. He slices
through the lower abdomen, layer by layer. First the skin, then
the subcutaneous layer, the fascia, the muscle. He uses suture
to control the
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