The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

Audio Book (CD) | April 26, 2011

byTess GerritsenRead byDennis Boutsikaris

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The bestselling author of The Surgeon returns—and so does that chilling novel’s diabolical villain. Though held behind bars, Warren Hoyt still haunts a helpless city, seeming to bequeath his evil legacy to a student all-too-diligent . . . and all-too-deadly.


It is a boiling hot Boston summer. Adding to the city’s woes is a series of shocking crimes, in which wealthy men are made to watch while their wives are brutalized. A sadistic demand that ends in abduction and death.

The pattern suggests one man: serial killer Warren Hoyt, recently removed from the city’s streets. Police can only assume an acolyte is at large, a maniac basing his attacks on the twisted medical techniques of the madman he so admires. At least that’s what Detective Jane Rizzoli thinks. Forced again to confront the killer who scarred her—literally and figuratively—she is determined to finally end Hoyt’s awful influence . . . even if it means receiving more resistance from her all-male homicide squad.

But Rizzoli isn’t counting on the U.S. government’s sudden interest. Or on meeting Special Agent Gabriel Dean, who knows more than he will tell. Most of all, she isn’t counting on becoming a target herself, once Hoyt is suddenly free, joining his mysterious blood brother in a vicious vendetta. . . .

Filled with superbly created characters—and the medical and police procedural details that are her trademark—The Apprentice is Tess Gerritsen at her brilliant best. Set in a stunning world where evil is easy to learn and hard to end, this is a thriller by a master who could teach other authors a thing or two.

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From the Publisher

The bestselling author of The Surgeon returns—and so does that chilling novel’s diabolical villain. Though held behind bars, Warren Hoyt still haunts a helpless city, seeming to bequeath his evil legacy to a student all-too-diligent . . . and all-too-deadly.THE APPRENTICEIt is a boiling hot Boston summer. Adding to the city’s woes is a...

Tess Gerritsen earned international acclaim for her first novel of suspense, the New York Times bestselling Harvest. She is also the author of the bestsellers The Keepsake, The Bone Garden, the Mephisto Club, Vanish, Body Double, The Sinner, The Apprentice, The Surgeon, Life Support, Bloodstream, and Gravity. A physician, Tess Gerritse...

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Format:Audio Book (CD)Dimensions:5.95 × 5.12 × 1.13 inPublished:April 26, 2011Publisher:Penguin Random House Audio Publishing GroupLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0307933105

ISBN - 13:9780307933102

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Already the flies were swarming. Four hours on the hot pavement of South Boston had baked the pulverized flesh, releasing the chemical equivalent of a dinner bell, and the air was alive with buzzing flies. Though what remained of the torso was now covered with a sheet, there was still much exposed tissue for scavengers to feast on. Bits of gray matter and other unidentifiable parts were dispersed in a radius of thirty feet along the street. A skull fragment had landed in a second-story flower box, and clumps of tissue adhered to parked cars. Detective Jane Rizzoli had always possessed a strong stomach,but even she had to pause, eyes closed, fists clenched, angryat herself for this moment of weakness. Don't lose it. Don'tlose it. She was the only female detective in the Boston P.D.homicide unit, and she knew that the pitiless spotlight was alwaystrained on her. Every mistake, every triumph, would benoted by all. Her partner, Barry Frost, had already tossed up hisbreakfast in humiliatingly public view, and he was now sittingwith his head on his knees in their air-conditioned vehicle, waitingfor his stomach to settle. She could not afford to fall victimto nausea. She was the most visible law enforcement officer onthe scene, and from the other side of the police tape the publicstood watching, registering every move she made, every detail ofher appearance. She knew she looked younger than her age ofthirty-four, and she was self-conscious about maintaining an airof authority. What she lacked in height she compensated forwith her direct gaze, her squared shoulders. She had learned theart of dominating a scene, if only through sheer intensity.But this heat was sapping her resolve. She had started offdressed in her usual blazer and slacks and with her hair neatlycombed. Now the blazer was off, her blouse was wrinkled, andthe humidity had frizzed her dark hair into unruly coils. She feltassaulted on all fronts by the smells, the flies, and the piercingsunlight. There was too much to focus on all at once. And allthose eyes were watching her.Loud voices drew her attention. A man in a dress shirt andtie was trying to argue his way past a patrolman."Look, I gotta get to a sales conference, okay? I'm an hourlate as it is. But you've got your goddamn police tape wrappedaround my car, and now you're saying I can't drive it? It's myown friggin' car!""It's a crime scene, sir.""It's an accident!""We haven't determined that yet.""Does it take you guys all day to figure it out? Why don'tyou listen to us? The whole neighborhood heard it happen!"Rizzoli approached the man, whose face was glazed withsweat. It was eleven-thirty and the sun, near its zenith, shonedown like a glaring eye."What, exactly, did you hear, sir?" she asked.He snorted. "Same thing everyone else did.""A loud bang.""Yeah. Around seven-thirty. I was just getting outta theshower. Looked out my window, and there he was, lying on thesidewalk. You can see it's a bad corner. Asshole drivers come flyingaround it like bats outta hell. Must've been a truck hit him.""Did you see a truck?""Naw.""Hear a truck?""Naw.""And you didn't see a car, either?""Car, truck." He shrugged. "It's still a hit-and-run."It was the same story, repeated half a dozen times by theman's neighbors. Sometime between seven-fifteen and seven-thirtyA.M., there'd been a loud bang in the street. No one actuallysaw the event. They had simply heard the noise and foundthe man's body. Rizzoli had already considered, and rejected,the possibility that he was a jumper. This was a neighborhood oftwo-story buildings, nothing tall enough to explain such catastrophicdamage to a jumper's body. Nor did she see any evidenceof an explosion as the cause of this much anatomicaldisintegration."Hey, can I get my car out now?" the man said. "It's thatgreen Ford.""That one with the brains splattered on the trunk?""Yeah.""What do you think?" she snapped, and walked away to jointhe medical examiner, who was crouched in the middle of theroad, studying the asphalt. "People on this street are jerks," saidRizzoli. "No one gives a damn about the victim. No one knowswho he is, either."Dr. Ashford Tierney didn't look up at her but just kept staringat the road. Beneath sparse strands of silver hair, his scalpglistened with sweat. Dr. Tierney seemed older and more wearythan she had ever seen him. Now, as he tried to rise, he reachedout in a silent request for assistance. She took his hand and shecould feel, transmitted through that hand, the creak of tiredbones and arthritic joints. He was an old southern gentleman, anative of Georgia, and he'd never warmed to Rizzoli's Bostonbluntness, just as she had never warmed to his formality. Theonly thing they had in common was the human remains thatpassed across Dr. Tierney's autopsy table. But as she helped himto his feet, she was saddened by his frailty and reminded of herown grandfather, whose favorite grandchild she had been, perhapsbecause he'd recognized himself in her pride, her tenaciousness.She remembered helping him out of his easy chair,how his stroke-numbed hand had rested like a claw on her arm.Even men as fierce as Aldo Rizzoli are ground down by time tobrittle bones and joints. She could see its effect in Dr. Tierney,who wobbled in the heat as he took out his handkerchief anddabbed the sweat from his forehead."This is one doozy of a case to close out my career," he said."So tell me, are you coming to my retirement party, Detective?""Uh . . . what party?" said Rizzoli."The one you all are planning to surprise me with."She sighed. Admitted, "Yeah, I'm coming.""Ha. I always could get a straight answer from you. Is it nextweek?""Two weeks. And I didn't tell you, okay?""I'm glad you did." He looked down at the asphalt. "I don'tmuch like surprises.""So what do we have here, Doc? Hit-and-run?""This seems to be the point of impact."Rizzoli looked down at the large splash of blood. Then shelooked at the sheet-draped corpse, which was lying a goodtwelve feet away, on the sidewalk."You're saying he first hit the ground here, and then bouncedway over there?" said Rizzoli."It would appear so.""That's got to be a pretty big truck to cause this much splatter.""Not a truck," was Tierney's enigmatic answer. He startedwalking along the road, eyes focused downward.Rizzoli followed him, batting at swarms of flies. Tierneycame to a stop about thirty feet away and pointed to a grayishclump on the curb."More brain matter," he noted."A truck didn't do this?" said Rizzoli."No. Or a car, either.""What about the tire marks on the vic's shirt?"Tierney straightened, his eyes scanning the street, the sidewalks,the buildings. "Do you notice something quite interestingabout this scene, Detective?""Apart from the fact there's a dead guy over there who'smissing his brain?""Look at the point of impact." Tierney gestured toward thespot in the road where he'd been crouching earlier. "See the dispersalpattern of body parts?""Yeah. He splattered in all directions. Point of impact is atthe center.""Correct.""It's a busy street," said Rizzoli. "Vehicles do come aroundthat corner too fast. Plus, the vic has tire marks on his shirt.""Let's go look at those marks again."As they walked back to the corpse, they were joined by BarryFrost, who had finally emerged from the car, looking wan and alittle embarrassed."Man, oh man," he groaned."Are you okay?" she asked."You think maybe I picked up the stomach flu or something?""Or something." She'd always liked Frost, had always appreciatedhis sunny and uncomplaining nature, and she hated tosee his pride laid so low. She gave him a pat on the shoulder, amotherly smile. Frost seemed to invite mothering, even from thedecidedly unmaternal Rizzoli. "I'll just pack you a barf bag nexttime," she offered."You know," he said, trailing after her, "I really do think it'sjust the flu. . . ."They reached the torso. Tierney grunted as he squatteddown, his joints protesting the latest insult, and lifted the disposablesheet. Frost blanched and retreated a step. Rizzolifought the impulse to do the same.The torso had broken into two parts, separated at the levelof the umbilicus. The top half, wearing a beige cotton shirt,stretched east to west. The bottom half, wearing blue jeans, laynorth to south. The halves were connected by only a few strandsof skin and muscle. The internal organs had spilled out and layin a pulpified mass. The back half of the skull had shatteredopen, and the brain had been ejected."Young male, well nourished, appears to be of Hispanic orMediterranean origin, in his twenties to thirties," said Tierney."I see obvious fractures of the thoracic spine, ribs, clavicles, andskull.""Couldn't a truck do this?" Rizzoli asked."It's certainly possible a truck could have caused massive injurieslike these." He looked at Rizzoli, his pale-blue eyes chal-lenging hers. "But no one heard or saw such a vehicle. Didthey?""Unfortunately, no," she admitted.Frost finally managed a comment. "You know, I don't thinkthose are tire tracks on his shirt."Rizzoli focused on the black streaks across the front of thevictim's shirt. With a gloved hand, she touched one of thesmears, and looked at her finger. A smudge of black had transferredto her latex glove. She stared at it for a moment, processingthis new information."You're right," she said. "It's not a tire track. It's grease."She straightened and looked at the road. She saw no bloodytire marks, no auto debris. No pieces of glass or plastic thatwould have shattered on impact with a human body.For a moment, no one spoke. They just looked at one another,as the only possible explanation suddenly clicked intoplace. As if to confirm the theory, a jet roared overhead. Rizzolisquinted upward, to see a 747 glide past, on its landing approachto Logan International Airport, five miles to the north-east."Oh, Jesus," said Frost, shading his eyes against the sun."What a way to go. Please tell me he was already dead when hefell.""There's a good chance of it," said Tierney. "I would guesshis body slipped out as the wheels came down, on landing approach.That's assuming it was an inbound flight.""Well, yeah," said Rizzoli. "How many stowaways are tryingto get out of the country?" She looked at the dead man's olivecomplexion. "So he's coming in on a plane, say, from SouthAmerica--""It would've been flying at an altitude of at least thirty thousandfeet," said Tierney. "Wheel wells aren't pressurized. Astowaway would be dealing with rapid decompression. Frostbite.Even in high summer, the temperatures at those altitudes arefreezing. A few hours under those conditions, he'd be hypothermicand unconscious from lack of oxygen. Or already crushedwhen the landing gear retracted on takeoff. A prolonged ride inthe wheel well would probably finish him off."Rizzoli's pager cut into the lecture. And a lecture it wouldsurely turn into; Dr. Tierney was just beginning to hit his professorialstride. She glanced at the number on her beeper but didnot recognize it. A Newton prefix. She reached for her cellphone and dialed."Detective Korsak," a man answered."This is Rizzoli. Did you page me?""You on a cell phone, Detective?""Yes.""Can you get to a landline?""Not at the moment, no." She did not know who DetectiveKorsak was, and she was anxious to cut this call short. "Whydon't you tell me what this is about?"A pause. She heard voices in the background and the crackleof a cop's walkie-talkie. "I'm at a scene out here in Newton," hesaid. "I think you should come out and see this.""Are you requesting Boston P.D. assistance? Because I can referyou to someone else in our unit.""I tried reaching Detective Moore, but they said he's onleave. That's why I'm calling you." Again he paused. And added,with quiet significance: "It's about that case you and Mooreheaded up last summer. You know the one."She fell silent. She knew exactly what he was referring to.The memories of that investigation still haunted her, still surfacedin her nightmares."Go on," she said softly."You want the address?" he asked.She took out her notepad.A moment later, she hung up and turned her attention backto Dr. Tierney."I've seen similar injuries in sky divers whose parachutes failto open," he said. "From that height, a falling body would reachterminal velocity. That's nearly two hundred feet per second. It'senough to cause the disintegration we see here.""It's a hell of a price to pay to get to this country," said Frost.Another jet roared overhead, its shadow swooping past likean eagle's.Rizzoli gazed up at the sky. Imagined a body falling, tumblinga thousand feet. Thought of the cold air whistling past.And then warmer air, as the ground spins ever closer.She looked at the sheet-draped remains of a man who haddared to dream of a new world, a brighter future.Welcome to America.The Newton patrolman posted in front of the house was just arookie, and he did not recognize Rizzoli. He stopped her at theperimeter of the police tape and addressed her with a brusquetone that matched his newly minted uniform. His name tagsaid: RIDGE."This is a crime scene, ma'am.""I'm Detective Rizzoli, Boston P.D. Here to see DetectiveKorsak.""I.D., please."She hadn't expected such a request, and she had to dig in herpurse for her badge. In the city of Boston, just about every patrolmanknew exactly who she was. One short drive out of herterritory, into this well-heeled suburb, and suddenly she was reducedto fumbling for her badge. She held it right up to his nose.He took one look and flushed. "I'm really sorry, ma'am. See,there was this asshole reporter who talked her way past me justa few minutes ago. I wasn't gonna let that happen again.""Is Korsak inside?""Yes, ma'am."She eyed the jumble of vehicles parked on the street, amongthem a white van with COMMONWEALTH OF MASSACHUSETTS,OFFICE OF THE MEDICAL EXAMINER stenciled on the side."How many victims?" she asked."One. They're getting ready to move him out now."The patrolman lifted the tape to let her pass into the frontyard. Birds chirped and the air smelled like sweet grass. You'renot in South Boston anymore, she thought. The landscapingwas immaculate, with clipped boxwood hedges and a lawn thatwas bright Astro Turf green. She paused on the brick walkwayand stared up at the roofline with its Tudor accents. Lord of thefake English manor was what came to mind. This was not a house,nor a neighborhood, that an honest cop could ever afford."Some digs, huh?" Patrolman Ridge called out to her."What did this guy do for a living?""I hear he was some kind of surgeon."Surgeon. For her, the word had special meaning, and thesound of it pierced her like an icy needle, chilling her even onthis warm day. She looked at the front door and saw that theknob was sooty with fingerprint powder. She took a deep breath,pulled on latex gloves, and slipped paper booties over her shoes.Inside, she saw polished oak floors and a stairwell that roseto cathedral heights. A stained-glass window let in glowinglozenges of color.She heard the whish-whish of paper shoe covers, and a bear ofa man lumbered into the hallway. Though he was dressed inbusinesslike attire, with a neatly knotted tie, the effect was ruinedby the twin continents of sweat staining his underarms. Hisshirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing beefy arms bristling withdark hair. "Rizzoli?" he asked."One and the same."He came toward her, arm outstretched, then remembered hewas wearing gloves and let his hand fall again. "Vince Korsak.Sorry I couldn't say more over the phone, but everyone's got ascanner these days. Already had one reporter worm her way inhere. What a bitch.""So I heard.""Look, I know you're probably wondering what the hellyou're doing way out here. But I followed your work last year.You know, the Surgeon killings. I thought you'd want to seethis."Her mouth had gone dry. "What've you got?""Vic's in the family room. Dr. Richard Yeager, age thirty-six.Orthopedic surgeon. This is his residence."She glanced up at the stained-glass window. "You Newtonboys get the upscale homicides.""Hey, Boston P.D. can have 'em all. This isn't supposed tohappen out here. Especially weird shit like this."Korsak led the way down the hall, into the family room. Rizzoli'sfirst view was of brilliant sunlight flooding through a two-storywall of ground-to-ceiling windows. Despite the number ofcrime scene techs at work here, the room felt spacious and stark,all white walls and gleaming wood floors.And blood. No matter how many crime scenes she walkedinto, that first sight of blood always shocked her. A comet's tailof arterial splatter had shot across the wall and trickled down instreamers. The source of that blood, Dr. Richard Yeager, sat withhis back propped up against the wall, his wrists bound behindhim. He was wearing only boxer shorts, and his legs werestretched out in front of him, the ankles bound with duct tape.His head lolled forward, obscuring her view of the wound thathad released the fatal hemorrhage, but she did not need to seethe slash to know that it had gone deep, to the carotid and thewindpipe. She was already too familiar with the aftermath ofsuch a wound, and she could read his final moments in the patternof blood: the artery spurting, the lungs filling up, the victimaspirating through his severed windpipe. Drowning in his ownblood. Exhaled tracheal spray had dried on his bare chest. Judgingby his broad shoulders and his musculature, he had beenphysically fit--surely capable of fighting back against an attacker.Yet he had died with head bowed, in a posture of obeisance.The two morgue attendants had already brought in theirstretcher and were standing by the body, considering how bestto move a corpse that was frozen in rigor mortis."When the M.E. saw him at ten A.M.," said Korsak, "livormortis was fixed, and he was in full rigor. She estimated the timeof death somewhere between midnight and three A.M.""Who found him?""His office nurse. When he didn't show up at the clinic thismorning and he didn't answer his phone, she drove over tocheck on him. Found him around nine A.M. There's no sign ofhis wife."Rizzoli looked at Korsak. "Wife?""Gail Yeager, age thirty-one. She's missing."The chill Rizzoli had felt standing by the Yeagers' front doorwas back again. "An abduction?""I'm just saying she's missing."Rizzoli stared at Richard Yeager, whose muscle-bound bodyhad proved no match for Death. "Tell me about these people.Their marriage.""Happy couple. That's what everyone says.""That's what they always say.""In this case, it does seem to be true. Only been married twoyears. Bought this house a year ago. She's an O.R. nurse at hishospital, so they had the same circle of friends, same workschedule.""That's a lot of togetherness.""Yeah, I know. It'd drive me bonkers if I had to hang aroundwith my wife all day. But they seemed to get along fine. Lastmonth, he took two whole weeks off, just to stay home with herafter her mother died. How much you figure an orthopedic surgeonmakes in two weeks, huh? Fifteen, twenty thousand bucks?That's some expensive comfort he was giving her.""She must have needed it."Korsak shrugged. "Still.""So you found no reason why she'd walk out on him.""Much less whack him."Rizzoli glanced at the family room windows. Trees andshrubbery blocked any view of neighboring houses. "You saidthe time of death was between midnight and three.""Yeah.""Did the neighbors hear anything?""Folks to the left are in Paris. Ooh la la. Neighbors to theright slept soundly all night.""Forced entry?""Kitchen window. Screen pried off, used a glass cutter. Sizeeleven shoeprints in the flower bed. Same prints tracked bloodin this room." He took out a handkerchief and wiped his moistforehead. Korsak was one of those unlucky individuals for whomno antiperspirant was powerful enough. Just in the few minutesthey'd been conversing, the sweat stains in his shirt had spread."Okay, let's slide him away from the wall," one of themorgue attendants said. "Tip him onto the sheet.""Watch the head! It's slipping!""Aw, Jesus."Rizzoli and Korsak fell silent as Dr. Yeager was laid sidewayson a disposable sheet. Rigor mortis had stiffened the corpse intoa ninety-degree angle, and the attendants debated how toarrange him on the stretcher, given his grotesque posture.Rizzoli suddenly focused on a chip of white lying on thefloor, where the body had been sitting. She crouched down to retrievewhat appeared to be a tiny shard of china."Broken teacup," said Korsak."What?""There was a teacup and saucer next to the victim. Lookedlike it fell off his lap or something. We've already packed it upfor prints." He saw her puzzled look and he shrugged. "Don'task me.""Symbolic artifact?""Yeah. Ritual tea party for the dead guy."She stared at the small chip of china lying in her gloved palmand considered what it meant. A knot had formed in her stomach.A terrible sense of familiarity. A slashed throat. Duct tapebindings. Nocturnal entry through a window. The victim or victims surprisedwhile asleep.And a missing woman."Where's the bedroom?" she asked. Not wanting to see it.Afraid to see it."Okay. This is what I wanted you to look at."The hallway that led to the bedroom was hung with framedblack-and-white photographs. Not the smiling-family poses thatmost houses displayed, but stark images of female nudes, thefaces obscured or turned from the camera, the torsos anonymous.A woman embracing a tree, smooth skin pressed againstrough bark. A seated woman bent forward, her long hair cascadingdown between her bare thighs. A woman reaching for thesky, torso glistening with the sweat of vigorous exercise. Rizzolipaused to study a photo that had been knocked askew."These are all the same woman," she said."It's her.""Mrs. Yeager?""Looks like they had a kinky thing going, huh?"She stared at Gail Yeager's finely toned body. "I don't thinkit's kinky at all. These are beautiful pictures.""Yeah, whatever. Bedroom's in here." He pointed throughthe doorway.She stopped at the threshold. Inside was a king-size bed, itscovers thrown back, as though its occupants had been abruptlyroused from sleep. On the shell-pink carpet, the nylon pile hadbeen flattened in two separate swaths leading from the bed tothe doorway.Rizzoli said, softly, "They were both dragged from the bed."Korsak nodded. "Our perp surprises them in bed. Somehowsubdues them. Binds their wrists and ankles. Drags them acrossthe carpet and into the hallway, where the wood floor begins."She was baffled by the killer's actions. She imagined himstanding where she was now, looking in at the sleeping couple.A window high over the bed, uncurtained, would have spilledenough light to see which was the man and which the woman.He would go to Dr. Yeager first. It was the logical thing to do, tocontrol the man. Leave the woman for later. This much Rizzolicould envision. The approach, the initial attack. What she didnot understand was what came next."Why move them?" she said. "Why not kill Dr. Yeager righthere? What was the point of bringing them out of the bedroom?""I don't know." He pointed through the doorway. "It's allbeen photographed. You can go in."Reluctantly she entered the room, avoiding the drag markson the carpet, and crossed to the bed. She saw no blood on thesheets or the covers. On one pillow was a long blond strand--Mrs. Yeager's side of the bed, she thought. She turned to thedresser, where a framed photograph of the couple confirmedthat Gail Yeager was indeed a blonde. A pretty one, too, withlight-blue eyes and a dusting of freckles on deeply tanned skin.Dr. Yeager had his arm draped around her shoulder and projectedthe brawny confidence of a man who knows he is physicallyimposing. Not a man who would one day end up dead inhis underwear, his hands and feet bound."It's on the chair," said Korsak."What?""Look at the chair."She turned to face the corner of the room and saw an antiqueladder-back chair. Lying on the seat was a folded nightgown.Moving closer, she saw bright spatters of red staining thecream satin.The hairs on the back of her neck were suddenly bristling,and for a few seconds she forgot to breathe.She reached down and lifted one corner of the garment. Theunderside of the fold was spattered as well."We don't know whose blood it is," said Korsak. "It could beDr. Yeager's; it could be the wife's.""It was already stained before he folded it.""But there's no other blood in this room. Which means itgot splattered in the other room. Then he brought it into thisbedroom. Folded it nice and neat. Placed it on that chair, like alittle parting gift." Korsak paused. "Does that remind you ofsomeone?"She swallowed. "You know it does.""This killer is copying your boy's old signature.""No, this is different. This is all different. The Surgeon neverattacked couples.""The folded nightclothes. The duct tape. The victims surprisedin bed.""Warren Hoyt chose single women. Victims he could quicklysubdue.""But look at the similarities! I'm telling you, we've got acopycat. Some wacko who's been reading about the Surgeon."Rizzoli was still staring at the nightgown, remembering otherbedrooms, other scenes of death. It had happened during a summerof unbearable heat, like this one, when women slept withtheir windows open and a man named Warren Hoyt crept intotheir homes. He brought with him his dark fantasies and hisscalpels, the instruments with which he performed his bloodyrituals on victims who were awake and aware of every slice of hisblade. She gazed at that nightgown, and a vision of Hoyt's utterlyordinary face sprang clearly to mind, a face that still surfacedin her nightmares.But this is not his work. Warren Hoyt is safely locked away in aplace he can't escape. I know, because I put the bastard there myself."The Boston Globe printed every juicy detail," said Korsak."Your boy even made it into the New York Times. Now this perpis reenacting it.""No, your killer is doing things Hoyt never did. He drags thiscouple out of the bedroom, into another room. He props up theman in a sitting position, then slashes his neck. It's more like anexecution. Or part of a ritual. Then there's the woman. He killsthe husband, but what does he do with the wife?" She stopped,suddenly remembering the shard of china on the floor. The brokenteacup. Its significance blew through her like an icy wind.Without a word, she walked out of the bedroom and returnedto the family room. She looked at the wall where the corpse ofDr. Yeager had been sitting. She looked down at the floor and beganto pace a wider and wider circle, studying the spatters ofblood on the wood."Rizzoli?" said Korsak.She turned to the windows and squinted against the sunlight."It's too bright in here. And there's so much glass. Wecan't cover it all. We'll have to come back tonight.""You thinking of using a Lumalite?""We'll need ultraviolet to see it.""What are you looking for?"She turned back to the wall. "Dr. Yeager was sitting therewhen he died. Our unknown subject dragged him from the bedroom.Propped him up against that wall, and made him face thecenter of the room.""Okay.""Why was he placed there? Why go to all that trouble whilethe victim's still alive? There had to be a reason.""What reason?""He was put there to watch something. To be a witness towhat happened in this room."At last Korsak's face registered appalled comprehension. Hestared at the wall, where Dr. Yeager had sat, an audience of onein a theater of horror."Oh, Jesus," he said.