The Bone Collector

by Jeffery Deaver

  "The mayor?"

  "Well, deputy mayor."

  "And you held 'em all off?"

  "Nobody got into that scene except Latents and Photography. Of course my payback was spending six months printing floaters. But we nailed the perp with some trace and a print off one of those Polaroids--happened to be the same snap the Post used on page one, as a matter of fact. Just like what you did yesterday morning, Sachs. Closing off the tracks and Eleventh Avenue."

  "I didn't think about it," she said. "I just did it. Why're you looking at me that way?"

  "Come on, Sachs. You know where you ought to be. On the street. Patrol, Major Crimes, IRD, doesn't matter . . . But Public Affairs? You'll rot there. It's a good job for some people but not you. Don't give up so fast."

  "Oh, and you're not giving up? What about Berger?"

  "Things're a little different with me."

  Her glance questioned, They are? And she went prowling for a Kleenex. When she returned to the chair she asked, "You don't carry any corpses around with you?"

  "I have in my day. They're all buried now."

  "Tell me."

  "Really, there's nothing--"

  "Not true. I can tell. Come on--I showed you mine."

  He felt an odd chill. He knew it wasn't dysreflexia. His smile faded.

  "Rhyme, go on," she persisted. "I'd like to hear."

  "Well, there was a case a few years ago," he said, "I made a mistake. A bad mistake."

  "Tell me." She poured them each another finger of the Scotch.

  "It was a domestic murder-suicide call. Husband and wife in a Chinatown apartment. He shot her, killed himself. I didn't have much time for the scene; I worked it fast. And I committed a classic error--I'd made up my mind about what I was going to find before I started looking. I found some fibers that I couldn't place but I assumed that the husband and wife'd tracked them in. I found the bullet fragments but didn't check them against the gun we found at the scene. I noticed the blowback pattern but didn't grid it to double-check the exact position of the gun. I did the search, signed off and went back to the office."

  "What happened?"

  "The scene had been staged. It was really a burglary-murder. And the perp had never left the apartment."

  "What? He was still there?"

  "After I left he crawled out from under the bed and started shooting. He killed one forensic tech and wounded an assistant ME. He got out on the street and there was a shootout with a couple of portables who'd heard the 10-13. The perp was shot up--he died later--but he killed one of the cops and wounded the other. He also shot up a family that'd just come out of a Chinese restaurant across the street. Used one of the kids as a shield."

  "Oh, my God."

  "Colin Stanton was the father's name. He wasn't hurt at all and he'd been an army medic--EMS said he probably could've saved his wife or one or both of the kids if he'd tried to stop the bleeding but he panicked and froze. He just stood there, watching them all die in front of him."

  "Jesus, Rhyme. But it wasn't your fault. You--"

  "Let me finish. That wasn't the end of it."

  "No?"

  "The husband went back home--upstate New York. Had a breakdown and went into a mental hospital for a while. He tried to kill himself. They put him under a suicide watch. First he tried to cut his wrist with a piece of paper--a magazine cover. Then he sneaked into the library and found a water glass in the librarian's bathroom, shattered it and slashed his wrists. They stitched him up okay and kept him in the mental hospital for another year or so. Finally they released him. A month or so after he was out he tried again. Used a knife." Rhyme added coolly, "That time it worked."

  He'd learned about Stanton's death in an obituary faxed from the Albany County coroner to NYPD Public Affairs. Someone there had sent it to Rhyme via interoffice mail with a Post-It attached: FYI--thought you'd be interested, the officer had written.

  "There was an IA investigation. Professional incompetence. They slapped my wrist. I think they should've fired me."

  She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. "And you're telling me you don't feel guilty about that?"

  "Not anymore."

  "I don't believe you."

  "I served my time, Sachs. I lived with those bodies for a while. But I gave 'em up. If I hadn't, how could I have kept on working?"

  After a long moment she said, "When I was eighteen I got a ticket. Speeding. I was doing ninety in a forty zone."

  "Well."

  "Dad said he'd front me the money for the fine but I'd have to pay him back. With interest. But you know what else he told me? He said he would've tanned my hide for running a red light or reckless driving. But going fast he understood. He told me, 'I know how you feel, honey. When you move they can't getcha.' " Sachs said to Rhyme, "If I couldn't drive, if I couldn't move, then maybe I'd do it too. Kill myself."

  "I used to walk everywhere," Rhyme said. "I never did drive much. Haven't owned a car in twenty years. What kind do you have?"

  "Nothing a snooty Manhattanite like you'd drive. A Chevy. Camaro. It was my father's."

  "Who gave you the drill press? For working on cars, I assume?"

  She nodded. "And a torque wrench. And spark-gap set. And my first set of ratcheting sockets--my thirteenth-birthday present." Laughing softly. "That Chevy, it's a wobbly-knob car. You know what that is? An American car. The radio and vents and light switches are all loose and cheesy. But the suspension's like a rock, it's light as an egg crate and I'll take on a BMW any day."

  "And I'll bet you have."

  "Once or twice."

  "Cars are status in the crip world," Rhyme explained. "We'd sit--or lie--around the ward in rehab and talk about what we could get out of our insurance companies. Wheelchair vans were the top of the heap. Next are hand-control cars. Which wouldn't do me any good of course." He squinted, testing his supple memory. "I haven't been in a car in years. I can't remember the last time."

  "Got an idea," Sachs said suddenly. "Before your friend--Dr. Berger--comes back, let me take you for a ride. Or is that a problem? Sitting up? You were saying that wheelchairs don't work for you."

  "Well, no, wheelchairs're a problem. But a car? I think that'd be okay." He laughed. "A hundred and sixty-eight? Miles per hour?"

  "That was a special day," Sachs said, nodding at the memory. "Good conditions. And no highway patrol."

  The phone buzzed and Rhyme answered it himself. It was Lon Sellitto.

  "We got S&S on all the target churches in Harlem. Dellray's in charge of that--man's become a true believer, Lincoln. You wouldn't recognize him. Oh, and I've got thirty portables and a ton of UN security cruising for any other churches we might've missed. If he doesn't show up, we're going to do a sweep of all of them at seven-thirty. Just in case he snuck in without us seeing him. I think we're going to nail him, Linc," the detective said, suspiciously enthusiastic for a New York City homicide cop.

  "Okay, Lon, I'll send Amelia up to your CP around eight."

  They hung up.

  Thom knocked on the door before coming into the room.

  As if he'd catch us in a compromising position, Rhyme laughed to himself.

  "No more excuses," he said testily. "Bed. Now."

  It was after 3:00 a.m. and Rhyme had left exhaustion far behind long ago. He was floating somewhere else. Above his body. He wondered if he'd start to hallucinate.

  "Yes, Mother," he said. "Officer Sachs's staying over, Thom. Could you get her a blanket, please?"

  "What did you say?" Thom turned to face him.

  "A blanket."

  "No, after that," the aide said. "That word?"

  "I don't know. 'Please'?"

  Thom's eyes went wide with alarm. "Are you all right? You want me to get Pete Taylor back here? The head of Columbia-Presbyterian? The surgeon general?"

  "See how this son of a bitch torments me?" Rhyme said to Sachs. "He never knows how close he comes to getting fired."

  "A wake-up call for when?" />
  "Six-thirty should be fine," Rhyme said.

  When he was gone, Rhyme asked, "Hey, Sachs, you like music?"

  "Love it."

  "What kind?"

  "Oldies, doo-wop, Motown . . . How 'bout you? You seem like a classical kind of guy."

  "See that closet there?"

  "This one?"

  "No, no, the other one. To the right. Open it up."

  She did and gasped in amazement. The closet was a small room filled with close to a thousand CDs.

  "It's like Tower Records."

  "That stereo, see it on the shelf?"

  She ran her hand over the dusty black Harmon Kardon.

  "It cost more than my first car," Rhyme said. "I don't use it anymore."

  "Why not?"

  He didn't answer but said instead, "Put something on. Is it plugged in? It is? Good. Pick something."

  A moment later she stepped out of the closet and walked over to the couch as Levi Stubbs and the Four Tops started singing about love.

  It had been a year since there'd been a note of music in this room, Rhyme estimated. Silently he tried to answer Sachs's question about why he'd stopped listening. He couldn't.

  Sachs lifted files and books off the couch. Lay back on it and thumbed through a copy of Scenes of the Crime.

  "Can I have one?" she asked.

  "Take ten."

  "Will you . . ." Her voice braked to a halt.

  "Sign it for you?" He laughed. She joined him. "How 'bout if I put my thumbprint on it? Graphoanalysts'll never give you more than an eighty-five percent probability of a handwriting match. But a thumbprint? Any friction-ridge expert'll certify it's mine."

  He watched her read the first chapter. Her eyes drooped. She closed the book.

  "Will you do something for me?" she asked.

  "What?"

  "Read to me. Something from the book. When Nick and I were together . . ." Her voice faded.

  "What?"

  "When we were together, a lot of times Nick'd read out loud before we went to sleep. Books, the paper, magazines . . . It's one of the things I miss the most."

  "I'm a terrible reader," Rhyme confessed. "I sound like I'm reciting crime scene reports. But I've got this memory . . . It's pretty good. How 'bout if I just tell you about some scenes?"

  "Would you?" She turned her back, pulled her navy blouse off and unstrapped the thin American Body Armor vest, tossed it aside. Beneath it she wore a mesh T-shirt and under that a sports bra. She pulled the blouse back on and lay on the couch, pulling the blanket over her, and curled up on her side, closed her eyes.

  With the environmental-control unit Rhyme dimmed the lights.

  "I always found the sites of death fascinating," he began. "They're like shrines. We're a lot more interested in where people bought the big one than where they were born. Take John Kennedy. A thousand people a day visit the Texas Book Depository in Dallas. How many you think make pilgrimages to some obstetrics ward in Boston?"

  Rhyme nestled his head in the luxurious softness of the pillow. "Is this boring you?"

  "No," she said. "Please don't stop."

  "You know what I've always wondered about, Sachs?"

  "Tell me."

  "It's fascinated me for years--Calvary. Two thousand years ago. Now, there's a crime scene I'd like to've worked. I know what you're going to say: But we know the perps. Well, do we? All we really know is what the witnesses tell us. Remember what I say--never trust a wit. Maybe those Bible accounts aren't what happened at all. Where's the proof? The PE. The nails, blood, sweat, the spear, the cross, the vinegar. Sandal prints and friction ridges."

  Rhyme turned his head slightly to the left and he continued to talk about crime scenes and evidence until Sachs's chest rose and fell steadily and faint strands of her fiery red hair blew back and forth under her shallow breath. With his left index finger he flipped through the ECU control and shut off the light. He too was soon asleep.

  A faint light of dawn was in the sky.

  Awakening, Carole Ganz could see it through the chicken-wire-impregnated glass above her head. Pammy. Oh, baby . . . Then she thought of Ron. And all her possessions sitting in that terrible basement. The money, the yellow knapsack . . .

  Mostly, though, she was thinking about Pammy.

  Something had wakened her from a light, troubled sleep. What was it?

  The pain from her wrist? It throbbed horribly. She adjusted herself slightly. She--

  The tubular howl of a pipe organ and a rising chorus of voices filled the room again.

  That's what had wakened her. Music. A crashing wave of music. The church wasn't abandoned. There were people around! She laughed to herself. Somebody would--

  And that was when she remembered the bomb.

  Carole peered around the filing cabinet. It was still there, teetering on the edge of the table. It had the crude look of real bombs and murder weapons--not the slick, shiny gadgets you see in movies. Sloppy tape, badly stripped wires, dirty gasoline . . . Maybe it's a dud, she thought. In the daylight it didn't look so dangerous.

  Another burst of music. It came from directly over her head. Accompanied by a shuffling of footsteps. A door closed. Creaks and groans as people moved around the old, dry wood floors. Plumes of dust fell from the joists.

  The soaring voices were cut off in mid-passage. A moment later they started singing again.

  Carole banged with her feet but the floor was concrete, the walls brick. She tried to scream but the sound was swallowed by the gag. The rehearsal continued, the solemn, vigorous music rattling through the basement.

  After ten minutes Carole collapsed on the floor in exhaustion. Her eyes were drawn back to the bomb again. Now the light was better and she could see the timer clearly.

  Carole squinted. The timer!

  It wasn't a dud at all. The arrow was set for 6:15 a.m. The dial showed the time was now 5:30.

  Squirming her way farther behind the filing cabinet, Carole began to kick the metal sides with her knee. But whatever faint noises the blows made immediately vanished in the booming, mournful rendition of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" filling the church basement from above.

  IV

  DOWN TO

  THE BONE

  This only is denied the Gods: the power to remake the past.

  --ARISTOTLE

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sunday, 5:45 a.m., to Monday, 7:00 p.m.

  He awoke to a scent. As he often did.

  And--as on many mornings--he didn't at first open his eyes but just remained in his half-seated position, trying to figure out what the unfamiliar smell might be:

  The gassy scent of dawn air? The dew on the oil-slick streets? Damp plaster? He tried to detect the scent of Amelia Sachs but could not.

  His thoughts skipped over her and continued. What was it?

  Cleanser? No.

  A chemical from Cooper's impromptu lab?

  No, he recognized all of those.

  It was . . . Ah, yes . . . marking pen.

  Now he could open his eyes and--after a glance at sleeping Sachs to make certain she hadn't deserted him--found himself gazing at the Monet poster on the wall. That's where the smell was coming from. The hot, humid air of this August morning had wilted the paper and brought the scent out.

  knows CS proc.

  possibly has record

  knows FR prints

  gun = .32 Colt

  Ties vics w/ unusual knots

  "Old" appeals to him

  Called one vic "Hanna"

  Knows basic German

  Underground appeals to him

  The wall clock's pale numbers glowed: 5:45 a.m. His eyes returned to the poster. He couldn't see it clearly, just a ghostly pattern of pure white against a lesser white. But there was enough light from the dawn sky to make out most of the words.

  Dual personalities

  Maybe priest, soc. worker, counselor

  Unusual wear on shoes, reads a lot?

  Listened as he
broke vic's finger

  Left snake as slap at investigators

  The falcons were waking. He was aware of a flutter at the window. Rhyme's eyes skipped over the chart again. In his office at IRD he'd nailed up a dozen erasable marker boards and on them he'd keep a tally of the characteristics of the unsubs in major cases. He remembered: pacing, staring at them, wondering about the people they described.

  Molecules of paint, mud, pollen, leaf . . .

  Old building, pink marble

  Thinking about a clever jewel thief he and Lon had collared ten years ago. At Central Booking the perp had coyly said they'd never find the loot from the prior jobs but if they'd consider a plea he'd tell them where he'd hidden it. Rhyme had responded, "Well, we have been having some trouble figuring out where it is."

  "I'm sure you have," the snide crook said.

  "See," Rhyme continued, "we've narrowed it down to the stone wall in the coal bin of a Colonial farmhouse on the Connecticut River. About five miles north of Long Island Sound. I just can't tell whether the house is on the east bank or the west bank of the river."

  When the story made the rounds the phrase everybody used to describe the expression on the perp's face was: You had to fucking be there.

  Maybe it is magic, Sachs, he thought.

  At least 100 years old, prob. mansion or institutional

  He scanned the poster once again and closed his eyes, leaning back into his glorious pillow. It was then that he felt the jolt. Almost like a slap on his face. The shock rose to his scalp like spreading fire. Eyes wide, locked onto the poster.

  "Old" appeals to him

  "Sachs!" he cried. "Wake up!"

  She stirred and sat up. "What? What's. . . ?"

  Old, old, old . . .

  "I made a mistake," he said tersely. "There's a problem."

  She thought at first it was something medical and she leapt from the couch, reaching for Thom's medical bag.

  "No, the clues, Sachs, the clues . . . I got it wrong." His breathing was rapid and he ground his teeth together as he thought.

  She pulled her clothes on, sat back, her fingers disappearing automatically into her scalp, scratching. "What, Rhyme? What is it?"

  "The church. It might not be in Harlem." He repeated, "I made a mistake."

  Just like with the perp who killed Colin Stanton's family. In criminalistics you can nail down a hundred clues perfectly and it's the one you miss that gets people killed.