The Kill Room

by Jeffery Deaver

  "He was stabbed to death," Sellitto said, nodding.

  "Has to be," Rhyme said. "A knife blade is one to three millimeters in width, two to three centimeters in depth."

  Sachs: "And the killer tossed some glass onto de la Rua's body to make it look like he was killed accidentally as collateral damage."

  Sipping his sweet coffee, Sellitto muttered, "Pretty fucking smart. And he killed the guard too, the same way. Because he'd be a witness. But who did it?"

  Rhyme said, "Obviously. Five Sixteen. We know he was near suite twelve hundred around the time of the drone strike. And remember that a knife's his weapon of choice."

  Sachs said, "Well, we also know something else: Five Sixteen's a specialist. He wasn't doing this for the fun of it. He's working for somebody--somebody who wanted the reporter dead."

  Rhyme said, "Right, his boss is the one we want." His eyes were on the chart once more. "But who the hell is he?"

  "Metzger," Pulaski said.

  "Maybe," Rhyme said slowly.

  Laurel said, "Whoever it was knew Moreno was going to be in the Bahamas and that an STO was going to be executed. And when."

  "Rookie, you get on the motive issue. You're our Argentinian reporter maven. Who wanted him dead?"

  Pulaski asked, "Find out what stories he was working on, controversial ones?"

  "Well, yes, of course. And feathers he'd ruffled. But I also want to know his personal life--people he knew, investments he'd made, family, vacation places he went to, real estate he owned."

  "You mean everything? Like who he was sleeping with?"

  Rhyme muttered, "I'll let you get away with a preposition at the end of that sentence but I won't allow the improper pronoun."

  "Sorry. I should've said, 'with who him was sleeping,'" the young officer fired back.

  Laughter all around.

  "Okay, Ron, I probably deserved that. Yes, everything you can find."

  For an hour, then two, Pulaski, with Sachs helping, dug into the journalist's personal life and career and downloaded what articles and blog posts of his they could find.

  They printed out everything and brought it to the table in front of Rhyme.

  The young officer spread the material out and the criminalist began reading through those that were in English. Then he summoned Pulaski. "Ron, I need you to be Berlitz."

  "Who?"

  "Translate these headlines." Gesturing to the Spanish-language articles de la Rua had written.

  For another hour they went through the stories, Rhyme asking questions, which Pulaski translated quickly and with precision.

  Finally, Rhyme gazed up at the whiteboards.

  Robert Moreno Homicide

  Boldface indicates updated information

  Crime Scene 1. Suite 1200, South Cove Inn, New Providence Island, Bahamas.

  May 9.

  Victim 1: Robert Moreno. COD: Single gunshot wound to chest.

  Supplemental information: Moreno, 38, U.S. citizen, expatriate, living in Venezuela. Vehemently anti-American. Nickname: "the Messenger of Truth." Determined that "disappear into thin air" and "blowing them up" NOT terrorism references.

  Shoes contained fibers associated with carpet in hotel corridor, dirt from hotel entryway, also crude oil.

  Clothing contained traces of breakfast: pastry flakes, jam and bacon, also crude oil.

  Spent three days in NYC, April 30-May 2. May 1, used Elite Limousine.

  Driver Tash Farada. (Regular driver Vlad Nikolov was sick. Trying to locate. Prob. homicide.)

  Closed accounts at American Independent Bank and Trust, prob. other banks too.

  Drove around city with interpreter Lydia Foster (killed by Unsub 516).

  Reason for anti-U.S. feelings: best friend killed by U.S. troops in Panama invasion, 1989.

  Moreno's last trip to U.S. Never would return.

  Meeting in Wall Street. No record of terrorist investigations in area.

  Met with unknown individuals at Russian, UAE (Dubai) charities and Brazilian consulate.

  Met with Henry Cross, head of Classrooms for the Americas. Reported that Moreno met with other charities, but doesn't know which. Man following Moreno, white and "tough looking." Private jet tailing Moreno? Blue color. Checking for identification. No leads.

  Victim 2: Eduardo de la Rua. COD: Loss of blood. Lacerations from knife wounds.

  Supplemental information: Journalist, interviewing Moreno. Born Puerto Rico, living in Argentina.

  Camera, tape recorder, gold pen, notebooks missing.

  Shoes contained fibers associated with carpet in hotel corridor, dirt from hotel entryway.

  Clothing contained traces of breakfast: allspice and pepper sauce.

  Victim 3: Simon Flores. COD: Loss of blood. Lacerations from knife wounds.

  Supplemental information: Moreno's bodyguard. Brazilian national, living in Venezuela.

  Rolex watch, Oakley sunglasses missing.

  Shoes contained fibers associated with carpet in hotel corridor, dirt from hotel entryway, also crude oil.

  Clothing contained traces of breakfast: pastry flakes, jam and bacon, also crude oil and cigarette ash.

  Chronology of Moreno in Bahamas. May 7. Arrived Nassau with Flores (guard).

  May 8. Meeting out of hotel all day.

  May 9. 9 a.m. Meeting two men about forming Local Empowerment Movement in Bahamas. 10:30 a.m. de la Rua arrives. At 11:15 a.m. Moreno shot.

  Suspect 1: Shreve Metzger. Director, National Intelligence and Operations Service.

  Mentally unstable? Anger issues.

  Manipulated evidence to illegally authorize Special Task Order?

  Divorced. Law degree, Yale.

  Suspect 2: Unsub 516. Determined not to be sniper.

  Possibly individual at South Cove Inn, May 8. Caucasian, male, mid 30s, short cut light brown hair, American accent, thin but athletic. Appears "military."

  Could be sniper's partner or hired by Metzger independently for clean-up and to stop investigation, or working for cartels.

  Determined to be perpetrator of Lydia Foster and Annette Bodel homicides, and IED attack at Java Hut.

  Amateur or professional chef or cook of some skill.

  Suspect 3: Barry Shales.

  Confirmed to be sniper, code name Don Bruns.

  39, former Air Force, decorated.

  Intelligence specialist at NIOS. Wife is teacher. Have two sons.

  Individual who placed a call to the South Cove Inn on May 7 to confirm arrival of Moreno. Call was from phone registered to Don Bruns, through NIOS cover company.

  Information Services datamining Shales.

  Voiceprint obtained.

  Drone pilot, who fired shot that killed Moreno.

  FAA and Bahamas air traffic control--evidence of drone's flight path and presence in Bahamas.

  Crime scene report, autopsy report, other details. Crime scene cleaned and contaminated by Unsub 516 and largely useless.

  General details: Bullet fired through and shattered floor-to-ceiling window, garden outside, poisonwood tree leaves cut back to 25 feet height. View to sniper's nest obscured by haze and pollution.

  47 fingerprints found; half analyzed, negative results. Others missing.

  Candy wrappers recovered.

  Cigarette ash recovered.

  Bullet lodged behind couch where Moreno's body was found, fired from drone. Fatal round.

  .420 caliber, made by Walker Defense Systems, NJ.

  Spitzer boattail round.

  Extremely high quality.

  Extremely high velocity and high power.

  Rare.

  Weapon: custom made.

  Trace on bullet: glass dust, fiber from Moreno's shirt and poisonwood tree leaf.

  Crime Scene 2. No sniper's nest involved; bullets fired from drone. "Kill Room" is drone command center.

  Crime Scene 2A. Apartment 3C, 182 Augusta Street, Nassau, Bahamas.

  May 15.

  Victim: Annette Bodel.

&
nbsp; COD: TBD, probably strangulation, asphyxiation.

  Suspect: Determined to be Unsub 516.

  Victim was probably tortured.

  Trace: Sand associated with sand found at Java Hut.

  Docosahexaenoic acid--fish oil. Likely caviar or roe. Ingredient in dish from NY restaurant.

  Two-stroke engine fuel.

  C8H8O3, vanillin. Ingredient in dish from NY restaurant.

  Crime Scene 3. Java Hut, Mott and Hester Streets.

  May 16.

  IED explosion, to destroy evidence of whistleblower.

  Victims: No fatalities, minor injuries.

  Suspect: Determined to be Unsub 516.

  Military-style device, anti-personnel, shrapnel. Semtex explosive. Available on arms market.

  Located customers in shop when whistleblower was present, canvassing for info, pictures.

  Trace: Sand from tropical region.

  Crime Scene 4. Apartment 230, 1187 Third Avenue.

  May 16.

  Victim: Lydia Foster.

  COD: Blood loss, shock from knife wounds.

  Suspect: Determined to be Unsub 516.

  Hair, brown and short (from Unsub 516), sent to CODIS for analysis.

  Trace: Glycyrrhiza glabra--licorice. Ingredient in dish from NY restaurant.

  Cynarine, chemical component of artichokes. Ingredient in dish from NY restaurant.

  Evidence of torture.

  All records of interpreting assignment for Robert Moreno on May 1 stolen.

  No cell phone or computer.

  Receipt for Starbucks where Lydia waited during Moreno's private meeting on May 1.

  Rumors of drug cartels behind the killings. Considered unlikely.

  Supplemental Investigation. Determine identity of Whistleblower. Unknown subject who leaked the Special Task Order.

  Sent via anonymous email.

  Traced through Taiwan to Romania to Sweden. Sent from New York area on public Wi-Fi, no government servers used.

  Used an old computer, probably from ten years ago, iBook, either clamshell model, two tone with other bright colors (like green or tangerine). Or could be traditional model, graphite color, but much thicker than today's laptops.

  Profile: Likely middle-aged male.

  Uses Splenda sweetener.

  Military background?

  Wears inexpensive suit, in unusual blue shade.

  Uses iBook.

  Possibly suffers from stomach disorder, uses Zantac.

  Individual in light-colored sedan following Det. A. Sachs. Make and model not determined.

  Of course, of course...

  "I think I've got it. I need to talk to Mychal Poitier again. And, Thom, bring the van around."

  "The--"

  "The van! We're going for a drive. Sachs, you're coming too. And you are armed, aren't you? Oh, and somebody call detention. Have Barry Shales released. The guy's been through enough."

  CHAPTER 82

  THE SKINNY FIFTY-YEAR-OLD was a lifer in the Department of Corrections.

  He was not, however, a prisoner but a guard and had been all his professional days. He actually liked the job, shepherding people through the Tombs.

  The nickname of the venue--technically the Manhattan Detention Complex--suggested a place that was worse than the truth. The word went back to the 1800s and was appropriate for a prison modeled after an Egyptian mausoleum, built on an incompetently filled swamp (adding to the aroma and illness that pervaded the place) and situated in the notorious Five Points district of Manhattan--described as "the most dangerous place on earth" at that time.

  In fact, the Tombs nowadays was just another lockup, although a damn big one.

  Calling into intercoms, using the code word for the day to open doors, the guard now strode down the hallway to a segregated set of cells reserved for special prisoners.

  Like the man he was now going to see. Barry Shales.

  Over his twenty-eight years as a guard here he had trained himself to have no opinion about his charges. Child killers and white-collar criminals who'd embezzled from people who probably should be embezzled from...it made no difference to him. His job was to keep order and make sure the system ran smoothly. And also to ease the difficult time these people were going through.

  After all, this was not prison but temporary detention, where individuals stayed until bail or transfer to Rikers or, in more than a few cases, freedom forever. Everybody here was presumably innocent. That was how the country worked.

  But the man whose cell he was now walking toward was different and the guard did have an opinion about him. It was an absolute tragedy that he'd been incarcerated here.

  The guard didn't know a lot about Barry Shales's background. But he did know that he was a former air force flier who'd fought in the war in Iraq. And that he worked for the government now, the federal government.

  And yet he'd been arrested for murder. But not for killing his wife or his wife's lover or anything like that. For killing some asshole terrorist.

  Arrested, even though he was a soldier, even though he was a hero.

  And the guard knew why he was here: because of politics. He'd been arrested because the party that wasn't in power had to fuck over the one that was, by making an example of this poor guy.

  The guard came to the cell and looked through the window.

  Funny.

  There was another prisoner in the cell, which the guard hadn't known about. It didn't make sense for him to be here. There was a second empty cell that the man should have been put into. The new prisoner was sitting off to the side, staring ahead blankly. The gaze made the guard feel uneasy. The eyes told you everything about the people here, much more than the crap they said.

  And what was with Shales? He was lying on his side on the bench, back to the door. He wasn't moving.

  The guard punched in the code and with a buzz the door opened.

  "Hey, Shales?"

  No movement.

  The second prisoner continued to stare at the wall. Scary fucker, the guard thought, and he was a man who didn't use that phrase lightly.

  "Shales?" The guard stepped closer.

  Suddenly the flier stirred and sat up. He turned slowly. The guard saw that Shales was holding his hands to his eyes. He'd been crying.

  No shame in that. Happened here all the time.

  Shales wiped his face.

  "On your feet, Shales. Got some news I think you're gonna like."

  CHAPTER 83

  AT HIS DESK SHREVE METZGER HEARD the siren but thought nothing of it.

  This was, after all, Manhattan. You always heard sirens. The same way you heard shouts, horns, the occasional scream, the caw of seagulls. Backfires...Well, staccato reports that were probably backfires.

  Just the background tapestry of the city.

  He hardly paid any mind, especially now, when he was trying to put out the raging forest fire that the Robert Moreno task order had become.

  The chaos swirled around him, the tornado of flame: Barry Shales and the goddamn whistleblower and that bitch of a prosecutor and the people inside and outside the government who had put together the Special Task Order program.

  Soon there'd be more tinder adding to the smolder: the press.

  Then of course, hovering over it all, was the Wizard.

  He wondered what the "budget conference" was deciding right at the moment.

  Metzger realized the sirens had stopped.

  And they'd stopped right outside his office.

  He rose and looked down. At the gated parking lot, where the Ground Control Station sat.

  All over with...

  It sure was.

  One unmarked car punctuated with flashing blue lights, one NYPD squad car, one van--maybe SWAT. The doors were open. The police were nowhere to be seen.

  Shreve Metzger knew where they were, though. No doubt of that, of course.

  A detail that was confirmed a moment later when the guard from downstairs called him on the security line
and asked in an uncertain voice, "Director?" He cleared his throat and continued, "There are some police officers here to see you."

  CHAPTER 84

  LINCOLN RHYME COULD TELL THAT SHREVE METZGER, looking the criminalist up and down, was surprised to see him.

  Maybe the fact that he was in a wheelchair had jarred him. But the man would have known that. The master of intelligence surely had been compiling files on everyone involved in the Moreno investigation.

  Maybe the surprise, ironically, was due to Rhyme's being in better shape than the NIOS head. Rhyme noted how benign Metzger looked: thin hair, scrawny physique, thick beige-framed glasses with a smudge on each lens. Rhyme would have thought a man who occasionally killed people for a living would be more grisly and sinister. Metzger had taken in Rhyme's muscular form, thick hair, square face. He'd blinked, a cryptic expression worthy of Nance Laurel.

  The man sat down at his desk and turned a gaze--this one unsurprised--toward Sachs and Sellitto. Only they were here; Laurel wasn't. This was, Rhyme had explained, a police matter, not prosecutorial. And there was a chance, though slight, it could be dangerous.

  He looked around. The office was pretty bland. Few decorations, some books that seemed unread--their spines uncracked--sat on untidy shelves. Some file cabinets with very large combination locks and iris scanners. Functional, mismatched furniture. On the ceiling a red light flashed silently, which meant, Rhyme knew, that visitors without security clearances were on the premises and all classified material should be put away or turned facedown.

  Which Metzger had dutifully done.

  In a soft voice, a controlled voice, the NIOS director said, "You understand I'm not saying anything to you."

  Lon Sellitto--the senior law enforcer here--started to reply but Rhyme interrupted with a wry: "Invoking the Supremacy Clause, are we?"

  "I don't owe you any answers."

  Breaking his own vow of silence.

  Suddenly Metzger's hands began shaking. His eyes narrowed and his breathing seemed to come more quickly. This happened in an instant. The transformation was alarming. Fast and certain as a snake leaping from quiescence to fang a mouse.

  "You think you can goddamn come in here..." He had to stop speaking. His jaw clenched too stridently.