Rhyme observed, "And he's gunning for Garrett."
"You got that right."
"Why?"
"Mason just about begged to be lead investigator on that case we were telling you about--the girl got stung to death in Blackwater. Meg Blanchard. Truth be told, I think the victim had, you know, some connection with Mason. Maybe they were going out. Maybe there was something else--I don't know. But he wanted to nail Garrett bad. But he just couldn't make the case against him. When it came time for the old sheriff to retire, the Board of Supervisors held that against him. I got the job and he didn't--even though he's older'n me and'd been on the force longer."
Rhyme shook his head. "We don't need hotheads in an operation like this. Pick somebody else."
"Ned Spoto?" Lucy suggested.
Bell shrugged. "He's a good man. Sure. Can shoot good but he also won't unless he for sure has to."
Rhyme said, "Just make sure Mason's nowhere near the search."
"He won't like it."
"That's not a consideration," Rhyme said. "Find something else for him to do. Something that sounds important."
"I'll do the best I can," Bell said uncertainly.
Steve Farr leaned into the doorway. "Just called the hospital," he announced. "Ed's still in critical condition."
"Has he said anything? About the map he saw?"
"Not a word. Still unconscious."
Rhyme turned to Sachs. "Okay ... Get going. Hold up where the trail stops in Blackwater Landing and wait to hear from me."
Lucy was looking uncertainly at the bags of evidence. "You really think this's the way to find those girls?"
"I know it is," Rhyme answered shortly.
She said skeptically, "Seems a little too much like magic to me."
Rhyme laughed. "Oh, that's exactly what it is. Sleight of hand, pulling rabbits out of hats. But remember that illusion is based on ... on what, Ben?"
The big man cleared his throat, blushed and shook his head. "Uhm, don't quite know what you mean, sir."
"Illusion's based on science. That's what." A glance at Sachs. "I'll call you as soon as I find something."
The two women and Jesse Corn left the evidence room.
And so, the precious evidence arrayed before him, the familiar equipment warmed up, internal politics disposed of, Lincoln Rhyme eased his head back against the wheelchair headrest and stared at the bags Sachs had delivered to him--willing, or coercing, or perhaps just allowing his mind to roam where his legs could not walk, to touch what his hands could not feel.
... chapter eight
The deputies were talking.
Mason Germain, arms crossed, leaning against the hallway wall beside the door that led to the Sheriff's Department deputy cubicles, could just hear their voices.
"How come we're just sitting here not doing anything?"
"No, no, no.... Didn't you hear? Jim's sent out a search party."
"Yeah? No, I didn't hear that."
Goddamn, thought Mason. Who hadn't heard it either.
"Lucy, Ned and Jesse. And that lady cop from Washington."
"Naw, it's New York. You see that hair of hers?"
"I don't care 'bout that hair of hers. I care 'bout finding Mary Beth and Lydia."
"I do too. I'm just saying..."
Mason's gut tightened further. They only sent four people out after the Insect Boy? Was Bell crazy?
He stormed up the corridor, on his way to the sheriff's office, and nearly collided with Bell himself as he walked out of the storeroom--where that weird guy, the one in the wheelchair, was set up. Bell glanced at the senior deputy with a surprised blink.
"Hey, Mason ... I was looking for you."
Not looking too hard, though, don't seem.
"I want you to get over to Rich Culbeau's place."
"Culbeau? What for?"
"Sue McConnell's offering some reward or 'nother for Mary Beth and he wants it. We don't need him to mess up the search. I want you to keep an eye on him. If he's not there just wait at his place till he shows up again."
Mason didn't even bother to respond to this bizarre request. "You sent Lucy out after Garrett. And didn't tell me."
Bell looked the deputy up and down. "She and a couple others're going over to Blackwater Landing, see if they can pick up his trail."
"You musta known I wanted to be in the search party."
"I can't send everybody. Culbeau's already been over to Blackwater Landing once today. I can't have him screwing up the search."
"Come on, Jim. Don't bullshit me."
Bell sighed. "All right. The truth? Being as you got a hard-on for that boy, Mason, I decided not to send you. I don't want any mistakes made. There're lives at stake. We've got to get him and get him fast."
"Which is my intent, Jim. As you ought to know. I been after this kid for three years. I can't believe you'd just cut me out and hand the case over to that freak in there--"
"Hey, enough of that."
"Come on. I know Blackwater ten times better'n Lucy. I used to live there. Remember?"
Bell lowered his voice. "You want him too bad, Mason. It could affect your judgment."
"Did you think of that? Or was it him?" Nodding to the room where Mason now heard the eerie whine of the wheelchair. It set him on edge like a dentist's drill. Bell asking that freak to help them out could cause all kinds of problems that Mason didn't even want to think about.
"Come on, facts is facts. The whole world knows how you feel about Garrett."
"And the whole world happens to agree with me."
"Well, the way I told you's the way it is. You're gonna have to live with it."
The deputy laughed bitterly. "So now I'm baby-sitting a redneck 'shiner."
Bell looked past Mason, motioned to another deputy. "Hey, Frank..."
The tall, round officer ambled over to the two men.
"Frank, you go with Mason here. Over to Rich Culbeau's."
"Gonna serve a warrant? What's he done now?"
"Naw, no papers. Mason'll fill you in. If Culbeau's not at his place just wait for him. And make sure him and his buddies don't go anywhere near the search party. You got that, Mason?"
The deputy didn't answer. He just turned and walked away from his boss, who called, "This's better for everybody."
Don't think so, Mason thought.
"Mason..."
But the man said nothing and strode into the deputies' room. Frank followed a moment later. Mason didn't acknowledge the cluster of uniformed men, talking about the Insect Boy and about pretty Mary Beth and about Billy Stail's incredible 92-yard runback. He walked to his office and dug a key out of his pocket. He unlocked his desk and took out an extra Speedloader, clipped in six .357 shells. He slipped the Speedloader into its leather case and hooked it to his belt. He stepped to the doorway of his office. His voice cut through the conversation in the room as he gestured toward Nathan Groomer--a strawberry-blond deputy of about thirty-five. "Groomer, I'm going to have a talk with Culbeau. You're coming with me."
"Well," Frank began slowly, holding the hat he'd fetched from his cubicle. "I thought Jim wanted me to go."
"I want Nathan," Mason said.
"Rich Culbeau?" Nathan asked. "Him and me're oil and water. I brought him in three times for DUI and hurt him some the last time. I'd take Frank."
"Yeah," agreed Frank. "Culbeau's cousin works with my wife's dad. He thinks I'm kin. He'll listen to me."
Mason looked coldly at Nathan. "I want you."
Frank tried again. "But Jim said--"
"And I want you now."
"Come on, Mason," Nathan said in a brittle voice. "There's no call to break your manners with me."
Mason was looking at an elaborate decoy--a mallard duck--on Nathan's desk, his most recent carving. That man has some talent, he thought. Then said to the deputy, "You ready?"
Nathan sighed, stood up.
Frank asked, "But whatta I tell Jim?"
Without responding, Mason walked
out of the office, Nathan in tow, and headed toward Mason's squad car. They climbed in. Mason felt the heat bristle around him and he got the engine going and the AC blasting full up.
After they'd belted up, as the slogan on the side of the cruiser instructed all responsible citizens to do, Mason said, "Now, listen up. I--"
"Aw, come on, Mason, don't get that way. I was only telling you what made sense. I mean, last year Frank and Culbeau--"
"Just shut up and listen."
"Okay. I'll listen. Don't think you need to be talking that way.... Okay. I'm listening. What's Culbeau done now?"
But Mason didn't answer. He asked, "Where's your Ruger?"
"My deer rifle? The M77?"
"Right."
"In my truck. At home."
"You got the Hitech 'scope mounted?"
"Course I do."
"We're gonna go get it."
They pulled out of the parking lot and as soon as they were on Main Street Mason hit the switch for the gumball machine--the revolving red and blue light on top of the car. Kept the siren off. He sped out of town.
Nathan tucked some Red Indian inside his cheek, which he couldn't do with Jim around but Mason didn't mind. "The Ruger.... So. That's why you wanted me. Not Frank."
"That's right."
Nathan Groomer was the best rifle shot in the department, one of the best in Paquenoke County. Mason'd seen him bring down a ten-point buck at eight hundred yards.
"So. After I get the rifle we going to Culbeau's house?"
"No."
"Where we going?"
"We're going hunting."
"Nice houses here," Amelia Sachs observed.
She and Lucy Kerr were driving north along Canal Road, back to Blackwater Landing from downtown. Jesse Corn and Ned Spoto, a stocky deputy in his late thirties, were behind them in a second squad car.
Lucy glanced at the real estate overlooking the canal--the elegant new colonials Sachs had seen earlier--and said nothing.
Again Sachs was struck by the forlorn quality of the houses and yards, the absence of kids. Just like the streets of Tanner's Corner.
Children, she reflected again.
Then told herself: Let's not get into that.
Lucy turned right on Route 112 then off onto the shoulder--where they'd been just a half hour earlier, the ridge overlooking the crime scenes. Jesse Corn's squad car pulled in behind. The four of them walked down the embankment to the riverside and climbed into the skiff. Jesse took up the rowing position again, muttered, "Brother, north of the Paquo." He said this with an ominous tone that Sachs at first took to be a joke but then noticed that neither he nor the others were smiling. On the far side of the river they climbed out and followed Garrett's and Lydia's footsteps to the hunting blind where Ed Schaeffer had been stung then about fifty feet past it into the woods, where the tracks vanished.
At Sachs's direction they fanned out, moving in increasingly large circles, looking for any signs of the direction Garrett had gone. They found nothing and returned to the place where the footprints disappeared.
Lucy said to Jesse, "You know that path? The one those druggies scooted down after Frank Sturgis found 'em over last year?"
He nodded. He said to Sachs, "It's about fifty yards north. That way." He pointed. "Garrett'd know about it probably and it's the best way to get through the woods and swamp here."
"Let's check it out," Ned said.
Sachs wondered how to best handle the impending conflict and decided there was only one way: head-on. Being overly delicate wouldn't work, not with three of them versus her alone (Jesse Corn being, she believed, only amorously in her camp). "We should stay here until we hear from Rhyme."
Jesse kept a faint smile on his face, tasting a morsel of divided loyalty.
Lucy shook her head. "Garrett had to've taken that path."
"We don't know that for sure," Sachs said.
"It does get a little thick 'round here," Jesse offered.
Ned said, "All that plume grass and tuckahoe and mountain holly. Lot of creeper too. You don't take that path, there's no way to get through here and make any time."
"We'll have to wait," Sachs said, thinking of a passage from Lincoln Rhyme's textbook on criminalistics, Physical Evidence:
More investigations involving a suspect at large are ruined by giving in to the impulse to move quickly and engage in hot pursuit when, in fact, in most cases, a slow examination of the evidence will point a clear path to the suspect's door and permit a safer and more efficient arrest.
Lucy Kerr said, "It's just that somebody from the city doesn't really understand the woods. You head off that path it'd slow your time by half. He had to've stuck to it."
"He could've doubled back to the riverbank," Sachs pointed out. "Maybe he had another boat hidden up-or downstream."
"That's true," Jesse said, earning a dark glance from Lucy.
A long moment of silence, the four people standing immobile while gnats strafed them and they sweated in the merciless heat.
Finally Sachs said simply, "We'll wait."
Sealing the decision, she sat on what was surely the most uncomfortable rock in the entire woods and, with feigned interest, studied a woodpecker drilling fiercely into a tall oak in front of them.
... chapter nine
"Primary scene first," Rhyme called to Ben. "Blackwater."
He nodded at the cluster of evidence on the fiberboard table. "Let's do Garrett's running shoe first. The one he dropped when he snatched Lydia."
Ben picked it up, unzipped the plastic bag, started to reach inside.
"Gloves!" Rhyme ordered. "Always wear latex gloves when handling evidence."
"Because of fingerprints?" the zoologist asked, hurriedly pulling them on.
"That's one reason. The other's contamination. We don't want to confuse places you've been with places the perp has been."
"Sure. Right." Ben nodded his massive crew-cut head aggressively, as if he were fearful of forgetting this rule. He shook the shoe, peered into it. "Looks like there's gravel or something inside."
"Hell, I didn't have Amelia ask for sterile examining boards." Rhyme looked around the room. "See that magazine there? People?"
Ben picked it up. Shook his head. "It's three weeks old."
"I don't care how current the stories about Leonardo DiCaprio's love life are," Rhyme muttered. "Pull out the subscription inserts inside.... Don't you hate those things? But they're good for us--they come off the printing press nice and sterile, so they make good mini-examining boards."
Ben did as instructed and poured the dirt and stones onto the card.
"Put a sample in the microscope and let me take a look at it." Rhyme wheeled close to the table but the ocular piece was a few inches too high for him. "Damn."
Ben assessed the problem. "Maybe I could hold it for you to look in."
Rhyme gave a faint laugh. "It weighs close to thirty pounds. No, we'll have to find a--"
But the zoologist picked up the instrument and, with his massive arms, held the 'scope very steady. Rhyme couldn't, of course, turn the focusing knobs but he saw enough to give him an idea of what the evidence was. "Limestone chips and dust. Would that've come from Blackwater Landing?"
"Uhm," Ben said slowly, "doubt it. Mostly just mud and stuff."
"Run a sample of it through the chromatograph. I want to see what else is in there."
Ben mounted the sample inside and pressed the test button.
Chromatography is a criminalist's dream tool. Developed just after the turn of the century by a Russian botanist though not much used until the 1930s, the device analyzes compounds such as foods, drugs, blood and trace elements and isolates the pure elements in them. There are a half-dozen variations on the process but the most common type used in forensic science is the gas chromatograph, which burns a sample of evidence. The resulting vapors are then separated to indicate the component substances that make up the sample. In a forensic science lab the chromatograph is us
ually connected to a mass spectrometer, which can identify many of the substances specifically.
The gas chromatograph will only work with materials that can be vaporized--burned--at relatively low temperatures. The limestone wouldn't ignite, of course. But Rhyme wasn't interested in the rock; he was interested in what trace materials had adhered to the dirt and gravel. This would narrow down more specifically the places Garrett had been.
"It'll take a little while," Rhyme said. "While we're waiting let's look at the dirt in the treads of Garrett's shoe. I tell you, Ben, I love treads. Shoes, and tires too. They're like sponges. Remember that."
"Yessir. I will, sir."
"Dig some out and let's see if it comes from someplace different from Blackwater Landing."
Ben scraped the dirt onto another subscription card, which he held in front of Rhyme, who examined it carefully. As a forensic scientist, he knew the importance of dirt. It sticks to clothes, it leaves trails like Hansel's and Gretel's bread crumbs to and from a perp's house and it links criminal and crime scene as if they were shackled together. There are approximately 1,100 different shades of soil and if a sample from a crime scene is the identical color to the dirt in the perp's backyard the odds are good that the perp was there. Similarity in the composition of the soils can bolster the connection too. Locard, the great French criminalist, developed a forensics principle named after him, which holds that in every crime there is always some transfer between the perpetrator and the victim or the crime scene. Rhyme had found that, second to blood in the case of an invasive homicide or assault, dirt is the substance most often transferred.
However, the problem with dirt as evidence is that it's too prevalent. In order for it to have any meaning forensically a bit of dirt whose source might be the criminal must be different from the dirt found naturally at the crime scene.
The first step in dirt analysis is to check known soil from the scene--an exemplar--against the sample the criminalist believes came from the perp.
Rhyme explained this to Ben and the big man picked up one bag of dirt, which Sachs had marked Exemplar soil--Blackwater Landing, along with the date and time of collection. There was also a notation in a hand that was not Sachs's. Collected by Deputy J. Corn. Rhyme pictured the young deputy eagerly scurrying off to do her bidding. Ben poured some of this dirt onto a third subscription card. He set it beside the dirt he'd dug out of Garrett's treads. "How do we compare them?" the young man asked, looking over the instruments.
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