The Cold Moon

by Jeffery Deaver

  Vincent looked over at his friend.

  "In seventeen fourteen the British Parliament offered twenty thousand pounds to anyone who could invent a portable clock accurate enough to be used at sea."

  "That was a lot of money then, right?"

  "Huge amount of money. They needed a clock for their ships because every year thousands of sailors died from navigational errors. See, to plot a course you need both longitude and latitude. You can determine latitude astronomically. But longitude needs accurate time. A British clockmaker named John Harrison decided to go for the prize. He started working on the project in seventeen thirty-five and finally created a small clock that you could use on a ship and that lost only a few seconds over the course of an entire transatlantic voyage. When did he finish? In seventeen sixty-one."

  "Took him that long?"

  "He had to cope with politics, competition, conniving businessmen and members of Parliament and, of course, the mechanical difficulties--almost impossibilities--of creating the clock. But he never stopped. Twenty-six years."

  The light changed to green and Duncan accelerated slowly. "In answer to your question, we're going to see about the next girl on our list. We had a setback. But nothing's going to stop us. It's not a big deal--"

  "In the great scheme of things."

  A brief smile crossed the killer's face.

  "First of all, they have security cameras in the garage?" Rhyme asked.

  Sellitto's laugh meant "in your dreams."

  He, Pulaski and Baker were back in Rhyme's town house, going over what the rookie had collected in the garage. The homeless man who'd attacked Pulaski was in Bellevue. He had no connection to the case and was diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic off his meds.

  "Wrong time, wrong place," Pulaski had muttered.

  "You or him?" Rhyme'd responded. He now asked, "Security cameras at the impound where he boosted the SUV?"

  Another laugh.

  A sigh. "Let's see what Ron found. First, the bullets?"

  Cooper brought the box to Rhyme and opened it for him.

  A .32-caliber ACP bullet is an uncommon round. The semiautomatic pistol bullet has more range than the smaller .22 but not much stopping power, like the more powerful .38 or 9-millimeter. Thirty-twos have traditionally been called ladies' guns. The market is somewhat limited but is still quite large. Finding a compatible .32 in the possession of a suspect could be circumstantial evidence that he was the Watchmaker but Cooper couldn't just ring up local gun stores and get a short list of who'd been buying these rounds lately.

  Since seven were missing from the box, and the Autauga MkII pistol holds seven in a full clip, that was Rhyme's best guess for the weapon, but the Beretta Tomcat, the North American Guardian and the LWS-32 were also chambered for those slugs. The killer could be carrying any of them. (If he was armed at all. Bullets, Rhyme pointed out, suggest but don't guarantee that the suspect carried or owned a gun.) Rhyme noted that the slug was a 71-grain, big enough to do very serious damage if it was fired at close range.

  "On the board, rookie," Rhyme commanded. Pulaski wrote as dictated.

  The book he'd found in the Explorer was entitled Extreme Interrogation Techniques and had been published by a small company in Utah. The paper, printing job and typography--not to mention the style of writing--were third-rate.

  Written by an anonymous author who claimed he'd been a Special Forces soldier, the book described using torture techniques that would ultimately result in death if the subject didn't confess--drowning, strangulation, suffocation, freezing in cold water and others. One involved suspending a weight above a subject's throat. Another, cutting his wrists and letting him bleed until he confessed.

  "Christ," Dennis Baker said, wincing. "It's his blueprint. . . . He's going to kill ten victims like that? Sick."

  "Trace?" Rhyme asked, concerned more about the forensic implications of the book than the psychological makeup of its purchaser.

  Holding the book over a large sheet of clean newsprint, Cooper opened every page and dusted each one to dislodge trace. Nothing fell out.

  No fingerprints either, of course.

  Cooper learned that the book wasn't sold through the major Web-based or retail bookstore chains--they refused to carry it. But it was readily available through online auction companies and a number of right-wing, paramilitary organizations, which sold everything you needed to protect yourself from the scourge of minorities, the foreign-born and the U.S. government itself. (In recent years Rhyme had consulted on a number of terrorist investigations; many had been linked to al-Qaeda and other fundamentalist Islamic groups but just as many had involved domestic terrorism--a threat he himself felt was being largely ignored by authorities in this country.) A call to the publisher resulted in no cooperation, which didn't surprise Rhyme. He was told they didn't sell the book directly to readers and if Rhyme wanted to find out what retail outlets bought the book in quantity a court order would be necessary. It would take weeks to get one.

  "Do you understand," Dennis Baker snapped into the speakerphone, "that somebody's using this as a guidebook to torture and kill people?"

  "Well, that's sort of what it's for, you know." The head of the company hung up.

  "Goddamn."

  Continuing to look over the evidence, they learned that the grit and leaves and cinders that Pulaski had extracted from the grille, the tire treads and sideview mirrors were not distinctive. The trace in the back bed of the SUV revealed sand that matched what the prep had used as the obscuring agent in the Cedar Street alleyway.

  The crumbs were from corn chips, potato chips, pretzels and chocolate candy. Bits of peanut butter crackers too, as well as stains from soda--sugared, not diet. None of this would lead them to a suspect, of course, but it could be another plank in the bridge connecting a perp to the Explorer if they found one.

  The short cotton fibers--flesh-colored--were, as Pulaski suggested, similar to those shed by a generic brand of work gloves sold in thousands of drugstores, garden shops and grocery stores. Apparently they'd meticulously wiped the Explorer after they'd stolen it and worn gloves every time they were inside the vehicle.

  This was a first. And a reminder of the Watchmaker's deadly brilliance.

  The hair from the headrest was nine inches long and was black with some gray in it. Hair is good evidence since it's always falling out or is being pulled out in struggles. Generally it offers only class characteristics, though, meaning that a hair found at a scene will provide a circumstantial connection to a suspect who has similar hair, based on the color, texture, length or presence of dye or other chemicals. But hair generally can't be individuated: that is, it can't be linked conclusively to the suspect unless the follicle's attached, allowing for a DNA profile. The hair that Pulaski found, though, had no follicle.

  Rhyme knew it was too long to be the Watchmaker's--the EFIT picture, according to Hallerstein, depicted medium length. It might have been from a wig--the Watchmaker could be using disguises--but Cooper could find no adhesive on the end. His assistant had worn a cap and it could have come from him. Rhyme decided, though, that the hair had probably come from someone else--a passenger riding in the SUV before the Watchmaker stole it. A nine-inch hair could be a man's or a woman's, of course, but Rhyme felt that it was probably a woman's. The gray suggested middle age and nine inches was an odd length for a man of that age to wear his hair--shoulder length or much shorter would be more likely. "The Watchmaker or his assistant may have a girlfriend or another partner but that doesn't seem likely. . . . Well, put it on the board anyway," Rhyme ordered.

  "Because," Pulaski said, as if reciting something he'd heard, "you just never know, right?"

  Rhyme lifted an eyebrow. Then he asked, "Shoes?"

  The only footprint Pulaski had found was from a smooth-soled, size-thirteen shoe. It was just past a pool of water the wearer had stepped in; he'd left a half dozen prints on the way to the exit before they faded. Pulaski was pretty sure it was the Watchmak
er's or his partner's, since it was on the most logical route from the Explorer to the nearest exit. He'd also noted that there was some distance between the prints and only a few of them displayed the heel. "Means he was running," Pulaski said. "That wasn't in your book. But it made sense."

  It was hard to dislike this kid, Rhyme reflected.

  But the print was only marginally helpful. There was no way to determine the brand because the leather had no distinctive tread marks. Nor were there any unusual wear patterns, which might indicate podiatric or orthopedic characteristics.

  "At least we know he's got big feet," Pulaski said.

  Rhyme muttered, "I missed that statute where it says someone with size-eight feet is prohibited from wearing size-thirteen shoes."

  The rookie nodded. "Oops."

  Live and learn, thought Rhyme. He looked over the evidence again. "That's it?"

  Pulaski nodded. "I did the best I could."

  Rhyme grunted. "You did fine."

  Probably not very enthusiastic. He wondered if the results would've been different if Sachs had been walking the grid. He couldn't help but think they would be.

  The criminalist turned to Sellitto. "What about the Luponte file?"

  "Nothing yet. If you knew more it'd be easier to find."

  "If I knew more, I could find it myself."

  The rookie was staring at the evidence boards. "All this . . . and it comes down to we hardly know anything about him."

  Not exactly true, Rhyme thought. We know he's one goddamn smart perp.

  THE WATCHMAKER

  * * *

  CRIME SCENE ONE

  Location:

  * Repair pier in Hudson River, 22nd Street.

  Victim:

  * Identity unknown.

  * Male.

  * Possibly middle-aged or older, and may have coronary condition (presence of anticoagulants in blood).

  * No other drugs, infection or disease in blood.

  * Coast Guard and ESU divers checking for body and evidence in New York Harbor.

  * Checking missing persons reports.

  Perp:

  * See below.

  M.O.:

  * Perp forced victim to hold on to deck, over water, cut fingers or wrists until he fell.

  * Time of attack: between 6 P.M. Monday and 6 A.M. Tuesday.

  Evidence:

  * Blood type AB positive.

  * Fingernail torn, unpolished, wide.

  * Portion of chain-link fence cut with common wire cutters, untraceable.

  * Clock. See below.

  * Poem. See below.

  * Fingernail markings on deck.

  * No discernible trace, no fingerprints, no footprints, no tire tread marks.

  CRIME SCENE TWO

  Location:

  * Alley off Cedar Street, near Broadway, behind three commercial buildings (back doors closed at 8:30 to 10 P.M.) and one government administration building (back door closed at 6 P.M.).

  * Alley is a cul-de-sac. Fifteen feet wide by one hundred and four feet long, surfaced in cobblestones, body was fifteen feet from Cedar Street.

  Victim:

  * Theodore Adams.

  * Lived in Battery Park.

  * Freelance copywriter.

  * No known enemies.

  * No warrants, state or federal.

  * Checking for a connection with buildings around alley. None found.

  Perp:

  * The Watchmaker.

  * Male.

  * No database entries for the Watchmaker.

  M.O.:

  * Dragged from vehicle to alley, where iron bar was suspended over him. Eventually crushed throat.

  * Awaiting medical examiner's report to confirm.

  * No evidence of sexual activity.

  * Time of death: approximately 10:15 P.M. to 11 P.M. Monday night. Medical examiner to confirm.

  Evidence:

  * Clock.

  * No explosives, chemical-or bioagents.

  * Identical to clock at pier.

  * No fingerprints, minimal trace.

  * Arnold Products, Framingham, MA.

  * Sold by Hallerstein's Timepieces, Manhattan.

  * Poem left by perp at both scenes.

  * Computer printer, generic paper, HP LaserJet ink.

  * Text:

  The full Cold Moon is in the sky, shining on the corpse of earth, signifying the hour to die

  and end the journey begun at birth.

  --The Watchmaker

  * Not in any poetry databases; probably his own.

  * Cold Moon is lunar month, the month of death.

  * $60 in pocket, no serial number leads; prints negative.

  * Fine sand used as "obscuring agent." Sand was generic. Because he's returning to the scene?

  * Metal bar, 81 pounds, is needle-eye span. Not being used in construction across from the alleyway. No other source found.

  * Duct tape, generic, but cut precisely, unusual. Exactly the same lengths.

  * Thallium sulfate (rodent poison) found in sand.

  * Soil containing fish protein--from perp, not victim.

  * Very little trace found.

  * Brown fibers, probably automotive carpeting.

  Other:

  * Vehicle.

  * Ford Explorer, about three years old. Brown carpet. Tan.

  * Review of license tags of cars in area Tuesday morning reveals no warrants. No tickets issued Monday night.

  * Checking with Vice about prostitutes, re: witness.

  * No leads.

  INTERVIEW WITH HALLERSTEIN

  Perp:

  * EFIT composite picture of the Watchmaker--late forties, early fifties, round face, double chin, thick nose, unusually light blue eyes. Over 6 feet tall, lean, hair black, medium length, no jewelry, dark clothes. No name.

  * Knows great deal about clocks and watches and which timepieces had been sold at recent auctions and were at current horologic exhibits in the city.

  * Threatened dealer to keep quiet.

  * Bought 10 clocks. For 10 victims?

  * Paid cash.

  * Wanted moon face on clock, wanted loud tick.

  Evidence:

  * Source of clocks was Hallerstein's Timepieces, Flatiron District.

  * No prints on cash paid for clocks, no serial number hits. No trace on money.

  * Called from pay phones.

  CRIME SCENE THREE

  Location:

  * 481 Spring Street.

  Victim:

  * Joanne Harper.

  * No apparent motive.

  * Didn't know second victim, Adams.

  Perp:

  * Watchmaker.

  * Assistant.

  * Probably man spotted earlier by victim, at her shop.

  * White, heavyset, in sunglasses, cream-colored parka and cap. Was driving the SUV.

  M.O.:

  * Picked locks to get inside.

  * Intended method of attack unknown. Possibly planning to use florist's wire.

  Evidence:

  * Fish protein came from Joanne's (orchid fertilizer).

  * Thallium sulfate nearby.

  * Florist's wire, cut in precise lengths. (To use as murder weapon?) * Clock.

  * Same as others. No nitrates.

  * No trace.

  * No note or poem.

  * No footprints, fingerprints, weapons or anything else left behind.

  * Black flakes--roofing tar.

  * Checking ASTER thermal images of New York for possible sources.

  Other:

  * Perp was checking out victim earlier than attack. Targeting her for purpose. What?

  * Have police scanner. Changing frequency.

  * Vehicle.

  * Tan.

  * No tag number.

  * Putting out Emergency Vehicle Locator.

  * 423 owners of tan Explorers in area. Cross-reference against criminal warrants. Two found. One owner too old; other is in jail on drug charges.

 
* Owned by the man in jail.

  WATCHMAKER'S EXPLORER

  Location:

  * Found in garage, Hudson River and Houston Street.

  Evidence:

  * Explorer owned by man in jail. Had been confiscated, and stolen from lot, awaiting auction.

  * Parked in open. Not near exit.

  * Crumbs from corn chips, potato chips, pretzels, chocolate candy. Bits of peanut butter crackers. Stains from soda, regular, not diet.

  * Box of Remington .32-caliber auto pistol ammo, seven rounds missing. Gun is possible Autauga Mk II.

  * Book--Extreme Interrogation Techniques. Blueprint for his murder methods? No helpful information from publisher.

  * Strand of gray-and-black hair, probably woman's.

  * No prints at all, throughout entire vehicle.

  * Beige cotton fibers from gloves.

  * Sand matching that used in alleyway.

  * Smooth-soled size-13 shoe print.

  Chapter 20

  "I need a case file."

  "Yeah." The woman was chewing gum. Loudly.

  Snap.

  Amelia Sachs was in the file room at the 158th Precinct in Lower Manhattan, not far from the 118th. She gave the night-duty file clerk at the gray desk the number of the Sarkowski file. The woman typed on a computer keyboard, a staccato sound. A glance at the screen. "Don't have it."

  "You sure?"

  "Don't have it."

  "Hm." Sachs gave a laugh. "Where do we think it's run off to?"

  "Run off to?"

  "It came here on the twenty-eighth or twenty-ninth of November from the One Three One house. It looked like it was requested from somebody here."

  Snap.

  "Well, it's, like not logged in. You sure it came here?"

  "No, not one thousand percent. But--"

  "One thousand?" the woman asked, chewing away. A pack of cigarettes sat next to her, ready to be scooped up in a hurry when she fled downstairs on her break or left for the night.

  "Is there any scenario where it wouldn't've been logged?"

  "Scenario?"

  "Would a file always be logged in?"

  "If it's for a specific detective it'd go directly to his office and he'd log it. You've gotta log it. It's a rule."

  "If there was no recipient name on the request?"

  "Then it'd come here." She nodded at a large basket holding a card that said Pending. "And whoever wanted it'd have to come down and pick it up. Then he'd log it in. Has to be logged in."

  "But it wasn't."

  "Has to be. Because otherwise, how do we know where it is?" She pointed to another sign. Log it!

  Sachs prowled through the large basket.

  "Like, you're not supposed to do that."

  "But see my problem?"

  A blink. The gum snapped.