They entered the Intake Center, painted a grim gray. It was smaller than the data pens and boosted her claustrophobia even further. As in the pens, the only decorations here were the logo of the watchtower and illuminated window, and a large picture of Andrew Sterling, a posed smile on his face. Below it was the caption "You're Number One!"
Maybe it referred to market share or to an award the company had won. Or maybe it was a slogan about the importance of employees. Still, to Sachs it seemed ominous, as if you were at the top of a list you didn't want to be on.
Her breathing was coming quickly as the sense of confinement grew.
"Gets to you, doesn't it?" the guard asked.
She gave a smile. "A little."
"We make our rounds but nobody spends more time in the pens than we have to."
Now that she'd broken the ice and gotten John to answer in more than monosyllables, she asked him about the security, to verify if Sterling and the others were being straight.
They were, it seemed. John reiterated what the CEO had said: None of the computers or workstations in the rooms had a slot or port to download data, merely keyboards and monitors. And the rooms were shielded, the guard said; no wireless signals could get out. And he explained too what Sterling and Whitcomb had told her earlier about data from each pen being useless without the data from the others and from Intake. There wasn't much security on the computer monitors but to get into the pens you needed your ID card, a passcode and a biometric scan--or, apparently, a big security guard watching your every move (which was just what John had been doing, and not so subtly).
The security outside the pens was tight too, as the executives had told her. Both she and the guard were searched carefully when they left each one and had to walk through both a metal detector and a thick frame called a Data-Clear unit. The machine warned, "Passing through this system permanently erases all digital data on computers, drives, cell phones and other devices."
As they returned to Sterling's office John told her that to his knowledge nobody had ever broken into SSD. Still, O'Day regularly had them run drills to prevent security intrusions. Like most of the guards, John didn't carry a gun but Sterling had a policy that at least two armed guards be present twenty-four hours a day.
Back in the CEO's office, she found Pulaski sitting on a huge leather sofa near Martin's desk. Though not a small man, he seemed dwarfed, a student who'd been sent to the principal's office. In her absence, the young officer had taken the initiative to check on the Compliance Department head, Samuel Brockton--Whitcomb's boss, who had all-access rights. He was staying in Washington, D.C.; hotel records showed he'd been at brunch in the dining room at the time of the killing yesterday. She noted this, then glanced over the all-access permission list.
Andrew Sterling, President, Chief Executive Officer
Sean Cassel, Director of Sales and Marketing
Wayne Gillespie, Director of Technical Operations
Samuel Brockton, Director, Compliance Department
Alibi--hotel records confirm presence in Washington
Peter Arlonzo-Kemper, Director of Human Resources
Steven Shraeder, Technical Service and Support Manager, day shift
Faruk Mameda, Technical Service and Support Manager, night shift
She said to Sterling, "I'd like to interview them as soon as possible."
The CEO called his assistant and learned that, other than Brockton, everyone was in town, though Shraeder was handling a hardware crisis in the Intake Center and Mameda would not be coming in until three that afternoon. He instructed Martin to have them come upstairs for interviews. He'd find a vacant conference room.
Sterling told the intercom to disconnect and said, "All right, Detective. It's up to you now. Go clear our name . . . or find your killer."
Chapter Twenty Rodney Szarnek had their mousetrap in place and the young shaggy-haired officer was happily trying to hack into SSD's main servers. His knee bobbed and he whistled from time to time, which irritated Rhyme, but he let the kid alone. The criminalist had been known to talk to himself when searching crime scenes and considering possible approaches to a case.
Takes all kinds . . .
The doorbell rang; it was an officer from the CS lab in Queens with a present, some evidence from one of the earlier crimes: the murder weapon, a knife, used in the coin theft and killing. The rest of the physical evidence was "in storage somewhere." A request had been made but no one could say when, or if, it could be located.
Rhyme had Cooper sign the chain-of-custody form--even after trial, protocols must be followed.
"That's strange: Most of the other evidence is missing," Rhyme remarked though he realized that, being a weapon, the knife would have been retained in a locked facility in the lab's inventory, rather than archived with nonlethal evidence.
Rhyme glanced at the chart about the crime. "They found some of that dust in the knife handle. Let's see if we can figure out what it is. But, first, what's the story on the knife itself?"
Cooper ran the manufacturer's information through the NYPD weapons database. "Made in China, sold in bulk to thousands of retail outlets. Cheap, so we can assume he paid cash for it."
"Well, hadn't expected much. Let's move on to the dust."
Cooper donned gloves and opened the bag. He carefully brushed the handle of the knife, whose blade was dark brown with the victim's blood, and it shed traces of white dust onto the examination paper.
Dust fascinated Rhyme. In forensics the term refers to solid particles less than five hundred micrometers in size and made up of fibers from clothing and upholstery, dander from human and animal skin, fragments of plants and insects, bits of dried excrement, dirt, and any number of chemicals. Some types are aerosol, others settle quickly on surfaces. Dust can cause health problems--like black lung--and be dangerously explosive (flour dust in grain elevators, for instance) and can even affect the climate.
Forensically, thanks to static electricity and other adhesive properties, dust is often transferred from perpetrator to crime scene and vice versa, which makes it extremely helpful to police. When Rhyme was running the Crime Scene division of the NYPD he'd created a large database of dust, gathered from all five boroughs of the city and parts of New Jersey and Connecticut.
Only small amounts adhered to the knife handle but Mel Cooper collected enough to run a sample through the gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer, which breaks substances down into their component parts, then identifies each one. This took some time. It wasn't Cooper's fault. His hands, surprisingly large and muscular for such a slight man, moved quickly and efficiently. It was the machines that plodded away slowly, performing their methodical magic. While they waited for the results Cooper ran additional chemical tests on another sample of the dust to reveal materials the GC/MS might not find.
Eventually the results were available and Mel Cooper explained the combined analysis as he wrote the details on the whiteboard. "All right, Lincoln. We've got vermiculite, plaster, synthetic foam, glass fragments, paint particles, mineral wool fibers, glass fibers, calcite grains, paper fibers, quartz grains, low-temperature combustion material, metal flakes, chryso-tile asbestos and some chemicals. Looks like polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons, paraffin, olefin, naphthene, octanes, polychlorinated biphenyls, dibenzodioxins--don't see those very often--and dibenzofurans. Oh, and some brominated diphenyl ethers."
"The Trade Center," Rhyme said.
"It is?"
"Yep."
The dust from the collapsed World Trade Towers in 2001 had been the source of health problems for workers near Ground Zero, and variations of its composition had been in the news lately. Rhyme was well aware of its composition.
"So he's downtown?"
"Possibly," Rhyme said. "But you could find the dust all over the five boroughs. Let's leave it a question mark for the time being. . . ." He grimaced. "So our profile so far: a man who might be white or a light-skinned ethnic. Who might collect coins and might like art. An
d his residence or place of work might be downtown. He might have children, might smoke." Rhyme squinted at the knife. "Let me see it up close." Cooper brought the weapon to him and Rhyme stared at every millimeter of the handle. His body was defective but his eyesight was as good as a teenager's. "There. What's that?"
"Where?"
"Between the hasp and the bone."
It was a tiny fleck of something pale. "You could see that?" the tech whispered. "I missed it completely." With a needle probe he worked it out and put it on an examination slide. He looked at it through a microscope. He started with lower magnifications, which are enough, 4 to 24 power, unless you need the magic of a scanning electron microscope. "Crumb of food, looks like. Something baked. Orange tint. Spectrum suggests oil. Maybe junk food. Like Doritos. Or potato chips."
"Not enough to run through the GC/MS."
"No way," Cooper confirmed.
"He wasn't going to plant something as small as that at the fall guy's house. It's some other bit of real information about Five Twenty-Two."
What the hell was it? Something from his lunch the day of the killing?
"I want to taste it."
"What? There's blood on it."
"The handle, not the blade. Just where that fleck is. I want to find out what it is."
"There's not enough to taste. This little chip? You can hardly see it. I didn't see it."
"No, the knife itself. Maybe I can find a flavor or spice that'll tell us something."
"You can't lick a murder weapon, Lincoln."
"Where's that written down, Mel? I don't remember reading that. We need information about this guy!"
"Well . . . okay." The tech held the knife close to Rhyme's face and the criminalist leaned forward and touched his tongue to the place where they'd found the fleck.
"Jesus Christ!" He reared his head back.
"What's wrong?" Cooper asked, alarmed.
"Get me some water!"
Cooper tossed the knife onto the examination table and went to call Thom, as Rhyme spit on the floor. His mouth was on fire.
Thom came running. "What's wrong?"
"Man . . . that hurts. I asked for water! I just ate some hot sauce."
"Hot sauce, like Tabasco?"
"I don't know what kind!"
"Well, you don't want water. You want milk or yogurt."
"Then get some!"
Thom came back with a carton of yogurt and fed Rhyme several spoonfuls. To his surprise the pain went away immediately. "Phew. That hurt. . . . Okay, Mel, we've learned something else--maybe. Our boy likes his chips and salsa. Well, let's just go with a snack food and hot sauce. Put it on the chart."
As Cooper wrote, Rhyme glanced at the clock and snapped, "Where the hell is Sachs?"
"Well, she's at SSD." Cooper looked confused.
"I know that. What I mean is why the hell isn't she back here? . . . And, Thom, I want some more yogurt!"
* * *
UNSUB 522 PROFILE
* Male
* Possibly smokes or lives/works with someone who does, or near source of tobacco * Has children or lives/works near them or near source of toys * Interest in art, coins?
* Probably white or light-skinned ethnic * Medium build
* Strong--able to strangle victims
* Access to voice-disguise equipment
* Possibly computer literate; knows OurWorld. Other social-networking sites?
* Takes trophies from victims. Sadist?
* Portion of residence/workplace dark and moist * Lives in/near downtown Manhattan?
* Eats snack food/hot sauce
NONPLANTED EVIDENCE
* Old cardboard
* Hair from doll, BASF B35 nylon 6
* Tobacco from Tareyton cigarettes
* Old tobacco, not Tareyton, but brand unknown * Evidence of Stachybotrys Chartarum mold * Dust, from World Trade Center attack, possibly indicating residence/job downtown Manhattan * Snack food with hot sauce
Chapter Twenty-one
The conference room where Sachs and Pulaski had been led was as minimalist as Sterling's office. She decided a good way to describe the entire company would be "austere deco."
Sterling himself escorted them to the room and gestured to two chairs, beneath the logo of the window atop the watchtower. He said, "I don't expect to be treated any differently than anyone else. Since I have all-access rights I'm a suspect too. But I have an alibi for yesterday--I was on Long Island all day. I do that a lot--drive to some of the big discount stores and the membership shopping clubs to see what people are buying, how they buy, what times of day. I'm always looking for ways to make our business more efficient, and you can't do that unless you know our clients' needs."
"Who were you meeting with?"
"Nobody. I never tell anyone who I am. I want to see the operation the way it actually works. Blemishes and everything. But my car's E-ZPass records should show that I went through the Midtown Tunnel tollbooth about nine A.M. eastbound and then came back through about five-thirty. You can check with DMV." He recited his tag number. "Oh, and yesterday? I called my son. He took the train up to Westchester to go hiking in some forest preserve. He went by himself and I wanted to check on him. I called about two in the afternoon. The phone records'll show a call from my Hampton house. Or you can take a look at the incoming call list on his mobile. It should have the date and time. His extension is seven one eight seven."
Sachs wrote this down, along with the number of Sterling's summer house's phone. She thanked him, then Jeremy, the "outside" assistant, arrived and whispered something to his boss.
"Have to take care of something. If there's anything you need, anything at all, just let me know."
A few minutes later the first of their suspects arrived. Sean Cassel, the director of Sales and Marketing. He struck her as quite young, probably midthirties, but she'd seen very few people in SSD who were over forty. Data was perhaps the new Silicon Valley, a world of youthful entrepreneurs.
Cassel, with a long face, classically handsome, seemed athletic; solid arms, broad shoulders. He was wearing the SSD "uniform," in his case a navy suit. The white shirt was immaculate and the cuffs clasped with heavy gold links. The yellow tie was thick silk. He had curly hair, rosy skin and peered steadily at Sachs through glasses. She hadn't known Dolce & Gabbana made frames.
"Hi."
"Hello. I'm Detective Sachs, this is Officer Pulaski. Have a seat." She shook his hand, noting the firm grip that lingered longer than the clasp with Pulaski.
"So you're a detective?" The sales director had not a shred of interest in the patrolman.
"That's right. Would you like to see my ID?"
"No, that's okay."
"Now, we're just getting information about some of the employees here. Do you know a Myra Weinburg?"
"No. Should I?"
"She was the victim of a murder."
"Oh." A flash of contrition, as the hip facade vanished momentarily. "I heard something about a crime. I didn't know it was a murder, though. I'm sorry. Was she an employee here?"
"No. But the person who killed her might have had access to information in your company's computers. I know you have full access to innerCircle; is there any way somebody who works for you could assemble an individual's dossier?"
He shook his head. "To get a closet you need three passcodes. Or a biomet and one."
"Closet?"
He hesitated. "Oh, that's what we call a dossier. We use a lot of shorthand in the knowledge service business."
Like secrets in a closet, she assumed.
"But nobody could get my passcode. Everyone's very careful about keeping them secret. Andrew insists on it." Cassel removed his glasses and polished them with a black cloth that appeared magically in his hand. "He's fired employees who've used other people's passcodes even with their permission. Fired on the spot." He concentrated on his glass-polishing task. Then looked up. "But let's be honest. What you're really asking about isn't passcodes but ali
bis. Am I right?"
"We'd like to know that too. Where were you from noon to four P.M. yesterday?"
"Running. I'm training for a mini-triathlon. . . . You look like you run too. You're pretty athletic."
If standing still while punching holes in targets at twenty-five and fifty feet is athletic, then yes. "Could anybody verify that?"
"That you're athletic? It's pretty obvious to me."
Smile. Sometimes it was best to play along. Pulaski stirred--which Cassel noted with amusement--but she said nothing. Sachs didn't need anybody to defend her honor.
With a sideways glance at the uniformed officer, Cassel continued, "No, I'm afraid not. A friend stayed over. But she left about nine-thirty. Am I a suspect or anything?"
"We're just getting information at this point," Pulaski said.
"Are you now?" He sounded condescending, as if he were talking to a child. "Just the facts, ma'am. Just the facts."
A line from an old TV show. Sachs couldn't remember which one.
Sachs asked where he'd been at the times of the other killings--the coin dealer, the earlier rape and the woman who'd owned the Prescott painting. He replaced the glasses and told her he didn't recall. He seemed completely at ease.
"How often do you go into the data pens?"
"Maybe once a week."
"Do you take any information out?"
He frowned slightly. "Well . . . you can't. The security system won't let you."
"And how often do you download dossiers?"
"I don't know if I ever have. It's just raw data. Too noisy to be helpful for anything I do."
"All right. Well, I appreciate your time. I think that'll do it for now."
The smile and flirt faded. "So is this a problem? Something I should be worried about?"
"We're just doing some preliminary investigation."
"Ah, not giving anything away." A glance at Pulaski. "Play it close to the chest, right, Sergeant Friday?"
Ah, that was it, Sachs realized. Dragnet. The old police show she and her father would watch in rerun years ago.
After he'd left, another employee joined them. Wayne Gillespie, who oversaw the technical side of the company--the software and hardware. He didn't exactly fit Sachs's impression of a geek. Not at first. He was tanned and in good shape, wore an expensive silver--or platinum--bracelet. His grip was strong. But on closer examination she decided he was a classic techie after all, somebody dressed by his mother for class photographs. The short, thin man wore a rumpled suit and a tie that wasn't knotted properly. His shoes were scuffed, his nails ragged and not properly scrubbed. His hair could use a trim. It was as if he was playing the role of corporate exec but infinitely preferred to be in a dark room with his computer.
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