Even an analysis of the accelerant gasoline revealed it was an unbranded generic—and could have been bought in any of five hundred stations in the area.
Ah, fire, Rhyme reflected cynically.
As he’d written in his textbook:
Arson is one of the best ways to destroy trace evidence, friction ridge prints and shoe and boot prints. Investigators have to rely on evidence from entrance and exit routes and chemical analysis of the accelerant and ignition device for clues.
As for the things that might have helped—footprints along the perp’s entrance and exit routes? And tool marks where he’d picked the locks? Of course, he’d worn booties and gloves—and had figured that any telltale clues would be destroyed by the firemen charging into the building, swinging axes and knocking down doors.
Which, of course, was exactly what happened.
Thom said, “Lincoln.”
The grace period was up. It was time for bed.
Maybe something would occur to him in the morning.
6
BUT THE DAWN ARRIVED with no brilliant insights regarding Unsub 26.
And none at midmorning…nor late afternoon.
They were no longer able to enlist the number-crunching forces from the Police Academy, to review the massive amounts of evidence from the scene on Twenty-sixth Street, though the head of the Crime Scene Unit agreed to dedicate some extra technicians. Marko had taken the bulk of the collected materials from Rhyme’s to the labs in Queens.
But the hours rolled by and all the updates included variations on: “There’s just too much evidence.”
Clues had never failed Rhyme so badly as in this case. He’d built his whole professional life on finding the truth because of physical evidence. In fact, he was contemptuous of other forms of investigation. Witnesses lied, motives were fishy, vivid memories were completely wrong.
Locard’s Principle…
At 6 p.m. Mel Cooper, Sachs and Rhyme were still laboring away, doing what they could with the several hundred samples that remained here in his parlor but not making any headway.
There’s just too much…
Rhyme reached for one of the hair sample bags. “Let’s keep going with follicles and CODIS.” The consolidated database that contained DNA samples from tens of thousands of perpetrators.
But he set it down and wheeled back from a worktable. His expression must have been particularly troubled. Sachs, too, stopped her analysis of a sheet of paper, walked behind him and massaged his shoulders, which were tense as stone.
It felt nice…
But didn’t take away the frustration.
Rhyme gazed at the largely useless evidence, trying desperately to think of a different approach. It was clear that the classic textbook procedure for running a case forensically wasn’t going to work.
What else could he—?
Textbook.
“Sachs!”
“What?” She stopped the massage and walked around in front of him.
“Textbook. Think about what I’ve been saying for the past couple of days. My textbook.”
The evidence chart reads like the table of contents in my goddamn book…
Sachs was nodding. “It’s like everything he knows about evidence and crime scenes, he learned from your book.”
He pointed to the chart. “There’s a separate chapter for each of those categories of evidence collection and analysis. And I wrote sections about contamination, having too much evidence, and arson as a means to obliterate it. Somebody who bought or borrowed my text is the perp.”
“How many copies did you sell?” Cooper asked. He knew the book well; he was one of the dedicatees.
“About twenty thousand.”
“Not very helpful then.”
Rhyme considered this. “I’m not so sure. People aren’t going to curl up with it on cold winter nights like they would with Harry Potter or one of those vampire books now, are they? The vast bulk of sales would be to law enforcement. But let’s put them aside for the time being—it’s too obvious, too traceable. Somebody with a forensic specialty’d be the first people we’d look at.”
“We’ll drop everything and get in touch with publishers and retailers.”
“How do we factor out law enforcement sales?” Cooper asked.
“Anybody with the government got a discount, so let’s get a list of any customer who paid full price.”
Sachs pointed out, “But like you just said, it could have been borrowed. It could’ve been bought with cash in a store, could’ve been stolen.”
“Maybe, but not many retail outlets carried it. Most sales were online. As for borrowing it, just because something is unlikely is no reason not to pursue it. I don’t think we have much choice anyway.”
“Time frame for the sales?” Cooper wondered.
“I’d go back a year. The sales spiked after that documentary I did on A&E; a lot of people saw it, Googled me and bought the book.” Rhyme’s head was forward and he felt exhilarated. He was on the hunt and he knew his heart was pounding hard—felt the sensation in his neck and head, of course, not in his numb chest.
“Besides, I’d think emotionally you don’t buy a book to help you plan a killing and then wait two years. This perp’s moving fast.”
“You’re sounding quite psychological, Rhyme,” Sachs said, laughing. “That almost sounds like you’re profiling him.”
A pseudoscience, he felt. But he replied with a shrug, “Who said forensic scientists can’t be aware of human nature? That’s all. Let’s get to work. Who coughed up a hundred and twenty dollars for my words of wisdom, plus shipping and handling?”
In three hours they had a rough list from the publishers, online retailers and professional bookstores. Sixty-four people in the New York area had bought the textbook in the past year, paying full price.
“Ouch,” Cooper muttered. “Sixty-four? That’s a brick wall.”
“Not at all,” Rhyme whispered, looking over the list. “I’d say it’s merely a speed bump.”
* * *
OKAY, HE WAS A CATCH.
Vicki Sellick probably wouldn’t’ve thought of him that way by herself. But Joan and Alaki from work had met them for a drink earlier that night and both gave her subtle raised-eyebrows approval ratings. Joanie had whispered, “Go, girl! You hooked a good one.”
Oh, stop…
But, yeah, Vicki now thought, she had.
Her date was courteous, handsome, had a great job and on the two times that he’d stayed over, their time together had been…well, fantastic. They made a solid couple, politically in tune (centrist Democrats), athletic, lovers of the out-of-doors. They’d both been through tough divorces. True, he worked long hours, but so did she, a Wall Street lawyer. And he was older—in his mid-fifties, but looked much younger. Besides, Vicki, thirty-seven, had stopped using age as a definitive criterion for potential partners some years ago, one of her better decisions in the crazy world of dating.
He now steered his Jaguar to the curb in front of her apartment and, without hesitation, took her in his arms, kissing her firmly.
She had wondered if tonight would be the third time he stayed and it probably would have been, except that he had a 6 a.m. flight tomorrow on business. His assistant was out of commission for some reason or another so he had to get ready for the meeting all by himself.
But there was nothing wrong with taking things slowly.
She kissed him back even harder.
“I’m back in two days,” he whispered. “See you then?”
“You’re on.” Another kiss sealed the deal.
“I’ll walk you up,” he said, nodding at her townhouse.
But she had to pick up some milk and a few things at the deli up the street, so they kissed awhile more.
She whispered, “’Night, James. Call me if you can.”
“Oh, you’ll hear from me,” he said softly, nuzzling her ear. She climbed out of the sports car and he sped off.
Ten minut
es later, plastic bags in hand, she returned to her townhouse, a real find she’d been in for some years. She’d lucked into a duplex on the top floors of the four-story building and scraped together enough money to buy it instantly. The living space was a refuge from the chaos and demands of Wall Street law.
Up the stairs to the second floor, then the third.
Hm, the hallway light was out here. This was curious since the maintenance in the building was great. It seemed the light bulb had fallen out and shattered. As she walked up to the fourth floor, where the entrance to her unit was, she fished in her pocket for her phone, thinking about calling him.
No, she’d wait. Get inside, take a shower, have a final glass of wine. She left the phone where it was and got her keys. Maybe—
Then the world went black and an explosion of pain soared through her head and as she pitched forward she felt the keys being lifted from her fingers.
7
I THINK I’VE GOT IT,” Rhyme said, looking over the list of book sales.
Lon Sellitto had joined them and had an arrest team ready to go, if Rhyme’s textbook theory panned out.
The criminalist continued, “A week after the special aired, somebody named James Ferguson, 734 East Sixty-eighth Street, bought a copy of my book. He’s not law enforcement. He ticked the box that said it was for professional research.”
“Ferguson,” Sachs said, “sounds familiar.”
Sellitto said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah! I interviewed him. He’s Simone Randall’s—the second vic’s—boss. He dropped her off in a cab about a half hour before she was attacked.”
“Data mine him, Mel. I want to know if he belongs to a health club. And, Sachs, find out the club that first victim belonged to.”
Sellitto nodded. “Right, good call. The vic’s boyfriend said she dated somebody from the club once, I think.”
In five minutes they had the answer. Both Ferguson and Jane Levine belonged to Lower Manhattan Health and Tennis Club.
“So, he’s our boy. Classic serial doer. Let’s find him, pick him up,” Sellitto said and reached for his phone.
“Hold on, Lon,” Rhyme said. “It’s not as simple as that.”
And Rhyme did something he never thought he’d ever do: started reading the witness statements, ignoring the evidence charts completely.
* * *
I’M DYING, Vicki Sellick thought.
Why…why?
But she had no idea who was behind this and so she didn’t know why.
All she knew was that the asshole who’d slugged her over the head and tied her up here was trooping through the townhouse. She heard drawers opening, she heard doors closing.
Robbery?
She didn’t have anything here of any real value…
She stanched the tears. The duct tape was snug on her mouth and if she cried any harder she’d clog her nose and suffocate.
She was lying in her big, Victorian, claw-foot bathtub, hands bound behind her, feet, also taped, dangling over the end. The lights were out and the blinds closed. It was virtually black.
Vicki screamed through the tape. A pathetic sound nobody could have heard. She was on the top floor of her townhouse. She had it to herself, and the nearest neighbor, even if she was home, was two stories below.
Then silence for a moment. Then a faint sound.
What’s that? Was—?
She gasped as the door swept open and she felt a presence. The intruder, a pure shadow, moved in, paused…and turned the water on.
No! Vicki tried to struggle her way out but the angle and immobility from the tape made that impossible. Her attacker left, closing the door.
The icy water continued to rise.
* * *
THIS TIME Amelia Sachs was first on the scene.
And she was momentarily alone. Backup would be here soon but Rhyme had decided there was no time to wait; the perp—no longer an unsub at this point—had gone over a borderline and was moving faster. Rhyme said they had to assume another victim was about to die.
She skidded to a stop up the street from Vicki Sellick’s townhouse and sprinted to the front door fast, not even feeling the twinges of arthritis. There was no question of warrants or fair warning. Time was too critical. With the butt of her Glock she shattered the window of the front door, opened it and charged inside.
The weapon before her, she ran to the top-floor apartment and kicked the door in, searching quickly. She found the victim in the bathtub—like the Prius, an innocent object rigged to kill.
She looked down. The water was nearly at Vicki’s face and her frantic thrashing was making it worse; waves splashing up her nose. She was choking and coughing, her face bright red.
Sachs grabbed the woman’s blouse and pulled up hard from the water, then ripped the tape from her mouth.
“Thank you, thank you!” she sputtered. “But be careful! He might be here.”
Out came the switchblade again and after a few seconds of careful surgery the woman’s feet and hands were free. Sachs wrapped a towel around her shoulders.
“Where?”
“I heard him two minutes ago, downstairs! I didn’t get a look. He hit me from behind.”
Then a crash of glass from the hallway, near the rear of the building, a window breaking. “What’s back there?”
“Fire escape to the alley.”
Sachs ran to the window and saw the shadow of a figure, standing uncertainly looking left and right. She told Vicki to lock the bathroom door, the backup would be there any minute—she heard the sirens approaching. Then she sped down the stairs to the second floor. She, too, went through the shattered window, after checking fast for presenting threats.
The shadow was gone.
She clambered fast down the stairs. Then stopped. A brief sigh. Like most of them in the city, the fire escape didn’t go all the way to the ground and she had to drop four or so feet to the cobblestoned alley, wincing in pain as she landed.
But she stayed upright and turned toward the darker part of the alley.
She got ten feet before the shadow reemerged—behind her.
She froze.
The young Crime Scene officer, Marko, was squinting her way. His weapon was in his hand.
He lifted it toward Sachs, shaking his crew-cut head. On his face was a faint but definite smile—though a cold one. Of victory. Probably the expression on the face of a sniper just before he takes his shot to kill an enemy general.
8
SURPRISINGLY SILENTLY for such a stocky man, Marko moved closer and pointed to his lips, shaking his head, meaning that she keep still.
Sachs didn’t move a muscle.
Then he pointed behind her. And suddenly he shouted, “You! Under the blankets. There’re two police officers here. We’re armed. Let me see your hands.”
Sachs looked to her left. She noted a homeless nest—blankets, piles of clothing, food cartons, grocery cart, empties, books and magazines. At first she didn’t see anyone. But then she spotted a human form huddling in a gamy bedspread. A woman. She glanced at Marko, who nodded, and she, too, trained her weapon on the person, though she didn’t have any idea what was going on.
“Let me see your hands!” he shouted.
And slowly the middle-aged figure rose, a look of fury and hatred on her face. Sachs moved forward and cuffed the suspect, who raged, “You don’t understand. You don’t have any idea what he did to me. He ruined my life!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Marko said and glanced at Sachs, who read the woman her rights. Then eased her to a sitting position as she continued her rant, while the two officers searched the nest.
“How’d you make her?” Sachs asked. “The profile Rhyme had for the perp was middle-class, lived in a nice place on the Upper West Side.”
Marko nodded. “Homeless lady clothes, but not homeless lady shoes.”
Sachs looked. True, a torn and dirty dress. But nice Joan & Davids on her feet. Also, her face was clean and she wore makeup.
“Go
od catch.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“‘Amelia’ is fine.”
“Sure.”
They collected the woman’s purse—and a few other items. Notably, a pistol, with which she presumably would have shot Sachs in the back if Marko hadn’t gotten to the scene as quickly as he had.
Good catch…
They also found a well-thumbed book, sprouting Post-it notes.
A Comprehensive Guide to Evidence Collection and Analysis.
Lincoln Rhyme’s textbook.
* * *
THE PERP WAS James Ferguson’s ex-wife.
In this case, Lincoln Rhyme allowed, this one case, motive was a pretty good clue and led them to the suspect: revenge.
Ferguson, along with Sachs, Sellitto and Marko, sat in Rhyme’s townhouse, filling in the details of what Rhyme had deduced an hour ago. He explained that he’d gotten divorced from his wife, Linda, about a year ago. She’d grown increasingly abusive and unstable, paranoid. She’d known his career was important to him before they got married but she’d still resented the long hours and his obsession with his TV production projects. She was also sure he was having affairs with his assistants.
He laughed bitterly. “Twelve-hour days don’t leave a lot of time or energy for that sort of thing.”
After the divorce her mental and emotional condition grew worse, he added, though it never occurred to him that she’d grow violent.
But she sure had. Coming up with a bizarre plan to get even with Ferguson by stalking and killing some of the women Ferguson dated or knew. She dressed like a homeless woman, so she wouldn’t be noticed, camping out near her intended victims’ apartments to get details about their lives. Then she’d attempted to murder them using as a template Rhyme’s book, both to cover up any clues to her personally and also to shift the focus to Ferguson, since there was a record he’d bought a copy of the textbook.
The last step, tonight, would be to plant evidence implicating her ex-husband in Vicki Sellick’s apartment. A whole chapter in Rhyme’s book was about intentionally seeding evidence at a scene to establish guilt.
Trouble in Mind: The Collected Stories, Volume 3 Page 18
