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 Watchmaker’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 Watc
hmaker
• 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.
“It came here. But you can’t find it. So what do I do about that?”
“Submit a request. Somebody’ll look for it.”
“Is that really going to happen? Because I’m not sure it would.” Sachs looked toward the file room. “I’ll just take a look, you don’t mind.”
“Really, you can’t.”
“Just take a few minutes.”
“You can’t—”
Sachs walked past her and plunged into the stacks of files. The clerk muttered something Sachs couldn’t hear.
All the files were organized by number and color-coded to indicate that they were open or closed or trial pending. Major Cases files had a special border on them. Red. Sachs found the recent files and, going through the numbers one by one, sure enough—the Sarkowski file wasn’t there.
She paused, looking up the stacks, hands on her hips.
“Hi,” a man’s voice said.
She turned and found herself looking at a tall, gray-haired man in a white shirt and navy slacks. He had a military bearing about him and he was smiling. “You’re—?”
“Detective Sachs.”
“I’m DI Jefferies.” A deputy inspector generally ran the precinct. She’d heard the name but knew nothing about him. Except that he was obviously a hard worker, since he was here, still on the job at this late hour.
“What can we do you for, Detective?”
He glanced at the file clerk who’d just dimed her out. She was standing in the hallway. “We don’t have it, sir. I told her that.”
“Are you sure it was sent here?”
Sachs said, “The log at the transferring house said it was.”
“Was it logged?” Jefferies asked the clerk.
“No.”
“Well, is it in the pending basket?”
“No.”
“Come on into my office, Detective. I’ll see what we can do.”
Sachs ignored the clerk. She didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.
Through the nondescript halls, turning corners here and there, not saying a word. Sachs struggling on her arthritic legs to keep up with the man’s energetic pace.
Inspector Jefferies strode into his corner office, nodded at the chair across from his desk and closed the door, which had a large brass plaque on it. Halston P. Jefferies.
Sachs sat.
Jefferies suddenly leaned down, his face inches from hers. He slammed his fist onto the desk. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Sachs reared back, feeling his hot, garlicky breath wash over her face: “I . . . What do you mean?” She swallowed the “sir” she’d nearly appended to the sentence.
“Where are you out of?”
“Where?”
“You fucking rookie, what’s your house?”
Sachs couldn’t speak for a moment, she was so shocked by the man’s fury. “Technically I’m working Major Cases—”
“What the hell does ‘technically’ mean? Who’re you working for?”
“I’m lead detective on this case. I’m supervised by Lon Sellitto. In MC. I—”
“You haven’t been a detective—”
“I—”
“Don’t you ever interrupt a superior officer. Ever. You understand me?”
Sachs bristled. She said nothing.
“Do you understand me?” he shouted.
“Perfectly.”
“You haven’t been a detective very long, have you?”
“No.”
“I know that, because a real detective would’ve followed protocol. She would’ve come to the dep inspector and introduced herself and asked if it was all right to review a file. What you did . . . Were you about to interrupt me again?”
Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217) Page 109
