Джеффри Дивер: A Textbook Case

— human/animal, to be determined (apparently animal)

— DNA, to be determined

— could be food

— some definitely fish bones, chicken or other fowl

• Footprints

— 23, male and female, 18 different sizes, five associated with the victim’s shoes

— prints of feet in crime scene, surgical booties

• vapors in crime scene

— small fire set in corner, newspapers, possibly to obscure smell of the unsub’s aftershave or other odor

— spray paint fumes.

• Disposable cigarette lighters

— 18 separate lighters found

— probably taken from trash — most empty of butane

— 64 friction ridge prints

Rhyme barked, “The chart reads like the table of contents in my goddamn book.”

Several years ago Rhyme had written a textbook, A Comprehensive Guide to Evidence Collection and Analysis, which was a best seller, at least in the law enforcement community if not in the Times.

Sachs: “I don’t know where to start, Rhyme.”

Well, guess what? Rhyme thought, I don’t either. He was recalling another passage in the book.

While every scene will contain at least some transferred evidence from the perpetrator, it may never be discovered, as a practical matter, because of budget and time constraints. Similarly, there may be too much evidence obscuring the relevant clues, which will similarly render effective analysis impossible.

“It’s even more brilliant than I thought,” the criminalist mused. “Getting most of what he used in the crime from the trash — covered with other people’s prints. And contaminating the scene with, literally, pounds of trace and other garbage. For things he couldn’t obscure — he could hardly bring a dozen shoes with him or somebody else’s fingers — he wore booties and gloves.”

Sachs said, “But those can’t be his gloves, all the latex ones. He wouldn’t leave them behind.”

“Probably not. But we can’t afford not to analyze them, can we? And he knows it.”

“I suppose not,” said Mel Cooper, as discouraged as the rest of them. Rhyme believed the tech had had a ballroom dancing date with his girlfriend of many years last night. They were competitors and apparently quite accomplished. Lincoln Rhyme did not follow dancing.

“And he…” Rhyme’s voice faded as several thoughts came to him.

“Linc—”

Rhyme lifted his right arm and waved Sellitto silent as he continued to stare.

Finally the criminalist said excitedly, “Think about this. This person knows evidence. And that means he knows there’s a good chance he’s got some trace or other clue on him that could lead us to his identity or to the next victim he’s got in mind.”

“Right,” Lon Sellitto said. “And?”

Rhyme was peering at the charts. “So what did he use the most of to contaminate the scene?”

Sachs said, “Trash—”

“No, that was a general smokescreen. It just happened to be there. Something specific, I’m looking for.”

Cooper shoved his Harry Potter glasses higher on his nose as he read the charts. He offered, “Fibers, hair, general trace—”

“Yes, but those are givens at every crime scene. I want to know what’s special ?”

“What’s the most unique, you mean?” Sellitto offered.

“No, I don’t mean that, Lon,” Rhyme said sourly. “Because something is either unique or not. You don’t have varying degrees of one-ness.”

“Haven’t had a grammar lesson from you lately, Lincoln. I was wondering if you’d quit the schoolmarm union.”

Drawing a smile from Thom, who was delivering coffee and pastries.

Sachs was studying the chart. She said, “Dirt and… vegetation.”

Rhyme squinted. “Yes, good. That could be it. He knew he picked up some trace either where the perp lives or works, or where he’s been scoping out another victim, and he had to cover that up.”

“Which means,” Sachs said, “a garden, park or yard?”

“I’d say, yes. Soil and the greenery. That could hold the clue. It cuts the search down a bit…. We should start there. Then anything else?” Rhyme reviewed the chart again. “The detergent and cleansers — why’d he sprinkle or pour so many of those in the scene? We need to start working our way through those, too.” Rhyme looked around. “That kid, Marko? Why isn’t he here?”

Sachs said, “He called. He had something he had to do back in Queens, HQ. But he’d still like to help us out if we need him. You want me to call him?”

“I do, Sachs. Fast!”

An exhausting time.

A business trip with her boss to California and back in under twenty-four hours.

Productive, necessary, but stressful.

They were now cabbing it into the city from JFK, where their flight had landed at 6:00 p.m. She was exhausted, a bit tipsy from the two glasses of wine and mildly resenting the three hours that you lost flying east.

Her boss, late forties, tanned and trim, now slipped his iPhone away — he’d been making a date for tomorrow — and then turned to her with a laugh. “Did you hear them? They really used the word ‘unpack.’ ”

As in “unpack it for us,” meaning presumably explain to the network the story they’d come to pitch.

“Since when did ‘explain’ fall off the A-list of words?”

Simone smiled. “And the net executive? She said the concept was definitely ‘seismic.’ You know, you need a translator app in Hollywood.”

Her boss laughed and Simone eyed him obliquely. A great guy. Funny, smart, in great shape thanks to a health club regimen that bordered on the religious. He was also extremely talented, which meant extremely successful.

Oh, and single, too.

He sure was a big helping of temptation, you bet, but Simone, despite being in her mid-thirties and sans boyfriend at the moment, had successfully corralled the baby and the lonely hormones; she could look at her boss objectively. The man’s obsessive craving for detail and perfection, his intensity would drive her crazy if they were partners. Work was everything. He lived his life as if he were planning out a production. That was it: life as storyboard, preproduction, production and post. This was undoubtedly a reason his marriage hadn’t worked out and why he tended to go out with somebody for only a month or two at the most.

Good luck, James, she thought. I wish you the best.

Not that he’d ever actually asked you out, Simone reflected wryly.

The cab now approached her neighborhood — Greenwich Village. For Simone, there was no other place to live in New York City. It was, truly, a village. A neighborhood.

The cab dropped her at Tenth Street. “Hm,” her boss said, looking out the window at two men, constructed like bodybuilders, kissing passionately as they stood on the steps of the building next to hers.