Jeffery Deaver - The Broken Window

The shocked groundskeeper is more resilient than I’d expected, though. He lunges forward and grabs my collar with the hand not gripping the wound. We struggle, grappling and pushing and pulling, a macabre dance among the graves, until his hand falls away and he drops onto his back on the sidewalk, a snaky strip of asphalt that leads to the cemetery office. His hand finds the walkie-talkie at the same instant my blade finds his neck.

Zip, zip, two quiet slashes open the artery or vein or both and send a surprising torrent of blood into the sky.

I dodge it.

“No, no, why? Why ?” He reaches for the wound, helpfully getting his hands out of the way and allowing me to do the same on the other side of his neck. Slash, slash, I can’t stop myself. It’s unnecessary but I’m mad, furious-at Them for throwing me off stride. They forced me to use Miguel 5465 as an escape. And now They’ve distracted me. I got careless.

More slashing…Then I stand back and in thirty seconds, after a few eerie kicks, the man is unconscious. In sixty, life becomes death.

I can only stand, numb from this nightmare, gasping from the effort. I’m hunched over and I feel like a miserable animal.

The police-They-will know I was the one, of course. The data are all there. The death happened at the gravesite of an SSD employee’s family, and, after the wrestling match with the groundskeeper, I’m sure there’s some evidence the clever police can trace to the other scenes. I don’t have time to clean up.

They’ll understand that I’d followed Miguel 5465 to fake his suicide and was interrupted by the groundskeeper.

Then a clatter from the walkie-talkie. Someone is asking for Stony. The voice isn’t alarmed; it’s a simple inquiry. But with no response they’ll come looking for him soon.

I turn and leave quickly, as if I’m a mourner overcome with sorrow and bewildered by what the future holds.

But then, of course, that’s exactly who I am.

Another killing.

And there was no doubt that 522 had committed it.

Rhyme and Sellitto were on a hot list for immediate notification about any homicides in New York City. When the call arrived from the Detective Bureau, it took only a few questions to find out that the victim, a cemetery groundskeeper, had been murdered next to the grave of an SSD employee’s wife and child, most likely by a man who’d followed the worker there.

Too much of a coincidence, of course.

The employee, a janitor, was not a suspect. He was talking to another visitor just outside the cemetery when they heard the groundskeeper’s screams.

“Right.” Rhyme nodded. “Okay, Pulaski?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call somebody at SSD. See if you can find out where everybody on the suspect list was in the past two hours.”

“All right.” Another stoic smile. He sure didn’t like the place.

“And, Sachs-”

“I’ll run the scene at the cemetery.” She was already heading for the door.

After Sachs and Pulaski left, Rhyme called Rodney Szarnek at the NYPD Computer Crimes Unit. He explained about the recent killing and said, “I’m guessing he’s hungry for information about what we’ve learned. Have there been any hits on the trap?”

“Nothing outside the department. Just one search. Somebody from a Captain Malloy’s office in the Big Building. Read through the files for twenty minutes then logged off.”

Malloy? Rhyme laughed to himself. Though Sellitto had been keeping the captain updated, as instructed, he apparently couldn’t shake his nature as an investigator and was gathering as much information as he could-maybe intending to offer suggestions. Rhyme would have to call and tell him about the trap and that the bait files contained nothing helpful.

The tech said, “I assumed it was okay for them to look it over, so I didn’t call you.”

“It’s fine.” Rhyme disconnected. He stared at the evidence boards for a long time. “Lon, I’ve got an idea.”

“What?” Sellitto asked.

“Our boy’s always one step ahead of us. We’ve been going about this like he’s any other perp. But he’s not.”

The man who knows everything…

“I want to try something a little different. I want some help.”

“From who?”

“Downtown.”

“Big area. Where exactly?”

“Malloy. And somebody at City Hall.”

“City Hall? The fuck for? Why do you think they’ll even take your phone call?”

“Because they have to.”

“That’s a reason?”

“You’ve gotta convince them, Lon. We need an edge on this guy. But you can do it.”

“Do what exactly?”

“I think we need an expert.”

“What kind?”

“Computer expert.”

“We’ve got Rodney.”

“He’s not exactly what I have in mind.”

The man had been knifed to death.

Efficiently, yes, but also gratuitously, stabbed in the chest and then viciously slashed-in anger, Sachs assessed. This was another side to 522. She’d seen injuries like these at other scenes; the energetic and ill-aimed cuts suggested that the killer was losing control.

That was good for the investigators; emotional criminals are also careless criminals. They’re more public and they leave more evidence than perps who exercise self-control. But, as Amelia Sachs had learned from her days on the street, the downside is that they’re much more dangerous. People as crazed and dangerous as 522 drew no distinction among their intended victims, innocent bystanders and the police.

Any threat-any inconvenience -had to be dealt with instantly and fully. And to hell with logic.

In the harsh halogen lamps set up by the crime-scene team, bathing the graveyard in unreal light, Sachs looked over the victim, on his back, feet splayed where they’d danced outward in his death throes. A huge comma of blood leading away from the corpse stained the asphalt sidewalk in Forest Hills Memorial Gardens and a fringe of grass beyond.

None of the canvassers could find any witnesses, and Miguel Abrera, the SSD janitor, couldn’t add anything. He was badly shaken both because he’d been a potential target of the killer and because his friend had died; he’d gotten to know the groundskeeper in his frequent visits to the graves of his wife and child. That night he’d had a vague feeling that someone had followed him from the subway and he’d even stopped and glanced into a bar window to look for reflections of a mugger tailing him. But the trick hadn’t worked-he’d seen no one-and he’d continued on to the cemetery.

Now, in her white overalls, Sachs directed two crime-scene officers from the main CS operation in Queens to photograph and video everything. She processed the body and began to walk the grid. She was especially diligent. This was an important scene. The killing had happened fast and violently-the groundskeeper had obviously surprised 522-and they had grappled, which meant more chances to find some evidence here that would lead to more information about the killer and his residence or place of work.

Sachs began on the grid-walking over the scene foot by foot in one direction and then turning perpendicular and searching the same area again.

Halfway through she stopped abruptly.

A noise.

She was sure it was the sound of metal against metal. A gun chambering a round? A knife opening?

She looked around quickly but saw only the dusk-blanketed cemetery. Amelia Sachs didn’t believe in ghosts, and normally found resting grounds like this peaceful, even comforting. But now her teeth were clenched, her palms sweating in the latex gloves.

She’d just turned back to the body when she gasped, seeing a flash of light nearby.