Jeffery Deaver - The Coffin Dancer

One, establish the perimeter.

She ran yellow police line tape around the entire area.

Two, consider media and range of camera lenses and microphones.

No media. Not yet. Thank you, Lord.

“What’s that, Sachs?”

“I’m thanking God there’re no reporters.”

“A fine prayer. But tell me what you’re doing.”

“Still securing the scene.”

“Look for the -”

“Entrance and exit,” she said.

Step three, determine the perpetrator’s entrance and exit routes – they will be secondary crime scenes.

But she didn’t have a clue as to where they might be. He could’ve come from anywhere. Snuck around the corners, driven here in a luggage cart, a gas truck…

Sachs donned goggles and began sweeping the PoliLight wand over the taxiway. It didn’t work as well outside as in a dark room, but with the heavy overcast she could see flecks and streaks glowing under the eerie green-yellow light. There were, however, no footprints.

“Sprayed her down last night,” the voice called behind her.

Sachs spun around, hand on her Glock, a half draw from the holster.

I’m never this edgy, Rhyme. It’s all your fault.

Several men in coveralls were standing at the yellow tape. She walked up to them cautiously and checked their picture IDs. They matched the men’s faces. Her hand slipped off the gun.

“They hose the place down every night. If you’re looking for something. Thought you were.”

“High-pressure hose,” another one added.

Great. Every bit of trace, every footprint, every fiber sloughed off the Dancer was gone.

“You see anybody here last night?”

“This have to do with the bomb?”

“Around seven-fifteen?” she persisted.

“Nope. Nobody comes up here. These hangars’re deserted. Probably gonna tear ’em down someday.”

“What’re you doing here now?”

“Saw a cop. You are a cop, right? And just thought we’d have a look-see. This is about that bomb, right? Who did it? Arabs? Or them militia shits?”

She shooed them off. Into the microphone she said, “They cleaned the taxiway last night, Rhyme. High-pressure water, looks like.”

“Oh, no.”

“They -”

“Hey there.”

She sighed, turning again, expecting to find the workmen back. But the new visitor was a cocky county trooper, wearing a blocked Smokey the Bear hat and razor-creased gray slacks. He ducked under the tape.

“Excuse me,” she protested. “This is a secure area.”

He slowed but didn’t stop. She checked his ID. It matched. The picture showed him looking off slightly, a cover boy on a men’s fashion magazine.

“You’re that officer from New York, right?” He laughed generously. “Nice uniforms they have down there.” Eyeing her tight jeans.

“This area’s sealed off.”

“I can help. I took the forensics course. Mostly I’m highway detail but I’ve got major crimes experience. You have some hair. Bet you’ve heard that before.”

“I really will have to ask you -”

“Jim Everts.”

Don’t go into first-name territory; it sticks like flypaper. “I’m Officer Sachs.”

“Big hubbub, this. A bomb. Messy.”

“See, Jim, this tape here’s to keep people out of the scene. Now, you gonna be helpful and step back behind it?”

“Wait. You mean officers too?”

“That I do, yes.”

“You mean me too?”

“Exactly.”

There were five classic crime scene contaminators: weather, relatives of the victim, suspects, souvenir collectors, and – the all-time worst – fellow cops.

“I won’t touch a thing. Cross my heart. Just be a pleasure to watch you work, honey.”

“Sachs,” Rhyme whispered, “tell him to get the fuck out of your crime scene.”

“Jim, get the fuck out of my crime scene.”

“Or you’ll report him.”

“Or I’ll report you.”

“Oooo, gonna be that way, is it?” He held his hands up in surrender. The last of the flirt drained from his slick grin.

“Get going , Sachs.”

The trooper ambled away slowly enough to drag some of his pride with him. He looked back once but a scathing retort eluded him.

Amelia Sachs began to walk the grid.

There were several different ways to search crime scenes. A strip search – walking in a serpentine pattern – was usually used for outdoor scenes because it covered the most ground quickly. But Rhyme wouldn’t hear of that. He used the grid pattern – covering the entire area back and forth in one direction, walking one foot at a time, then turning perpendicular and walking back and forth the other way. When he was running IRD, “walking the grid” became synonymous with searching a crime scene, and heaven help any cops Rhyme caught taking shortcuts or daydreaming when they were on the grid.

Sachs now spent an hour moving back and forth. While the spray truck might’ve eliminated prints and trace evidence, it wouldn’t destroy anything larger that the Dancer might’ve dropped, nor would it ruin footprints or body impressions left in the mud beside the taxiway.

But she found nothing.

“Hell, Rhyme, not a thing.”

“Ah, Sachs, I’ll bet there is. I’ll bet there’s plenty. Just takes a little bit more effort than most scenes. The Dancer’s not like other perps, remember.”

Oh, that again.

“Sachs.” His voice low and seductive. She felt a shiver. “Get into him,” Rhyme whispered. “You know what I mean.”

She knew exactly what he meant. Hated the thought. But, oh, yes, Sachs knew. The best criminalists were able to find a place in their minds where the line between hunter and hunted was virtually nonexistent. They moved through the crime scene not as cops tracking down clues but as the perp himself, feeling his desires, lusts, fears. Rhyme had this talent. And though she tried to deny it, Sachs did too. (She’d searched a scene a month ago – a father had murdered his wife and child – and managed to find the murder weapon when no one else had. After the case she hadn’t been able to work for a week and had been plagued by flashbacks that she’d been the one who stabbed the victims to death. Saw their faces, heard their screams.)

Another pause. “Talk to me,” he said. And finally the edginess in his voice was gone. “You’re him. You’re walking where he’s walked, you’re thinking the way he thinks…”

He’d said words like these to her before, of course. But now – as with everything else about the Dancer – it seemed to her that Rhyme had more in mind than just finding obscure evidence. No, she sensed that he was desperate to know about this perp. Who he was, what made him kill.

Another shiver. An image in her thoughts: back to the other night. The lights of the airfield, the sound of airplane engines, the smell of jet exhaust.

“Come on, Amelia… You’re him. You’re the Coffin Dancer. You know Ed Carney’s on the plane; you know you have to get the bomb on board. Just think about it for a minute or two.”

And she did, summoning up from somewhere a need to kill.

He continued, speaking in an eerie, melodic voice. “You’re brilliant,” he said. “You have no morals whatsoever. You’ll kill anyone , you’ll do anything to get to your goal. You divert attention, you use people… Your deadliest weapon is deception.”

I lay in wait.

My deadliest weapon…

She closed her eyes.

…is deception.

Sachs felt a dark hope, a vigilance, a hunt lust.

“I -”

He continued softly. “Is there any distraction, any diversion you can try?”

Eyes open now. “The whole area’s empty. Nothing to distract the pilots with.”