Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

Schoolmarm, Rhyme thought, but then, so’m I. He was admiring her professional style. And her skill in extracting the evidence. The breakdown of the trace was excellent.

Daniela and Giacomo finished setting up a large laptop. She nodded to Rossi, who said, ‘Here is the video.’

Giacomo tapped keys and the screen came to life.

In lightly accented English, Daniela said, ‘The site had taken down the video. It’s against their policy to show graphic violence. In Italy that can be a crime. But at our request they sent a copy to us.’

‘Were there comments by viewers on the page where it was posted?’ Sachs asked. ‘About the video?’

Rossi explained, ‘We hoped too what you are suggesting, yes. That the Composer might respond to a comment and we might learn more. But that has not been the case. The video site has left the page up — again at our request — without the video. And Giacomo here is monitoring comments. But he has remained silent, the Composer.’

The young man gave a sour laugh. ‘It is a sad state. The comments mostly are people angry that the video is down. The audience wants to see a man die.’ He nodded toward the computer. ‘ Ecco. ’

They all stared at the screen.

The video showed a dimly lit room, walls apparently damp, dotted with mold. The gagged victim — a slim man, dark-complexioned, with a beard — sat in a chair, a thin noose around his neck. The cord — another musical-instrument string — disappeared up out of the scene. It was not very tight. The man was unconscious, breathing slowly. The video, like the one in New York, included only music, played on a keyboard, presumably a new Casio or something similar.

This tune too was in three-four waltz time. And, as in the earlier video, the downbeat was a man’s gasp and, as the visual grew darker, the music and inhalations grew slower.

‘ Cristo ,’ Ercole whispered, though he had presumably seen it at least once before. He looked toward Daniela, who regarded the video impassively. Ercole cleared his throat and put on a stoic face.

The music was familiar but Rhyme couldn’t place it. He mentioned this.

The others seemed surprised. It was Thom who said, ‘“The Waltz of the Flowers.” Nutcracker. ’

‘Oh.’ Rhyme listened to jazz occasionally; there was something intriguing about how improvisation could find a home in the mathematical absolute of a musical composition (it was how he approached crime scene work). But in general, music, like most arts, was largely a waste of time to Lincoln Rhyme.

The victim stirred as dirt or stones trickled onto his shoulder, from the wall or ceiling, but did not come to. The screen grew dimmer, the music slower. Finally, it went black and the soundtrack ended.

The perverse copyright notice came up on the screen.

Rhyme asked, ‘Metadata?’ Information embedded in pictures and videos about the work itself: type of camera, focal length, date and time, speed and aperture settings, sometimes even the GPS location. This had been removed from the New York video, but perhaps the Composer failed to do so here.

Rossi said, ‘None. The Postal Police said it was re-encoded and all the data stripped out.’

‘Postal Police?’

‘It is our telecommunications arm.’

Rossi stared at the black screen for a moment. ‘How much time do you think we have?’

Rhyme shook his head. Any suggestion would be simply a guess, a waste of effort.

Sachs mused, ‘How does the gallows work? Something off camera will pull the noose up, a weight or something.’

They looked at the video for any clue but saw nothing.

‘Well, let us move now. See if we can solve this puzzle. Captain Rhyme—’

‘How did I draw my conclusions I told you about?’

‘Yes. That’s where we should start.’

Nodding toward the now-translated chart, Rhyme said, ‘The trace, of course. Now, the substances paired with the propylene glycol is shaving cream. With the blood, it’s a reasonable conclusion that he cut himself shaving. To change his appearance as much as he can, he’d lose the hair and beard. The shaved-head look seems popular here in Italy.

‘Now, the indole, skatole and thiol are excrement.’ A glance toward the chart once more. ‘Those’re shit. With the paper fiber? Human shit, of course. No other creatures I know wipe. It’s old shit, quite old, desiccated. You can see in the picture — and of several different types. See the color and texture variations? I would speculate there is a sewer nearby, one that might not have been used for some time.

‘The animal hairs are from a rat. It’s shedding because it’s scratching; it has a skin irritation — the bartonella bacteria are causing that. The particular strain is the one that most commonly infects rats. Rats and sewers, well, you find them everywhere but more often in cities than smaller towns. So, urban setting.’

‘ Bene ,’ said Beatrice Renza.

‘The iron shavings tell me the Composer cut a lock or chain to get access to the place. Iron isn’t used much anymore — most locks are steel — so it’s old. With the rust on only one side — you can see it there, that photo — it was recently cut.’

Rossi said, ‘You suggested it used to have public access, in the past.’

‘Yes, because of the rubber.’

‘The rubber?’ Ercole asked. He seemed to be memorizing all that Rhyme said.

‘What else would be vulcanized? Translucent, decomposing shreds. Vulcanized rubber.’

It was Beatrice who nodded. ‘They are the old condoms, might it not be?’

‘Exactly. Hardly a romantic trysting place, with the rat neighbors, and sewers, but perfect for streetwalkers.’ Rhyme shrugged. ‘They’re bold deductions. But we have a man who’s about to be strangled to death. I don’t think we have time to be timid. So, what does this tell you about where the victim might be? Underground in Naples? Of course, a deserted area.’

Rossi said, ‘Not many of those here. We are a very crowded city.’

Beatrice said, ‘And Naples has more underground passages and walkways than any other city in Italy. Perhaps than Europe. Kilometers after kilometers.’

Ercole disagreed. ‘But not so many where access is in deserted places.’

The lab analyst muttered to him, ‘No. I think many. We must find other ways to narrow these concerns down.’

Rhyme said, ‘A map. There has to be a map of underground locations.’

‘Historical documents,’ Daniela offered.

With a smile, Ercole said to her, ‘Yes, of course. From a library or a college or a historical society.’

Rhyme turned to him and his eyebrow rose.

Ercole hesitated and said, ‘Is that wrong? It was just a suggestion.’

Rossi said, ‘I think, Ercole, that Captain Rhyme is not questioning your thought — which is a good, if obvious, one — but your delay in providing such maps.’

‘Oh, yes, yes, of course.’

Sachs told him, ‘Go online. We don’t have time for you to prowl though libraries like The Da Vinci Code .’

Must have been a book, Rhyme supposed. Or movie.

Sachs asked Beatrice, ‘You mentioned the underground passages here. Are there walking tours?’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘My sister’s children, we are going on such tours. Several, three times.’

‘Ercole,’ Rhyme called, ‘download all those tour routes too.’

‘Yes, I will. You mean so that we can eliminate those areas from our underground search. Of course he would avoid places with tourists.’

‘I want to orient myself. A map of the city. We need a map.’

Rossi spoke to Daniela, who vanished then returned a moment later with a large foldout map. She taped it to the wall.