Jeffery Deaver - The Kill Room

Rhyme resented their condescension and Thom, sensing this, stiffened, probably expecting a tirade, but the criminalist smiled and thanked them. The waves he intended to make would be reserved for the RBPF itself.

A tall man presently at the head of the queue in front of Rhyme had gleaming black skin and wore jeans and an untucked shirt. He was complaining to an attractive and attentive desk officer about a stolen goat.

“It might have walked off,” the woman said.

“No, no, the rope was cut. I took a picture. Do you want to see? It was cut with a knife. I have pictures! My neighbor. I know my neighbor did this.”

Tool mark evidence could link the cut pattern on the rope to the neighbor’s blade. Hemp fibers are particularly adhesive; there would have been some evidentiary transfer. There’d been a recent rain. Footprints surely still existed.

Easy case, Rhyme reflected, smiling to himself. He wished Sachs were here so he could share the story with her.

Goats…

The man was persuaded to search a bit longer.

Then Rhyme moved forward. The desk officer rose slightly and peered down at him. He asked for Mychal Poitier.

“Yes, I’ll call him. You are, please?”

“Lincoln Rhyme.”

She placed the call. “Corporal, it’s Constable Bethel, at the desk. A Lincoln Rhyme and some other people are here to see you.” She stared down at her beige, old-fashioned phone, growing tenser as she listened. “Well, yes, Corporal. He’s here, as I was saying…Well, he’s right in front of me.”

Had Poitier told her to pretend he was out?

Rhyme said, “If he’s busy, tell him I’m happy to wait. For as long as necessary.”

Her eyes flicked uncertainly to Rhyme’s. She said into the phone, “He said…” But apparently Poitier had heard. “Yes, Corporal.” She set the receiver down. “He’ll be here in a minute.”

“Thank you.”

They turned away and moved to an unoccupied portion of the waiting room.

“God bless you,” said the woman who had given up her space in line for the pathetic figure.

Rhyme felt Thom’s hand on his shoulder but, once again, he merely smiled.

Thom and Pulaski sat on a bench beside Rhyme, under dozens of painted and photo portraits of senior commissioners and commanders of the Royal Bahamas Police Force, going back many years. He scanned the gallery. This was like walls of service everywhere: faces unrevealing and, like Queen Victoria’s, looking off into the distance, not directly at the painter or camera. Unemotional, yet oh what those eyes would have seen in the collective hundreds of years of duty as law enforcers.

Rhyme was debating how long Poitier was going to stall when a young officer appeared from a hallway and approached the desk. He was in those ubiquitous black slacks, red-striped, and an open-collar, short-sleeved blue shirt. A chain from the top button disappeared into his left breast pocket. A whistle? Rhyme wondered. The dark-skinned man, who was armed with a semiautomatic pistol, was bareheaded and had thick but short-trimmed hair. His round face was not happy.

Constable Bethel pointed Rhyme out to the officer. The young man turned and blinked in stark surprise. Though he tried to stop himself he stared immediately down at the wheelchair and at Rhyme’s legs. He blinked again and seemed to swell with discomfort.

Rhyme knew that it was more than his presence upsetting the officer.

Forget murder, forget geopolitics. I have to deal with a cripple ?

Poitier delayed a moment more, perhaps wondering if he’d been spotted. Could he still escape? Then, composing himself, he broke away reluctantly from the desk and approached them.

“Captain Rhyme, well.” He said this with a casual, almost cheerful tone. Identical to the woman tourist’s a moment ago. Poitier’s hand was half extended as if he didn’t want to shake but thought it would be a moral lapse not to make the effort. Rhyme lifted his hand and the officer quickly, very quickly, gripped and let go.

Quadriplegia is not contagious, Rhyme thought sourly.

“Corporal, this is Officer Pulaski with the NYPD. And my caregiver, Thom Reston.”

Hands were shaken, this time with less uncertainty. But Poitier looked Thom up and down. Perhaps the concept of “caregiver” was new to him.

The corporal gazed about him and found several fellow officers frozen in different attitudes, like children playing the game of statue, as they stared.

Mychal Poitier’s attention returned at once to the wheelchair and Rhyme’s insensate legs. The slow movements of the right arm seemed to rivet him the most, though. Finally, Poitier, using all his willpower, forced himself to stare into Rhyme’s eyes.

The criminalist found himself at first irritated at this reaction but then he felt a sensation he hadn’t experienced for some time: He was ashamed. Actually ashamed of his condition. He’d hoped the sense would morph into anger but it didn’t. He felt diminished, weakened.

Poitier’s dismayed look had burned him.

Ashamed…

He tried to push aside the prickly feeling and said evenly, “I need to discuss the case with you, Corporal.”

Poitier looked around again. “I’m afraid I’ve told you all I can.”

“I want to see the evidence reports. I want to see the crime scene itself.”

“That’s not practical. The scene is sealed.”

“You seal crime scenes from the public, not from forensics officers.”

“But you’re…” A hesitation; Poitier managed not to look at his legs. “You’re not an officer here, Captain Rhyme. Here you are a civilian. I’m sorry.”

Pulaski said, “Let us help you with the case.”

“My time is very occupied.” He was happy to glance toward Pulaski, someone who was on his feet. Someone who was normal. “Occupied,” Poitier repeated, turning now to a bulletin board on which was pinned a flyer: The headline was MISSING. Beneath that stark word was a picture of a smiling blonde, downloaded from Facebook, it seemed.

Rhyme said, “The student you were mentioning.”

“Yes. The one you…”

The corporal had been going to add: the one you don’t care about. Rhyme was sure of this.

But he’d refrained.

Because, of course, Rhyme wasn’t fair game. He was weak. A snide word might shatter him beyond repair.

His face flushed.

Pulaski said, “Corporal, could we just see copies of the evidence report, the autopsies? We could look at them right here. We won’t take them off the premises.”

Good approach, Rhyme thought.

“I’m afraid that will not be possible, Officer Pulaski.” He endured another look at Rhyme.

“Then let us have a fast look at the scene.”

Poitier coughed or cleared his throat. “I have to leave it intact, depending on what we hear from the Venezuelan authorities.”

Rhyme played along. “And I will make sure the scene remains uncontaminated for them.”

“Still, I’m sorry.”

“Our case for Moreno’s death is different from yours—you pointed that out the other day. But we still need certain forensics from here.”

Otherwise the risk you took in calling me from the casino that night will be wasted. This was the implicit message.

Rhyme was careful not to mention any U.S. security agencies or snipers. If the Bahamians wanted Venezuelan drug runners he wasn’t going to interfere with that. But he needed the goddamn evidence.

He glanced at the poster of the missing student.

She was quite attractive, her smile innocent and wide.

The reward for information was only five hundred dollars.

He whispered to Poitier, “You have a firearms tracing unit. I saw the reference on your website. At the very least, can I see their report on the bullet?”