The Skin Collector(Lincoln Rhyme)

Chapter 30





Sachs was grateful that, as at the previous scene, she didn’t have to lug the heavy halogen spots down to the murder site; they were already set up and burning brightly.

Thank you, first responders.

She glanced at the diagram from Rhyme’s database of underground New York to orient herself.



There were some similarities to the prior scene: the waterpipe, the utility conduits, the yellow boxes marked IFON. But there was a major difference too. This space was much bigger. And she could climb directly into it through the access doorway in the bathroom. No circular coffin breadbaskets.

Thank you …

From the ancient wooden pens surrounding the dirt floor, she deduced that it had been part of a passageway to move animals to and from one of the stockyards that used to operate near here, in Hell’s Kitchen. She remembered that the perp seemed to be influenced by the Bone Collector; that killer too had used a former slaughterhouse as a place to stash one of his victims – and staked her down, bloody, so she would be devoured alive by rats.

Unsub 11-5 certainly had learned at the feet of a master.

The access door in the restroom opened into a large octagon, from which three tunnels disappeared into the darkness.

Sachs clicked on the video and audio feed. ‘Rhyme? You there?’

‘Ah, Sachs. I was wondering.’

‘He might’ve come back again. Like on Elizabeth Street.’

‘Returned to the scene?’

‘Or never left. I saw someone on the street, matching. Bo Haumann’s got officers checking it out.’

‘Anything?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Why’s he coming back?’ Rhyme mused. Not expecting an answer.

The camera was pointed in the direction she was looking – toward the dimness of a tunnel’s end. Before turning to the body, though, she slipped rubber bands over her booties and tracked along the unsub’s footprints, also muted by protective plastic, which led down one of the tunnels.

‘That’s how he got in? I can’t see clearly.’

‘Looks that way, Rhyme. I see some lights up ahead.’

The perp hadn’t used a manhole to gain access. This tunnel, one of three, opened onto a train track – the line running north from Penn Station. The opening was largely obscured by a pile of debris but there was plenty of room for a person to climb over it. The unsub had simply walked up or down the tracks, from a spot near the West Side Highway, and then scaled the rubble and made his way to the octagon-shaped space where Samantha had died. She radioed Jean Eagleston and told her about the secondary crime scene – the entrance/exit route.

Then Sachs returned to the center of the octagon, where the victim lay. She looked up and shielded her eyes from the brilliant halogens the medics had set up. ‘Another flashlight, Rhyme. He sure wants to be certain nobody misses the vic.’

Messages from our sponsor …

Like Chloe, Samantha was handcuffed and her ankles duct-taped. She’d also been partially disrobed – but only to expose her abdomen, where the unsub had inked her. A fast examination revealed no apparent sexual contact here either. Indeed, there was something oddly chaste about the way he’d left both victims. This was, she reflected, eerier than a straight-up sex crime – since it suggested the underlying mystery of the case: Why was he doing this? Rape, at least, was categorical. This?

She gazed down at the tattoo.



Rhyme’s voice intruded on the quiet. ‘“forty”. Lowercase again. Part of the phrase. Cardinal number this time, not the ordinal “fortieth”. Why?’ Testily he added, ‘Well, no time to speculate. Let’s get going.’

She processed the body, scraping nails (nothing obvious this time, as with Chloe), taking samples of the blood, the body fluids and presumably the poison oozing from the wounds. Then scanning her for prints, though he’d worn gloves again, of course.

Sachs walked the grid, collecting trace near the body and distant samples of dirt and trace too, for control. She studied the ground. ‘Booties again. No tread marks.’

‘He’s wearing new shoes,’ Rhyme said. ‘He’ll’ve pitched the others, the famous Bass size elevens. They’re in the sewer in the Bronx by now.’

As she walked the grid, she noticed something against one of the far walls. At first she thought it was a rat lying on its side. The lump wasn’t moving so she speculated that the creature chewed a bit of Samantha’s flesh, ingested the poison and crawled away to die.

But as she got closer she noted that, no, it was a purse.

‘Got her handbag.’

‘Good. Maybe there’ll be trace on that.’

She collected it and dropped the leather purse into an evidence bag.

This and all of the other samples of trace, also bagged in plastic or paper, she added to a milk crate.

Sachs wanded with the alternative light source – Samantha’s body, the ground of the octagon, the tunnels. Again, Unsub 11-5 had punched and probed her flesh. She noted from the bootie prints that the unsub had walked up and down the tunnel several times to and from the debris pile, which seemed curious, and she told Rhyme. Maybe because he’d heard intruders, he suggested. Or maybe he’d left some of his gear at the mouth. She took pictures and finally returned to the access door, muttering thanks once more to no one in particular that there was nothing claustrophobic about this search.


Once on the outside again, she handed off to the other CS techs, who had finished with the secondary scenes. Detective Jean Eagleston reported the not-surprising news that any of the perp’s movements around the train tracks and the entrance to the tunnel from the outside were obliterated by the rain and sleet.

Aside from what presumably had been a brief struggle in the women’s room, there were no signs that he’d touched anything. There were no tool marks in the screws he’d removed to gain access to the bathroom. And no footprints either, except those of dozens of street shoes – from the people who’d used the toilet.

The sleet beat an irritating drum tap on the hood she wore and she told Rhyme she was disconnecting the video camera for fear the moisture would short out the expensive, high-def system.

She returned to her car, where she filled out chain-of-custody cards for each item collected, working under the trunk lid to keep the cards and evidence bags dry. Stripping off the Tyvek suit, she slipped it into a burn bag in the crime scene van and returned to the street, pulling on her leather jacket.

Sachs noticed Nancy Simpson, the detective, speaking to Bo Haumann. The other officers who’d gone off in pursuit of the fish were straggling back.

Haumann rubbed his grizzled crew cut as Sachs walked up. ‘Nothing. Nobody saw him. But—’ He glanced up at the inhospitable skies. ‘Not a lot of people out tonight.’

She nodded then headed over to Lon Sellitto, who was talking to a group of people about Samantha’s age. She told him about the pursuit – of the unsub or an innocent voyeur – the unsuccessful pursuit. He took the news with a grunt, then they both turned to the others, who were, the detective reported, Samantha’s fellow diners. She’d deduced this earlier from their expressions.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Sachs said. One woman’s face was streaked with tears – a co-worker. The other woman, a blonde, looked put out and uneasy. Sachs guessed she had coke in her purse. Let it go.

The two men were angry and resolute. None of these had been Samantha’s lover, it seemed. But one was her roommate; the greatest sorrow within the four resided in his eyes.

She and Sellitto both asked questions, learning the unsurprising news that Samantha Levine had no enemies that they’d ever heard of. She was a businesswoman and had never been in trouble with the law. No problems with former boyfriends.

Another random death. In some ways this was the most tragic of all crimes: the happenstance victim.

And in many ways the most difficult to solve.

It was then that a man in an expensive suit – no overcoat – came hurrying up to them, oblivious to the sleet and cold. He was in his fifties, tanned, hair carefully cut. He wasn’t tall but was quite handsome and well proportioned.

‘Mr Clevenger!’ one of the women cried and hugged him. Samantha’s co-worker. He gripped her hard and greeted the others in Samantha’s party with a somber nod.

‘Louise! Is it true? I just heard. I just got a call. Is she, Samantha? Is she gone?’ He stepped back and the woman he’d been embracing said, ‘Yes, I can’t believe it. She’s … I mean, she’s dead.’

The newcomer turned to Sachs, who asked, ‘So you knew Ms Levine?’

‘Yes, yes. She works for me. She was … I was talking to her a few hours ago. We had a meeting … just a few hours ago.’ He nodded at the glossy building beside the restaurant. ‘There. I’m Todd Clevenger.’ He handed her a card. International Fiber Optic Networks. He was the company’s president and CEO.

Sellitto asked, ‘Was there any reason anybody would want to hurt her? Anything about her job that was sensitive? That might’ve exposed her to threats?’

‘Can’t imagine it. All we do is lay fiber optic for broadband Internet … just communications. Anyway, she never said anything, like she was in danger. I can’t imagine. She was the sweetest person in the world. Smart. Really smart.’

The woman named Louise said to Sachs, ‘I was thinking about something. There was that woman killed the other day. In SoHo. Is this the same psycho?’

‘I can’t really comment. It’s an ongoing investigation.’

‘But that woman was killed underground too. Right? In a tunnel. It was on the news.’

The scrawny young artistic-looking man, who’d identified himself as Raoul, Samantha’s roommate, said, ‘That’s right. It was the same thing. The, you know, MO.’

Sachs again demurred. She and Sellitto asked a few more questions but it was soon clear there was nothing more these people could help them with.

Wrong place, wrong time.

A happenstance victim …

Ultimately, in cases where the victim had been alone with the perpetrator, no witnesses, the truth would have to be revealed through the evidence.

And this was what Sachs and the other Crime Scene officers now packed carefully into the trunk of her Torino.

In five minutes she was racing up the West Side Highway, blue light on the dash pulsing madly, as she skidded around cars and trucks – the slaloming more a function of her powerful engine and her comfort in high revs than the inclement weather.