The Skin Collector(Lincoln Rhyme)

Chapter 70





The point of the American Families First Council attack was now clear.

Among the documents in the dead unsub’s pocket, in addition to the name of the Stantons’ hotel, Sachs had found a rambling letter.

It reminded Rhyme of the Unabomber’s manifesto – a diatribe against modern society. The difference, though, was that the unsub’s screed didn’t offer up the AFFC’s own racist and fundamentalist views; just the opposite, in fact. The document, intended to be found by the police after the citywide poisoning, purported to be written by the enemy – some unnamed coalition of black and Latino activists, affiliated with Muslim fundamentalists, all of whom were taking credit for the poisoning of New York City to get even with the white capitalist oppressors. The statement called for an uprising against them, proclaiming that the poison attack was just the start.

Characterizing the attack in this way was rather clever, Rhyme decided. It would take suspicion off the AFFC and would galvanize sentiment against the council’s enemies. It would also cause immeasurable damage to the Sodom of New York City, bastion of globalization, mixed races and liberalism.

Rhyme suspected there was more at work as well. ‘Power play within the militia movement? If word gets around that AFFC pulled this off, their stock would rise through the roof.’

A call came in from the federal building in Manhattan.


‘The Stantons are not doin’ the talkie-talkie, Lincoln,’ said Fred Dellray, the FBI agent who was running the federal side of the attempted attack. The couple and their son were now in federal custody but apparently not – to translate Dellray’s distinctive lingo – cooperating at all.

‘Well, sweat ’em or something, Fred. I want to know who the hell our unsub was. Prints came back negative and he wasn’t in CODIS.’

‘I saw those pictures of your boy in the tunnel, after the run-in with the H two Oh. My, my, that was a Breaking Bad moment, no? How fast they think that water was going?’

He was on speaker and, from a nearby evidence table, Sachs called, ‘They don’t know, Fred, but after it cut him in half it also cut through a concrete wall and a steam pipe on the other side. I had to haul ass out of there ’fore I got scalded.’

‘You catch anything helpful in the tunnel?’

‘Got a few things, not much. It was pretty much toast. Well, more oatmeal than toast, what with the steam and water.’

She explained about the letter, intended to start a race riot.

The agent sighed. ‘Just when you think the world’s a-changin’ …’

‘We’ll work up the evidence, Fred, and be in touch.’

‘Thanks mightily.’

They disconnected and Sachs returned to helping Mel Cooper analyze the trace and isolate and run the friction ridges from the Stantons’ hotel suite. Regarding the prints, though, only one set was on file, though they knew the perpetrator’s identity already: Joshua Stanton had a prior in Clayton County for assaulting a gay man. Hate crime.

Rhyme glanced up at the crime scene pictures, immune to the gruesome images. He looked once more at the stark tattoo, the centipede in red on the left arm. The eyes eerily human. It was, as Sachs had told him, very well done. Had he inked it himself? Rhyme wondered. Or was it painted by a friend? The unsub probably. Point of pride.

Sachs took a phone call.

‘No, no,’ she whispered, drawing the attention of everybody in the room. Her face revealed dismay.

What now? Rhyme wondered, frowning.

She disconnected. Looked at them all.

‘Lon’s taken a turn for the worse. He went into cardiac arrest. They’ve revived him but it’s not looking good. I should be with Rachel.’

‘You go on, Sachs. We’ll take care of this.’ Rhyme hesitated. Then asked: ‘You want to give Pam a call and see if she wants to go with you? She always liked Lon.’

Pulling her coat off the hook, Sachs debated. Finally she said, ‘Naw. Frankly, I don’t think I could handle any more rejection.’