The Skin Collector(Lincoln Rhyme)

Chapter 9





Before they could get to the evidence, though, the doorbell hummed once more.

With the familiar howl of wind and Gatling gun of falling ice, the door opened and closed. Lon Sellitto walked into the parlor, stomping his feet and missing the rug.

‘Getting worse. Man. What a mess.’

Rhyme ignored the AccuWeather. ‘The security videos?’

Referring to any surveillance cameras on Elizabeth Street, near the manhole that the perp had used to gain access to the murder site. And where he had apparently been spying on Sachs.

‘Zip.’

Rhyme grimaced.

‘But there was a witness.’

Another sour look from Rhyme.

‘I don’t blame you, Linc. But it’s all we got. Guy coming home from his shift saw somebody beside the manhole about ten minutes before nine one one got the call.’

‘Home from his shift,’ Rhyme said cynically. ‘So your wit was tired.’

‘Yeah, and a f*cking tired witness who sees the perp is better than a fresh one who doesn’t.’

‘In which case he wouldn’t be a witness,’ Rhyme replied. A glance at the evidence board. Then: ‘The manhole was open?’

‘Right. Orange cones and warning tape around it.’

Rhyme said, ‘Like I thought. So he pops the cover with a hook, sets up the cones, climbs down, kills the vic and leaves.’ He turned to Sachs. ‘Moisture at the bottom of the ladder, you said. So he kept it open the whole time. What happened to the cones and tape?’

‘None there,’ Sachs said. ‘Not when I came out.’

‘He’s not going to be leaving them lying around nearby. Too smart for that. Lon, what’d your wit say about him, the perp?’

‘White male, stocking cap, thigh-length dark coat. Black or dark backpack. Didn’t see a lot of the face. Pretty much the same descrip of the guy by the manhole when Amelia was running the scene underneath.’

The one peering at Sachs. Who’d escaped into the crowds on Broadway.

‘What about the evidence on the street?’

‘In that storm?’ Sachs replied.

Weather was one of the classic contaminators of evidence and one of the most pernicious. And at the scene near the manhole, there’d been another problem: The emergency workers’ footprints and gear would have destroyed any remaining evidence as they raced to get Sachs into the ambulance after the apparent poisoning from the trap that wasn’t.

‘So we’ll write off that portion of the scene and concentrate on underground. First, the basement of the boutique?’

Jean Eagleston and her partner had photographed and searched the basement and the small utility room that opened onto it but they’d found very little. Mel Cooper examined the trace they’d collected. He reported, ‘Matches the samples from the cellar. Nothing helpful there.’

‘All right. The big question: What’s the tox screen result? COD?’

They were starting with the assumption that the cause of death was poison but that wouldn’t be known until the medical examiner completed the analysis. Sachs had called and harangued the chief examiner to send over a preliminary report ASAP. They needed both the toxin and whatever sedative, as seemed likely, the perp had injected into Chloe to subdue her. Sachs had sealed the urgency by pointing out that they believed this murder was the start of a serial killing spree. The ME, she reported, had sounded as burdened as doctors generally do, especially city employee doctors, but he’d promised to move the Chloe Moore case to the front of the queue.

Again piqued by impatience, Rhyme said, ‘Sachs, you swabbed the site of the tattoo?’

‘Sure.’

‘Run that, Mel, and let’s see if we can get a head start on the poison.’

‘Will do.’ The tool Cooper used for this analysis was the gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer – two large, joined instruments sitting in the corner of the parlor. The gas chromatography portion of the equipment analyzes an unknown sample of trace by separating out each chemical it contains based on its volatility – that is, how long it takes to evaporate. The GC separates the component parts; the second device, the mass spectrometer, identifies the substances by comparing their unique structure with a database of known chemicals.

Running the noisy, hot machine – the samples are, in effect, burned – Cooper soon got results.

‘Cicutoxin.’

The NYPD had an extensive toxin database, which Rhyme had used occasionally when he’d been head of Investigation Resources – the old name for Crime Scene – though murder by poison was uncommon then and even more so now. Cooper scrolled through the entry for this substance. He paraphrased: ‘Comes from the water hemlock plant. Attacks the central nervous system. She’d have experienced severe nausea, vomiting, we can see frothing too. Muscle twitching.’ He looked up. ‘It’s one of the most deadly plants in North America.’

He nodded at the machine. ‘And it’s been distilled. No instances of that level of concentration ever recorded. Usually takes some time to die after it’s been administered. At these levels? She’d be dead in a half hour, little longer, maybe.’

‘What some famous Greek killed himself with, right?’ Pulaski asked.

Cooper said, ‘Not quite. Different strain of hemlock. Both in the carrot family, though.’

‘Who cares about Socrates?’ Rhyme snapped. ‘Let’s focus here. Does anyone else, aside from me, notice anything troubling about the source?’

Sachs said, ‘He could’ve found it in any field or swamp in the country.’


‘Exactly.’

A commercial substance that was toxic, like those used in industrial processes and easily purchased on the open market, might be traced to a manufacturer and onward to a buyer. Some even had chemical tags that might lead investigators to receipts with the perp’s name on them. But that wasn’t going to happen if he dug his weapon out of the ground.

Impossible to narrow down beyond regions of the country. And presumably, the month being November, he’d picked the plant long ago. Or might even have grown it in a hothouse in his basement.

Equally troubling was the fact that he’d somehow reduced it to create a particularly virulent form of the toxin.

Ron Pulaski happened to be standing beside the whiteboard. Rhyme said to him, ‘Add that to the list in your concise handwriting, rookie, which the Sisters of the Skeptical Heart Church would be exceedingly proud of.’

Rhyme’s mood had improved considerably now that there were challenges to confront, mysteries to unravel … and they had some evidence to work with.

Sachs continued, ‘Now, there were no friction ridges.’

Rhyme hadn’t expected fingerprints. No, the perp was too smart for that.

‘As far as hairs – I found some from rats and some from Chloe but no others, so I’m guessing headgear beyond the stocking cap.’

Close-fitting hats tended to dislodge hair more than keep it from falling out, especially wool or nylon, since the wearer would tend to scratch or rub itches. Rhyme guessed the perp had known this and taken other, more careful precautions to keep his fiber and DNA evidence to himself.

She continued, ‘The prelim for sexual assault was negative – though the ME might find something else. But genitals and secondary sexual locations don’t seem to have been touched. Aside from her abdomen’ – she nodded at the photographs – ‘she was fully clothed. But when I wanded her with the ALS, I found something interesting: dozens of places where he touched her skin, stroked it. More than just to pull it taut to do the tattoo. And she had a small tat on her neck. A flower.’ Sachs displayed the picture on Rhyme’s high-def monitor. ‘He rubbed that a few times, the wand showed.’

‘But not sexual touching?’ Sellitto muttered.

‘Not traditionally sexual,’ Sachs pointed out. ‘He may have a fetish or paraphilia. My impression was that he was fascinated with her skin. He wanted to touch it. Or was driven to maybe.’

Rhyme said, ‘Driven? That’s getting a little fishy for me, Sachs. A little soft. Noted but let’s move on.’

They began on the trace, analyzing substances that Sachs had found near the body and comparing them with control samples from the tunnel, trying to isolate those that were unique to the unsub.

Cooper kept the GC/MS humming.

‘Okay, clustered together we have nitric oxide, ozone, iron, manganese, nickel, silver, beryllium, chlorinated hydrocarbon, acetylene.’

Rhyme nodded. ‘Those were near the body?’

‘Right.’ Sachs looked over her detailed chain-of-custody card, which noted the exact location of each sample.

‘Hm.’ He grunted.

‘What, Linc?’ Sellitto asked.

‘Those’re materials used in welding. Oxy-fuel welding primarily. Maybe it came from our unsub but I’d think it’s more likely from the workers who installed the pipe. But we’ll put it on the chart anyway.’

Cooper selected another sample. It was from the floor near the ladder that led to the manhole. When this analysis was finished the tech frowned. ‘Well, may have something here.’

Rhyme sighed. Then share it, please and thank you, his burdened smile said.

But Cooper wasn’t going to be rushed. He carefully read the mass spectrum – the computer analysis from the instruments.

‘It’s tetrodotoxin.’

Rhyme was intrigued. ‘Ah, yes, we do have something here. Another possible murder weapon.’

‘Poison, Linc?’ Sellitto asked.

Mel Cooper said, ‘Oh, indeed. A good one. It’s from the ovaries of the puffer fish, the fugu. It’s a neurotoxin with no known antidote. Sixty or so people a year die in Japan – from eating it intentionally. In low dosages you can get a high … and survive to pay the check. And for what it’s worth, tetrodotoxin’s the zombie drug.’

‘The what?’ Sellitto asked, barking a laugh.

‘Really.’ Cooper added, ‘Like out of a movie. In the Caribbean people take it to lower their heart rate and respiration to the point where they appear dead. Then they come back to life. Either for religious rituals or as scams. Anthropologists think it might’ve been the source for the zombie myth.’

‘Just the diversion for a slow Saturday night in Haiti,’ Rhyme muttered. ‘Could we stay on point here? On focus? On message?’

Cooper pushed his glasses higher up on his nose. ‘Very small trace amounts.’

‘Unless the ME finds some in Chloe’s blood, he’s probably planning to use it for a future attack.’ Rhyme grimaced. ‘And where the hell did he get it? Probably caught a puffer fish himself. Like he grew the hemlock. Keep going, Mel.’

Cooper was reading from Sachs’s chain-of-custody card. ‘Here’s something from a footprint – one of his, I’m assuming, since it was near the ladder. And obscured.’

Booties …

‘That’s right,’ Sachs confirmed. Cooper showed her the mass spectrum and she nodded, then transcribed the computer analysis to the whiteboard.



Stercobilin, urea 9.3 g/L, chloride 1.87 g/L, sodium 1.17 g/L, potassium 0.750 g/L, creatinine 0.670 g/L



‘Crap,’ Rhyme muttered.

‘What’s wrong?’ Pulaski asked.

‘No,’ Rhyme replied. ‘Literally. Fecal material. Why that? Why there? Any deductions, boys and girls?’

‘There were DS – Sanitation – pipes overhead, but I couldn’t see any sewage on the ground or walls. Probably didn’t come from there.’

‘Dog-walking park?’ Sellitto suggested. ‘Or he owns a dog.’

‘Please,’ Rhyme said, refraining from rolling his eyes. ‘Those chemicals suggest human shit. We could run DNA but that would be a waste of time. Excuse the choice of words.’

‘Bathroom just before he came to the scene?’

‘Possibly, rookie, but I’d guess he picked it up from the sewage system somewhere. I think it tells us he’s been spending a lot of time in underground New York. That’s his killing zone. He’s comfortable there. And if there wasn’t any effluence at the Chloe Moore scene, that means he’s already got a few other sites selected. And it also tells us he’s scoping out his targets ahead of time.’

The parlor phone rang. Sachs answered. Had a brief conversation and then hung up. ‘The ME. Yep, COD was cicutoxin – and no tetrodotoxin. You were right, Mel: This was eight times more concentrated than what you’d find in a natural plant. And he sedated her with propofol. Neck and arm. Two injection sites.’

‘Prescription drug,’ Rhyme noted. ‘You can’t grow that in your backyard. How did he have access to that? Well, put it on the chart and let’s keep going. The tattoo itself. That’s what I’m really curious about.’



Rhyme gazed at the picture Sachs had taken: inkless but easy to see from the red, inflamed skin. A much clearer image than what he’d viewed through the video camera at the dim crime scene.


‘Man,’ Ron Pulaski said, ‘it’s good.’

‘I don’t know the tattoo world,’ Rhyme said. ‘But I wonder if there’re only a limited number of artists who could do that in a short period of time.’

‘I’ll hit some of the bigger parlors in town,’ Sellitto said. ‘See what I can find.’

Rhyme mused, ‘Those lines.’ He pointed to the border, scallops above and below the words. ‘You were right, Sachs. They look cut, not tattooed. Like he used a razor blade or scalpel.’

Sellitto muttered, ‘Just f*cking decorations. What a prick.’

‘On the chart. Don’t know what to make of that. Now, the words: “the second”. Meaning? Thoughts?’

‘The second victim?’ Pulaski offered.

Sellitto laughed. ‘This guy ain’t really covering up his tracks. We probably woulda heard if there was a number one, don’tcha think? Bet CNN would’ve caught on.’

‘Sure, true. Wasn’t thinking.’

Rhyme regarded the picture. ‘Not enough to draw conclusions at this point. And what’s the rest of the message? My impression is that somebody who knows calligraphy that well also knows spelling and grammar. Lowercase “t” on the article “the”. So something preceded it. There’s no period so something comes after the phrase.’

Sachs said, ‘I wonder if it’s a line he made up. Or is it a quotation? A puzzle?’

‘No clue … Lon, get some bodies at HQ to search the databases.’

‘Good idea. Efficient: a task force to find “the second” in a book or something? You think that’s ever appeared before, Linc?’

‘First, Lon, aren’t air quotes a bit overused? More to the point: How’s this? Have them search for the words in famous quotes about crimes, killers, tattoos, underground New York. Tell them to be creative!’

Sellitto muttered, ‘All right. “The second”. And for the number – the numeral two – with “nd” as a suffix.’

‘Hm,’ Rhyme muttered, nodding. He hadn’t thought of that.

The bulky detective placed a call, rising and walking to the corner of the parlor, and a moment later began barking orders. He disconnected and wandered back.

‘Let’s keep going,’ Rhyme said to the others.

After more trace analysis Mel Cooper announced, ‘We’ve got several instances of benzalkonium chloride.’

‘Ah,’ Rhyme said. ‘It’s a quat. Quaternary ammonium. A basic institutional sanitizer, used mostly where there’s particular concern about exposure to bacteria and a vulnerable clientele. School cafeterias, for instance. On the board.’

Cooper continued, ‘Adhesive latex.’

Rhyme announced that the product was used in everything from bandages to construction work. ‘Generic?’

‘Yep.’

‘Naturally,’ Rhyme grumbled. Forensic scientists vastly preferred brand-name trace – it was more easily sourced.

The tech ran additional tests. After a few minutes he regarded the computer screen. ‘Good, good. Strong results for a type of stone. Marble. Specifically Inwood marble.’

‘What form?’ Rhyme asked. ‘Put it up on the screen.’

Cooper did and Rhyme found they were looking at dust and grains of various sizes, white, off-white and beige. The tech said, ‘Fractured. See the edge on that piece in the upper left-hand corner?’

‘Sure is,’ Rhyme offered. ‘Bake it!’

The tech ran a sample through the GC/MS. He announced, ‘We’re positive for Tovex residue.’

Sellitto said, ‘Tovex? Commercial explosive.’

Rhyme was nodding. ‘Had a feeling we’d find something like that. Used in blasting foundations out of rock. Given the trauma to the marble grains, our unsub picked up that trace at or near a construction site. Someplace where there’s a lot of Inwood marble. Call the city for blasting permits, rookie. And then cross-reference with the geological database of the area. Now, what else?’

The scrapings beneath Chloe Moore’s fingernails revealed no skin, only off-white cotton cloth and paper fibers.

Rhyme explained to Sellitto: ‘Chloe may’ve fought him and picked those up in the struggle. A shame she didn’t get a chunk of his skin. Where’s the DNA when you need it? On the board, and let’s keep at it.’

The duct tape that the unsub had used to bind Chloe’s feet was generic; the handcuffs too. And the flashlight – the beacon to reveal his handiwork – was a cheap, plastic variety. Neither that nor the D batteries inside bore fingerprints, and no hairs or other trace adhered, except a bit of adhesive similar to that used on sticky rollers – exactly what crime scene officers employed to pick up trace. As Sachs had speculated, he’d probably rolled himself before leaving for the crime scene.

‘This boy’s even better than I thought,’ Rhyme said. Dismay mixing with a certain reluctant admiration.

‘Now, any electrical outlets down there, Sachs? I don’t recall.’

‘No. The spotlights that the first responders set up were battery-powered.’

‘So his tattoo gun would be battery-operated too. Rookie – when you take a break from your marble quest, find out who makes battery tattoo guns.’

Pulaski went back online, saying, ‘Hopefully, they’ll be pretty rare.’

‘Now, that’s going to be interesting.’

‘What?’

‘Finding a tattoo gun that’s filled with hope.’

‘That’s filled with … what?’

Sellitto was smiling sourly. He knew what was coming.

Rhyme continued, ‘That’s what “hopefull”Y means. Your sentence didn’t say “I hope that portable tattoo guns’re rare.” Using “hopefull”Y as a disjunct – an opinion by the speaker – is non-standard. English teachers and journalists disapprove.’

The young officer’s head bobbed. ‘Lincoln, sometimes I think I’ve walked into a Quentin Tarantino movie when I’m talking to you.’

Rhyme’s eyebrows arched. Continue.

Pulaski grumbled, ‘You know, that scene where two hit men are going to blow somebody away but they talk and talk and talk for ten minutes about how “eager” and “anxious” aren’t the same, or how “disinterested” doesn’t mean “uninterested”. You just want to slap ’em.’

Sachs coughed a laugh.

‘Those two misuses bother me just as much,’ Rhyme muttered. ‘And good job knowing the distinction. Now, that last bit of evidence. That’s the one I’m most interested in.’

He turned back to the collection bag, thinking he’d have to find out who this Tarantino was.