At Rhyme’s suggestion—insistent suggestion—the situation room was moved from upstairs to a larger conference room in the basement, near the Scientific Police laboratory.
The lab was efficiently constructed. There was a sterile area, where trace was extracted and analyzed, and a larger section for fingerprints, tread and shoe prints and other work where contamination would not be a risk. The conference room opened onto this latter part of the lab.
Rhyme, Sachs and Thom were here with Rossi and the tall, rangy Ercole Benelli.
Two others were present, uniformed officers, though in blue outfits, different from Ercole’s—the light gray. They were a young patrolman, Giacomo Schiller, and his apparent partner, Daniela Canton. Both blond—she darker than he—they were serious of expression and attentive to Rossi, who spoke to them like a grandfather, kindly but one you made sure to obey. They were, Rossi explained, with the Flying Squad—which corresponded, Rhyme deduced, to the patrol officers assigned to squad cars, Remote Mobile Patrols in NYPD jargon.
Rhyme asked, “And Dante Spiro?”
“Procuratore Spiro had other matters to attend to.”
So the temperamental man had reluctantly agreed to let the Americans return but wanted nothing to do with them. Fine with Rhyme. He was not quite sure about this Italian arrangement of the district attorney’s active involvement in the investigation. It probably wasn’t a conflict of interest—and Spiro seemed sharp enough. No, Rhyme’s objection could be summed up in a dreaded cliché: too many cooks.
Ercole was setting up the easels and charts, and translating from Italian to English. In the doorway, advising him, was round, no-nonsense Beatrice Renza, a senior analyst in the lab.
Her name, Rhyme learned, was pronounced Bee-a-TREE-chay. Italian took some getting used to, certainly, but was far more melodic than blunt English.
She spoke to Ercole in clipped, rapid Italian and he grimaced and responded testily, apparently to some objection about a translation or characterization of something he was writing. She rolled her eyes, behind elaborate glasses, then stepped forward to take the marker from him and make a correction.
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 are 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.