Rhyme looked around the storage facility with a grimace as if he expected this to be the crime lab. “Now. You have some things you’d like me to look over?” The criminalist was never one for socializing, Dance recalled.
“We have a pretty good lab,” Harutyun offered.
“Do you now?” There was cynicism in his voice. Dance had been to Rhyme’s town house on Central Park West in Manhattan; he’d turned the parlor into a well-equipped forensics lab, where he, as a consultant, Sachs and other officers would run the crime scene side of major cases in the metro area.
Not picking up on the sardonic tone, Stanning said proudly, “Yes, sir. Sheriff Madigan’s fought pretty hard to build up our CSU. Officers as far away as Bakersfield send samples here. And I don’t mean just rape kits. Pretty complicated things.”
“Bakersfield,” Rhyme said, even more ironically, drawing a sharp glance from Thom, a reminder that condescension was not necessary. Dance guessed his attitude had nothing to do with a prejudice against small towns, though. Rhyme was a nondenominational curmudgeon. He gave the NYPD, Scotland Yard and the FBI a lot of crap too. The New York governor’s and mayor’s offices had not escaped his wrath either.
“Well, we better get to it, you don’t mind.”
“Let’s go this way,” Harutyun said and led them inside, then out the front door.
As they walked and wheeled toward the crime lab, Dance briefed them on the case, explaining that their main suspect had proved to be very slippery. “His name’s Edwin Sharp. He could be the perp, he could be a fall guy, could be completely innocent.”
Harutyun said, “The UNSUB announces the attacks by playing a verse from one of Kayleigh’s songs.”
This clearly intrigued Rhyme. “Interesting, good,” he said, then decided he was exhibiting too much glee. “And he’s smart, right? He started with phones, then switched to other ways to play the song, like radio call-in requests?”
“Very good, sir,” Stanning said. “Not call-ins but most recent he played a song over a high-school-stadium PA system.”
Rhyme frowned. “Didn’t think of that one. Interesting, like I said.”
Dance added, “We’re tracking down a witness now, maybe an alibi. And he claims somebody’s been conducting surveillance on him, presumably to set him up for the crimes. That’s part of the evidence we need you to look at.”
Sachs asked, “You’ve interviewed him?”
“Yes. But the kinesics were inconclusive. I can say, though, that he’s got a stalker’s personality: reduced affect, attachment issues, reality problems.”
The woman from New York nodded. Kathryn Dance glanced down; she loved shoes and she couldn’t help but admire Amelia Sachs’s black, high-heeled boots, which sent the tall woman—a former fashion model—even further into the stratosphere.
Rhyme asked, “Samples from Edwin’s house or apartment?”
Dance said, “House. He gave us permission, though he might’ve scrubbed the place down before the team searched.”
Harutyun added that an earlier search, without a warrant, had resulted in getting the chief of detectives and another deputy suspended. The perp had also stolen the gun of another detective, temporarily removing him from the force.
“Crazy like a fox,” Rhyme commented and seemed oddly pleased at this news—maybe because he liked adversaries who were particularly smart and challenging. His number-one nemesis was boredom.
Then they were entering the lab and meeting Charlie Shean. If Harutyun was impressed that Rhyme was here, Shean was beside himself, having a crime scene legend in his “modest abode.”
Rhyme, though, was visibly impressed at the sophistication of the operation, despite his apparent misgiving earlier. Some people, Dance knew, are easier to read than others and although his body language was obviously severely limited, Rhyme was, to her, an open book.
Charlie Shean now briefed the criminalist on where they needed his expertise. “We’ve searched and we’ve done the analysis. But most of the results’re just raw data. We don’t know what to make of it. If you could offer some thoughts it’d be much appreciated.”
Rhyme was taking all this in as his eyes swept the ceiling. Then abruptly: “Sachs, let’s get a chart going.”
Rhyme used graphics in running his cases—having someone write down the evidence that had been gathered—in front of which he would then wheel back and forth, frowning and muttering to himself, as deductions and conclusions came or didn’t come. Shean explained what they’d found and she wrote.
? Sunday. Robert Prescott homicide, convention center stage/orchestra pit/scaffolding
—strip lamp
—no matching friction ridge prints
—no matching tool marks (unit removed by wing nuts)
—fifty-foot power cord
—no matching fingerprints
—smoke detectors in pit, disabled
—no matching fingerprints
—smudges determined to be produced by latex gloves, brand unknown, not associated with gloves in Edwin Sharp’s possession
—cardboard cartons moved from projected path of victim
—no matching fingerprints
—smudges determined to be produced by latex gloves, brand unknown, not associated with gloves in Edwin Sharp’s possession
—unique trace from stage/orchestra pit/scaffolding
—triglyceride fat (lard)
—2700K color temperature (yellowish)
—melting point: 40–55 degrees F
—specific gravity: 0.91 at 40.0 C
—no footprints/vehicle tread marks
? Monday. Frederick Blanton homicide, gas station, near San Joaquin River
—two 9 mm shell casings
—weapon possibly Det. Gabriel Fuentes’s, no casings for comparison
—no friction ridge prints
—extractor marks match those found at Sheri Towne scene
—one 9 mm slug recovered
—lands and grooves match slugs from Sheri Towne scene
—accelerant
—Shell gasoline, 89 octane
—gasoline container destroyed
—no footprints/vehicle tread marks
? Monday. Frederick Blanton’s residence, Fresno
—no relevant friction ridge prints, footprints, vehicle tread marks
? Monday. Public phone in classroom building at Fresno College
—No relevant friction ridge prints