A Textbook Case

6

But the dawn arrived with no brilliant insights regarding Unsub 26.

And none at midmorning… nor late afternoon.

They were no longer able to enlist the numbers-crunching forces from the police academy, to review the massive amounts of evidence from the scene on Twenty-sixth Street, though the head of the Crime Scene Unit agreed to dedicate some extra technicians. Marko had taken the bulk of the collected materials from Rhyme’s to the labs in Queens.

But the hours rolled by and all the updates included variations on: “There’s just too much evidence.”

Clues had never failed Rhyme so badly as in this case. He’d built his whole professional life on finding the truth because of physical evidence. In fact, he was contemptuous of other forms of investigation. Witnesses lied, motives were fishy, vivid memories were completely wrong.

Locard’s Principle…

At 6:00 p.m. Mel Cooper, Sachs and Rhyme were still laboring away, doing what they could with the several hundred samples that remained here in his parlor but not making any headway.

There’s just too much…

Rhyme reached for one of the hair sample bags. “Let’s keep going with follicles and CODIS.” The consolidated database that contained DNA samples from tens of thousands of perpetrators.

But he set it down and wheeled back from a work table. His expression must have been particularly troubled. Sachs, too, stopped her analysis of a sheet of paper, walked behind him and massaged his shoulders, which were tense as stone.

It felt nice…

But didn’t take away the frustration.

Rhyme gazed at the largely useless evidence, trying desperately to think of a different approach. It was clear that the classic textbook procedure for running a case forensically wasn’t going to work.

What else could he—?

Textbook.

“Sachs!”

“What?” She stopped the massage and walked around in front of him.

“Textbook. Think about what I’ve been saying for the past couple of days. My textbook.”

The evidence chart reads like the table of contents in my goddamn book….

Sachs was nodding. “It’s like everything he knows about evidence and crime scenes, he learned from your book.”

He pointed to the chart. “There’s a separate chapter for each of those categories of evidence collection and analysis. And I wrote sections about contamination, having too much evidence, and arson as a means to obliterate it. Somebody who bought or borrowed my text is the perp.”

“How many copies did you sell?” Cooper asked. He knew the book well; he was one of the dedicatees.

“About twenty thousand.”

“Not very helpful then.”

Rhyme considered this. “I’m not so sure. People aren’t going to curl up with it on cold winter nights like they would with Harry Potter or one of those vampire books now, are they? The vast bulk of sales would be to law enforcement. But let’s put them aside for the time being — it’s too obvious, too traceable. Somebody with a forensic specialty’d be the first people we’d look at.”

“We’ll drop everything and get in touch with publishers and retailers.”

“How do we factor out law enforcement sales?” Cooper asked.

“Anybody with the government got a discount, so let’s get a list of any customer who paid full price.”

Sachs pointed out, “But like you just said, it could have been borrowed. It could’ve been bought with cash in a store, could’ve been stolen.”

“Maybe, but not many retail outlets carried it. Most sales were online. As for borrowing it, just because something is unlikely is no reason not to pursue it. I don’t think we have much choice, anyway.”

“Time frame for the sales?” Cooper wondered.

“I’d go back a year. The sales spiked after that documentary I did on A&E; a lot of people saw it, Googled me and bought the book.” Rhyme’s head was forward and he felt exhilarated. He was on the hunt and he knew his heart was pounding hard — felt the sensation in his neck and head, of course, not in his numb chest.

“Besides, I’d think emotionally you don’t buy a book to help you plan a killing and then wait two years. This perp’s moving fast.”

“You’re sounding quite psychological, Rhyme,” Sachs said, laughing. “That almost sounds like you’re profiling him.”

A pseudoscience, he felt. But he replied with a shrug, “Who said forensic scientists can’t be aware of human nature? That’s all. Let’s get to work. Who coughed up a hundred and twenty dollars for my words of wisdom, plus shipping and handling?”

In three hours they had a rough list from the publishers, online retailers and professional bookstores. Sixty-four people in the New York area had bought the textbook in the past year, paying full price.

“Ouch,” Cooper muttered. “Sixty-four? That’s a brick wall.”

“Not at all,” Rhyme whispered, looking over the list. “I’d say it’s merely a speed bump.”

Okay, he was a catch.

Vicki Sellick probably wouldn’t’ve thought of him that way by herself. But Joan and Alaki from work had met them for a drink earlier that night and both gave her subtle raised-eyebrows approval ratings. Joanie had whispered, “Go, girl! You hooked a good one.”

Oh, stop…

But, yeah, Vicki now thought, she had.

Her date was courteous, handsome, had a great job and on the two times that he’d stayed over their time together had been… well, fantastic. They made a solid couple, politically in tune (centrist Democrats), athletic, lovers of the out of doors. They’d both been through tough divorces. True, he worked long hours, but so did she, a Wall Street lawyer. And he was older — in his mid-fifties, but looked much younger. Besides, Vicki, thirty-seven, had stopped using age as a definitive criterion for potential partners some years ago, one of her better decisions in the crazy world of dating.

He now steered his Jaguar to the curb in front of her apartment and, without hesitation, took her in his arms, kissing her firmly.

She had wondered if tonight would be the third time he stayed and it probably would have been, except that he had a 6:00 a.m. flight tomorrow on business. His assistant was out of commission for some reason or another so he had to get ready for the meeting all by himself.

But there was nothing wrong with taking things slowly.

She kissed him back even harder.

“I’m back in two days,” he whispered. “See you then?”

“You’re on.” Another kiss sealed the deal.

“I’ll walk you up,” he said, nodding at her townhouse.

But she had to pick up some milk and a few things at the deli up the street, so they kissed a while more.

She whispered, “ ‘Night, James. Call me if you can.”

“Oh, you’ll hear from me,” he said softly, nuzzling her ear. She climbed out of the sports car and he sped off.

Ten minutes later, plastic bags in hand, she returned to her townhouse, a real find she’d been in for some years. She’d lucked into a duplex on the top floors of the four-story building and scraped together enough money to buy it instantly. The living space was a refuge from the chaos and demands of Wall Street law.

Up the stairs to the second floor, then the third.

Hm, the hallway light was out here. Odd, the maintenance in the building was great. Odd. It seemed the light bulb had fallen out and shattered. As she walked up to the fourth floor, where the entrance to her unit was, she fished in her pocket for her phone, thinking about calling him.

No, she’d wait. Get inside, take a shower, have a final glass of wine. She left the phone where it was and got her keys. Maybe—

Then the world went black and an explosion of pain soared through her head and as she pitched forward she felt the keys being lifted from her fingers.