Rhyme scoffed good-naturedly. The title had been bestowed on him by the press some years ago, after the surprising news that the FBI had selected him – a city cop – as adviser in putting together PERT, their Physical Evidence Response Team. Not satisfied with “forensic scientist” or “forensic specialist,” reporters dubbed Rhyme a “criminalist.”
The word had actually been around for years, first applied in the United States to the legendary Paul Leland Kirk, who ran the UC Berkeley School of Criminology. The school, the first in the country, had been founded by the even more legendary Chief August Vollmer. The handle had recently become chic, and when techs around the country sidled up to blondes at cocktail parties now they described themselves as criminalists, not forensic scientists.
“Everybody’s nightmare,” Cooper said, “you get into a cab and turns out there’s a psycho behind the wheel. And the whole world’s watching the Big Apple ’causa that conference. Wondered if they might not bring you out of retirement for this one.”
“How’s your mother?” Rhyme asked.
“Still complaining about every ache and pain. Still healthier than me.”
Cooper lived with the elderly woman in the Queens bungalow where he’d been born. His passion was ballroom dancing – the tango his specialty. Cop gossip being what it is, there’d been speculation around IRD as to the man’s sexual preference. Rhyme had had no interest in his employees’ personal lives but had been as surprised as everyone else to finally meet Greta, Cooper’s steady girlfriend, a stunning Scandinavian who taught advanced mathematics at Columbia.
Cooper opened the large trunk, which was padded with velvet. He lifted out parts for three large microscopes and began assembling them.
“Oh, house current.” He glanced at the outlets, disappointed. He pushed his metal-rimmed glasses up on his nose.
“That’s because it’s a house, Mel.”
“I assumed you lived in a lab. Wouldn’t have been surprised.”
Rhyme stared at the instruments, gray and black, battered. Similar to the ones he’d lived with for over fifteen years. A standard compound microscope, a phase-contrast ’scope, and a polarized-light model. Cooper opened the suitcases, which contained a Mr. Wizard assortment of bottles and jars and scientific instruments. In a flash, words came back to Rhyme, words that had once been part of his daily vocabulary. EDTA vacuum blood-collection tubes, acetic acid, orthotolidine, luminol reagent, Magna-Brush, Ruhemann’s purple phenomenon…
The skinny man looked around the room. “Looks just like your office used to, Lincoln. How do you find anything? Say, I need some room here.”
“Thom.” Rhyme moved his head toward the least cluttered table. They moved aside magazines and papers and books, revealing a tabletop Rhyme had not seen in a year.
Sellitto gazed at the crime scene report. “Whatta we call the unsub? We don’t have a case number yet.”
Rhyme glanced at Banks. “Pick a number. Any number.”
Banks suggested, “The page number. Well, the date, I mean.”
“Unsub 823. Good as any.”
Sellitto jotted this on the report.
“Uhm, excuse me? Detective Rhyme?”
It was the patrolwoman who’d spoken. Rhyme turned to her.
“I was supposed to be at the Big Building at noon.” Coptalk for One Police Plaza.
“Officer Sachs…” He’d forgotten about her momentarily. “You were first officer this morning? At that homicide by the railroad tracks.”
“That’s right, I took the call.” When she spoke, she spoke to Thom.
“I’m here, officer,” Rhyme reminded sternly, barely controlling his temper. “Over here.” It infuriated him when people talked to him through others, through healthy people.
Her head swiveled quickly and he saw the lesson had been learned. “Yessir,” she said, a soft tone in her voice but ice in her eyes.
“I’m decommissioned. Just call me Lincoln.”
“Would you just get it over with, please?”
“How’s that?” he asked.
“The reason why you brought me here. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. If you want a written apology I’ll do it. Only, I’m late for my new assignment and I haven’t had a chance to call my commander.”
“Apology?” Rhyme asked.
“The thing is, I didn’t have any real crime scene experience. I was sort of flying by the seat of my pants.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Stopping the trains and closing Eleventh Avenue. It was my fault the senator missed his speech in New Jersey and that some of the senior UN people didn’t make it in from Newark Airport in time for their meetings.”
Rhyme was chuckling. “Do you know who I am?”
“Well, I’ve heard of you of course. I thought you…”
“Were dead?” Rhyme asked.
“No. I didn’t mean that.” Though she had. She continued quickly, “We all used your book in the academy. But we don’t hear about you. Personally, I mean…” She looked up at the wall and said stiffly, “In my judgment, as first officer, I thought it was best to stop the train and close the street to protect the scene. And that’s what I did. Sir.”
“Call me Lincoln. And you’re…”
“I -”
“Your first name?”
“Amelia.”
“Amelia. After the aviatrix?”
“Nosir. A family name.”
“Amelia, I don’t want an apology. You were right and Vince Peretti was wrong.”
Sellitto stirred at this indiscretion but Lincoln Rhyme didn’t care. He was, after all, one of the few people in the world who could stay flat on his ass when the president of the United States himself walked into the room. He continued, “Peretti worked the scene like the mayor was looking over his shoulder and that’s the A-number-one way to screw it up. He had too many people, he was dead wrong to let the trains and traffic move and he should never have released the scene as early as he did. If we’d kept the tracks secure, who knows, we might’ve just found a credit card receipt with a name on it. Or a big beautiful thumbprint.”
“That may be,” Sellitto said delicately. “But let’s just keep it to ourselves.” Giving silent orders, his eyes swiveling toward Sachs and Cooper and young Jerry Banks.
Rhyme snorted an irreverent laugh. Then turned back to Sachs, whom he caught, like Banks that morning, staring at his legs and body under the apricot-colored blanket. He said to her, “I asked you here to work the next crime scene for us.”
“What?” No speaking through interpreters this time.
“Work for us,” he said shortly. “The next crime scene.”
“But” – she laughed – “I’m not IRD. I’m Patrol. I’ve never done CS work.”
“This is an unusual case. As Detective Sellitto himself’ll tell you. It’s real weird. Right, Lon? True, if it was a classic scene, I wouldn’t want you. But we need a fresh pair of eyes on this one.”
She glanced at Sellitto, who said nothing. “I just… I’d be no good at it. I’m sure.”
“All right,” Rhyme said patiently. “The truth?”
She nodded.
“I need somebody who’s got the balls to stop a train in its tracks to protect a scene and to put up with the heat afterwards.”
“Thank you for the opportunity, sir. Lincoln. But -”
Rhyme said shortly, “Lon.”
“Officer,” the detective grunted to Sachs, “you’re not being given any options here. You’ve been assigned to this case to assist at the crime scene.”
“Sir, I have to protest. I’m transferring out of Patrol. Today. I’ve got a medical transfer. Effective an hour ago.”
“Medical?” Rhyme inquired.
She hesitated, glancing unwilling at his legs again. “I have arthritis.”
“Do you?” Rhyme asked.
“Chronic arthritis.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She continued quickly, “I only took that call this morning because someone was home sick. I didn’t plan on it.”