The trace had been found at a homicide, the backyard of a modest mansion in a posh neighborhood of Queens. Alekos Gregorios, a well-off owner of a chain of industrial laundromats, had been robbed and stabbed to death. Two detectives from the 112 House on Austin Street — Tye Kelly and Crystal Wilson — were running the case and, confronting delays at NYPD’s main crime lab, had asked Rhyme if he could short-circuit the system and take a look at the evidence. Any opinions would be welcome.
He’d agreed.
Gregorios, a widower, lived alone. His neighbors reported seeing nothing suspicious around the time of death, but his grown son, who’d had dinner with him that evening, told police that his father had had a run-in with a homeless man earlier in the day. The man was tampering with the gate to the enclosed backyard and Gregorios ran him off. The man had threatened Gregorios, who had not taken the mad rant seriously.
The son had only his father’s description: white with wild, unwashed brown hair and wearing a filthy raincoat.
No other details.
New York City’s homeless population hovered around fifty thousand, so canvassing the streets and shelters was not an efficient way to proceed. The detectives hoped Rhyme could narrow down the search.
Enter NaClO2, the substance of interest, which Rhyme had isolated.
He was presently back in his town house, on Central Park West — the very venue that had been the subject of the debate in the case against Viktor Buryak.
The stately premises dated to the era when Victoria ruled England and Boss Tweed New York, each with unchallenged power over their respective worlds, which were not wholly dissimilar, varying only in geographical reach.
Other than the paneled walls, rich oak floors and plastered ceiling, the parlor looked nothing like it would have a century and a half ago. While a portion was a contemporary sitting room with chairs and tables and bookshelves, the rest was what he’d described to attorney Coughlin: a well-equipped forensic lab, the sort that any smallor even medium-sized police department or sheriff’s office might envy. Ringing the workstations were spark emission and fluorescence spectrometers, evidence-drying cabinets, a fingerprint fuming chamber, hyperspectral image analyzer, automated DNA sequencer, blood chemistry analyzer, liquid and gas chromatographs and a freezer no different from what one might find in the kitchen.
Tucked into a corner were the microscopes — binocular, compound and confocal and scanning electron — and the scores of hand-held instruments that are a forensic scientist’s tools of the trade.
The lab had a decidedly industrial feel to it, but to Lincoln Rhyme one word and one word only applied: “homey.”
For a moment his mind wandered back to the trial and he wondered how the jury deliberations were going at that moment.
He himself had never served on a jury before. Criminalists consulting for the NYPD and FBI last about sixty seconds in voir dire.
Rhyme now studied the dry marker whiteboard on which certain details of the Gregorios killing were notated. Since Rhyme was merely an advisor, only the basics were jotted down or taped up, not all the minutiae of the case: a brief description of the suspect; the time of death (9 p.m. or so); security camera status (present in the vicinity but not aimed at the scene); the killer’s mismatched shoes (not unusual among the homeless); and a stark photo of the three knife wounds in the victim’s torso. The absence of other wounds suggested that the killer had hidden on the property and surprised Gregorios. In some states, like California, this would be called “lying in wait,” and made the crime a capital offense. In New York the penal code made no reference to lying in wait, but the suspect’s behavior would help the prosecutor prove intent.
The photos vividly revealed the eviscerated body and the Rorschach stain of blood on the broad path of white and beige pebbles.
Then there was the trace.
On his pants pocket — the hip, where presumably he’d kept his wallet — an evidence collection tech had lifted a sample, which contained NaClO2, along with citric acid and cherry syrup.
Rhyme had dictated a memo to the detectives in the 112 House, a copy of which was on the board.
When mixed together, sodium chlorite and citric acid combine to create chlorine dioxide, ClO2, a common disinfectant and cleanser. However, ClO2 also is used as a fraudulent cure-all for a number of diseases, including AIDS and cancer. When sold as a quack cure, ClO2 generally has added to it a flavoring agent, such as lemon, cinnamon or — as is present here — cherry syrup.
Should any persons of interest be identified and found to possess any cherry-flavored ClO2, it would not be unreasonable to pursue additional investigation into their whereabouts at the time of the homicide and, if a warrant could be obtained, additional evidence that might link the unsub to the scene.
The response, not long after, was from Detective Tye Kelly:
Holy shit, Captain Rhyme. We owe you a bottle of whatever you drink, up to and including Johnnie Walker Blue.
Rhyme then noted the front door to the town house opening. He heard the sticky rush of traffic speeding along Central Park West.
“How did it go?” Amelia Sachs asked, entering the parlor from the hallway. Meaning not the Gregorios case, he understood, but his testimony at the Buryak trial.
“It went,” Rhyme said to his wife. He gave a shrug, one of the few gestures he was capable of. “We’ll just have to see.”
Amelia Sachs, tall and trim, brushed her long red hair off of her face.
She bent down and kissed him on the mouth. He smelled the sweet/sour aroma of gunshot residue. She said, “You look, hm, troubled.”
He grimaced. “The defense lawyer. I just don’t know. Was he good, or not? Don’t know.”
“I won’t ask how long you think the deliberations’ll be.”
Sachs, a seasoned NYPD detective, had herself testified in hundreds of trials. She knew the pointlessness of the inquiry.
“How’d it go for you?” he asked.
Sachs competed in practical shooting matches, also known as dynamic or action shooting. Contestants moved from station to station, firing at paper or steel targets, with the score based on best aim, fastest time and the power of the rounds. Shooters would fire from prone, kneeling and standing positions and often did not know ahead of time the configuration of the stations or where the targets would be. There was considerable improvisation in practical shooting.
Sachs enjoyed firearm competitions, or just plain practicing on the range, as much as she enjoyed surging around the track, or through city traffic, behind the wheel of her red muscle car, a Ford Torino.
“Not so great,” she replied to his question.
“Meaning?”
“Second.” A shrug that echoed his.
“Weren’t there fifty people competing?”
Her shoulders rose again.
Sachs was her own toughest critic, though she did admit, “The guy got first place? He does it full-time.”
Rhyme had learned from her that marksmen could make good money on the competition circuit — not from prizes but from sponsorships and teaching classes.
Thom brought in mugs of coffee and a platter of cookies.
At the moment, though, Rhyme had little thirst — not for coffee, at least.
“No,” Thom said.
Rhyme frowned. “I don’t recall asking a question.”
“No, but your eyes did.”
“Thinking I was looking at the single malt? I wasn’t.”
He had been.
“It’s too early.”
There was no medical opinion that Rhyme had ever seen about those afflicted by quadriplegia limiting their intake of alcohol, and even if such studies existed, he would have ignored them.