“Based on the evidence I’ve found, I need it sealed.”
“What evidence?”
Pulaski wasn’t going to respond. “The entire block.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Pulaski supposed that whatever nonsense the man was spouting about the size of the declared scene had nothing to do with the size of the declared scene. This was about Deputy Inspector Burdick appearing in charge.
Amber Andrews...
He might just as easily have said, “I want to shrink the perimeter by six inches.” Or something equally nonsensical.
Pulaski said, “Can I talk to you in private, sir?”
The answer apparently was no.
Burdick stood his ground and spoke more loudly yet for the reporters happily witnessing the intramural squabbling. “Look. I’ve been an investigator longer than you’ve been on the force. You don’t need to expand it.” He looked around and pointed across the street to an abandoned tenement, which he seemed to have picked at random. “And you need to search that building. It’s critical. I know it. Instinct, I can tell.”
A structure that had been boarded up for months if not years and in front of which was a dusty sidewalk and entryway that showed no evidence of foot traffic in recent days.
Pulaski lowered his voice. “Are you sure you don’t want to take this private? Just step over to the van.”
Burdick’s icy voice: “You’re Patrol, right?”
“Correct.”
“You’re not in uniform.”
“I’m temporarily assigned to Crime Scene.”
“Name?”
“Pulaski, Ron.”
“Well, Pulaski, Ron. I’m a deputy inspector. You don’t take me out behind the woodshed. I take you.”
“Seniority isn’t the issue. I need the street cleared. There could be evidence that everybody’s walking over right now.”
“You do not need the street cleared. You need to search that building.”
He happened to be pointing to the structure next door to the building he had previously indicated. He’d mixed them up.
Pulaski said firmly, “This’s my crime scene. I control it. I need you to move forty feet in that direction.”
The look of astonishment was remarkable.
In a finger-snap, it turned to rage. And then a snide smile appeared. “Thin ice, Patrolman.”
He’d embarrassed the dep inspector in front of the press.
A cardinal sin.
Pulaski whispered in response, “We had the chance to keep this between us. Now I’m going to ask you once more to move back. And if you don’t, I’m detaining you for obstruction of justice. And I’ll use restraints if I have to.”
Burdick called, “Detective Sanchez! Detective Sanchez!”
The man ambled up. “Sir?”
“I’m suspending this officer effective immediately. You’ll keep the scene secure until another CSU officer arrives.”
Sanchez glanced from Burdick to Pulaski and back again. “It’s his scene, Deputy Inspector. He makes the calls.”
“But not if he’s being incompetent. And insubordinate. I’m relieving him of command.”
Pulaski frowned. There was no procedure for this that he’d heard of. Sanchez’s face revealed that the idea was alien to him as well.
“Can’t do it, sir. You know he’s working for Lincoln Rhyme.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m not impressed.”
Keeping his insincerely smiling face as calm as possible — the cameras were clicking — he waited for Sanchez to move or at least for Pulaski to back down.
Like Sachs had taught him, Pulaski wore his service belt outside the Tyvek so his weapon would be easily accessible.
The handcuffs too, which he now reached for.
“You can’t be serious,” the man blustered.
The standoff lasted only a few seconds. Then Burdick gave a faint nod. He said in a louder voice: “Oh, you’re saying there might be an active shooter nearby?”
Burdick turned to the press. “This officer has informed me that we’ve just learned a shooter might be nearby. It would be safer if we moved to the end of the block. You should’ve mentioned that sooner, Officer.”
Pulaski summoned up a my-bad frown. “Sorry, sir. My mistake.”
The DI gestured the reporters back — as if he were saving their lives — and Pulaski quickly ran the tape around the light poles at the far end, and those across the street. He handed off the roll to one of the officers to finish the job at the other end of the block.
Pulaski stepped onto the curb and walked along the entire length of the street, head down, searching for the recent tire tracks — the shooter’s — which he knew were here.
Except there weren’t any.
Oops. Got that one wrong.
But the conclusion was even better than finding the shooter’s tire treads. It meant the killer and his victim drove here together.
Pulaski confirmed this by taking electrostatic impressions from the street beneath the driver’s side and the passenger’s side of the Lexus. The first matched Gilligan’s. The second matched the shooter’s.
He returned to the CS van and looked over the vacant lot. The number cards, yellow with black type on them, placed where every bit of evidence had been found.
He realized he was stalling.
It had occurred to him some moments ago what he had to do.
And he was dreading it.
Was there an alternative?
No, not given his rule on the first forty-eight minutes.
He needed to push the case forward immediately and there was only one way he could make that happen.
He walked to a cluster of uniforms nearby. “Anybody help me? Need some gum.”
One patrolman nodded. “Juicy Fruit.”
“Great.” It was in fact his favorite. He took the stick and began to chew. Then he turned to the blond officer, who had started to string the tape. He nodded to her purse. “I hope you don’t think this’s an insult. But I’ve got to ask you a question.”
19
Lincoln Rhyme was looking into the sterile portion of the parlor, at the cartons Ron Pulaski had just brought in from the Gilligan scene.
Mel Cooper was taking the samples, logging them and starting analysis.
“You scored a burner phone,” Rhyme noted, looking at the evidence bag in Pulaski’s hand.
Lon Sellitto grumbled, “So? It’ll be locked. They’re always locked.”
“This one’s not,” Pulaski said.
“Yeah? Careless of him.”
“It was locked. I unlocked it.”
“How?”
A tightening of his lips. “Wasn’t the most pleasant thing in the world. I washed the blood and brains off Gilligan’s forehead, stuffed some chewing gum in the bullet hole and knocked a few pieces of bone back into place. Then I borrowed some makeup from one of the uniforms. Was afraid I’d insulted her, you know, like she’s a woman, of course she’d have makeup. But she was cool with it.”
Rhyme barked an uncharacteristic laugh. “You tricked the facial rec lock.”
Sellitto glanced toward Rhyme. “The chewing gum — makeup trick. Put that in the next edition of your book, Linc.”
The young officer continued, “Once I was in, I shut off the password security.”
“Always thinking, Pulaski. Always thinking. Well, let’s see what’s on it.” Rhyme called, “Thom? Thom!”
The aide walked into the room. “Yes?”
“Glove up and play cop. Give me everything that’s on that phone. Call logs, voice mails, texts. Let’s hope we can see emails without a password.”
“Me?”
“Amelia’s on a lead.”
“Hm. Do I get a raise?”
“No, you get not fired.”