"And make an arc flash gun."
"Exactly. So you should be looking for somebody with computer training in Unix control and energy management programs. And somebody with a career as a lineman or troubleman or in the contracting trades. Military too. Army, navy and air force produce a lot of electricians."
"Appreciate this."
A knocking on the door frame intruded. A young woman stood there with a large Redweld expanding envelope in her arms. "Ms. Jessen said you wanted these? From Human Resources?"
Sachs took the resumes and employee files and thanked the woman.
Sommers had dessert, a Hostess cupcake. Then its twin. He sipped more soda. "Want to say something."
She lifted an eyebrow.
"Can I give you a lecture?"
"Lecture?"
"Safety lecture."
"I don't have much time."
"It'll be quick. But it's important. I was just thinking, you're at a big disadvantage, going after this . . . what'd you call him?"
"We say 'perp.' For 'Perpetrator.' "
" 'Perp' sounds sexier. Say you're going after your usual perp. Bank robbers, hitmen . . . You know that they might have a gun or knife. You're used to that. You know how to protect yourself. You've got procedures on how to handle them. But electricity as a weapon or a booby trap . . . whole different ball game. The thing about juice? It's invisible. And it's all over the place. I mean, everywhere. First, you have to know how dangerous electricity is. And that means knowing about amperage, or current. You know what that is?"
"I . . ." Sachs had thought she did, until she realized she couldn't define it. "No."
"Let's compare an electric circuit to a plumbing system: water pumped through pipes. Water pressure is created by the pump, which moves a certain amount of water through the pipes at a certain speed. It moves more or less easily depending on the width and condition of the pipes.
"Now, in an electrical system, it's the same thing. Except you have electrons instead of water, wires or some conductive material instead of pipes and a generator or battery instead of the pump. The pressure pushing the electrons is the voltage. The amount of electrons moving through the wire is the amps, or current. The resistance--called ohms--is determined by the width and nature of the wires or whatever the electrons're flowing through."
So far, so good. "That makes sense. Never heard it put that way before."
"Now we're talking about amps. Remember: the amount of moving electrons."
"Good."
"How much amperage does it take to kill you? At a hundred milliamps of AC current, your heart will fibrillate and you'll die. That's one tenth of one amp. Your typical Rite Aid hair dryer pulls ten amps."
"Ten?" Sachs whispered.
"Yes, ma'am. A hair dryer. Ten amps, which, by the way, is all you need for an electric chair."
As if she weren't uneasy enough.
He continued, "Electricity is like Frankenstein's monster--who was animated with lightning, by the way. It's stupid and it's brilliant. Stupid because once it's created it wants to do only one thing: Get back to the ground. Brilliant because it instinctively knows the best way to do that. It always takes the path of least resistance. You can grab on to a hundred-thousand-volt line but if it's easier for the electricity to get back through the wire, you're perfectly safe. If you're the best conductor to the ground . . ." His pointed nod explained the consequences.
"Now, for your lesson. My three rules for dealing with juice: First, avoid it if at all possible. This guy is going to know you're after him and he might be rigging traps with live lines. Stay away from metal--handrails, doors and doorknobs, uncarpeted flooring, appliances, machinery. Wet basements, standing water. Have you ever seen transformers and switchgear on the street?"
"No."
"Yes, you have. But you're not aware of them because our city fathers hide and disguise them. The working parts of transformers're scary and ugly. In the city, they're underground or in innocuous buildings or neutral-painted enclosures. You could be standing right next to a transformer taking in thirteen thousand volts and not know it. So keep an eye out for anything that says Algonquin on it. And stay away if you can.
"So, rule one: Avoid the juice. What's rule two? If you can't avoid it, protect yourself against it. Wear PPE, personal protective equipment. Rubber boots and gloves and not those sissy little ones they wear on that CSI TV show. Thick, industrial, rubber work gloves. Use insulated tools or, even better, a hot stick. They're fiberglass, like hockey sticks, with tools attached to the end. We use them for working live lines.
"Protect yourself," he repeated. "Remember the path-of-least-resistance rule. Human skin is a pretty poor conductor if it's dry. If it's wet, especially with sweat, because of the salt, resistance drops dramatically. And if you've got a wound or a burn, skin becomes a great conductor. Dry leather soles of your shoes are fairly good insulators. Wet leather's like skin--especially if you're standing on a conductive surface like damp ground or a basement floor. Puddles of water? Uh-oh.
"So, if you have to touch something that could be live--say, opening a metal door--make sure you're dry and wearing insulated shoes or boots. Use a hot stick or an insulated tool if you can and use only one hand--your right since it's slightly farther from the heart--and keep your other hand in your pocket so you don't touch anything accidentally and complete a circuit. Watch where you put your feet.
"You've seen birds sitting on uninsulated high-tension wires? They don't wear PPE. How can they roost on a piece of metal carrying a hundred thousand volts? Why don't we have roast pigeons falling from the skies?"
"They don't touch the other wire."
"Exactly. As long as they don't touch a return or the tower, they're fine. They have the same charge as the wire, but there's no current--no amps--going through them. You've got to be like that bird on the wire."
Which, to Sachs, made her sound pretty damn fragile.
"Take off all metal before you work with juice. Jewelry especially. Pure silver is the best conductor on earth. Copper and aluminum are at the top too. Gold isn't far behind. At the other end are the dielectrics--insulators. Glass and Teflon, then ceramic, plastics, rubber, wood. Bad conductors. Standing on something like that, even a thin piece, could mean the difference between life and death.
"That's rule number two, protection." Sommers continued, "Finally, rule three: If you can't avoid juice and can't protect yourself against it, cut its head off. All circuits, big or small, have a way to shut them down. They all have switches, they all have breakers or fuses. You can stop the juice instantly by flipping the switch or the breaker off, or removing a fuse."
Sommers was on to another junk food course, pretzels. He washed down the noisy bite with more soda. "I could go on for an hour but those're the basics. You get the message?"
"I do. This's really helpful, Charlie. I appreciate it."
His advice sounded so simple but, though Sachs had carefully listened to everything Sommers had told her, she couldn't escape the fact that this particular weapon was still very alien to her.
How could Luis Martin have avoided it, protected himself against it or cut the beast's head off? The answer was, he couldn't.
"If you need me for anything else technical, just give me a call." He gave her two cell phone numbers. "And, oh, hold on . . . Here." He handed her a black plastic box with a button on the side and an LCD screen at the top. It looked like an elongated cell phone. "One of my inventions. A noncontact current detector. Most of them only register up to a thousand volts and you have to be pretty close to the wire or terminal for it to read. But this goes to ten thousand. And it's very sensitive. It'll sense voltage from about four or five feet away and give you the level."
"Thanks. That'll be helpful." She gave a laugh, examining the instrument. "Too bad they don't make these to tell you if a guy on the street's carrying a gun."
Sachs had been joking. But Charlie Sommers was nodding, a glaze of concentration on his face; he see
med to be considering her words very seriously. As he said good-bye to her, he shoved some corn chips into his mouth and frantically began drawing a diagram on a slip of paper. She noticed that a napkin was the first thing he'd grabbed.
Chapter 21
"LINCOLN, THIS IS Dr. Kopeski."
Thom was standing in the doorway of the lab with a visitor.
Lincoln Rhyme looked up absently. The time was now about 8:30 p.m. and, though the urgency of the Algonquin case was pulsing through the room, there was little he could do until Sachs returned from meeting the power company executive. So he'd reluctantly agreed to see the representative from the disability rights group giving Rhyme his award.
Kopeski's not going to come here and cool his heels like some courtier waiting for an audience with the king. . . .
"Call me Arlen, please."
The soft-spoken man, in a conservative suit and white shirt, a tie like an orange and black candy cane, walked up to the criminalist and nodded. No vestigial offer of a handshake. And he didn't even glance down at Rhyme's legs or at the wheelchair. Since Kopeski worked for a disability rights organization Rhyme's condition was nothing to him. An attitude that Rhyme approved of. He believed that we were all disabled in one way or another, ranging from emotional scar tissue to arthritis to Lou Gehrig's disease. Life was one big disability; the question was simple: What did we do about it? Rhyme rarely dwelt on the subject. He'd never been an advocate for disabled rights; that struck him as a diversion from his job. He was a criminalist who happened to be able to move with less facility than most. He compensated as best he could and got on with his work.
Rhyme glanced at Mel Cooper and nodded toward the den, across the foyer from the lab. Thom ushered Kopeski inside, with Rhyme following in his chair, and eased the pocket doors partially together. He disappeared.
"Sit down, if you like," Rhyme said, the last clause offered to temper the first, hoping that the man would remain standing, get to business and get out. He was carrying a briefcase. Maybe the paperweight was in there. The doc could present it, get a photo and leave. The whole matter would be put to rest.
The doctor sat. "I've followed your career for some time."
"Have you?"
"Are you familiar with the Disability Resources Council?"
Thom had briefed him. Rhyme remembered little of the monologue. "You do some very good work."
"Good work, yes."
Silence.
If we could move this along . . . Rhyme glanced out the window intently as if a new assignment were winging its way toward the town house, like the falcon earlier. Sorry, have to go, duty calls. . . .
"I've worked with many disabled people over the years. Spinal cord injuries, spina bifida, ALS, a lot of other problems. Cancer too."
Curious idea. Rhyme had never thought about that disease being a disability, but he supposed some types could fit the definition. A glance at the wall clock, ticking away slowly. And then Thom brought in a tray of coffee and, oh, for Christ's sake, cookies. The glance at the aide--meaning this was not a fucking tea party--rolled past like vapor.
"Thank you," Kopeski said, taking a cup. Rhyme was disappointed that he added no milk, which would have cooled the beverage so he could drink it, and leave, more quickly.
"For you, Lincoln?"
"I'm fine, thank you," he said with a chill that Thom ignored as effectively as he had the searing glance a moment ago. He left the tray and scooted back to the kitchen.
The doctor eased down into the sighing leather chair. "Good coffee."
I'm so very pleased. A cock of the head.
"You're a busy man, so I'll get to the point."
"I'd appreciate that."
"Detective Rhyme . . . Lincoln. Are you a religious man?"
The disability group must have a church affiliation; they might not want to honor a heathen.
"No, I'm not."
"No belief in the afterlife?"
"I haven't seen any objective evidence that one exists."
"Many, many people feel that way. So, for you, death would be equal to, say, peace."
"Depending on how I go."
A smile in the kind face. "I misrepresented myself somewhat to your aide. And to you. But for a good reason."
Rhyme wasn't concerned. If the man had pretended to be somebody else to get in and kill me, I'd be dead now. A raised eyebrow meant: Fine. Confess and let's move forward.
"I'm not with DRC."
"No?"
"No. But I sometimes say I'm with one group or another because my real organization sometimes gets me kicked out of people's homes."
"Jehovah's Witnesses?"
A chuckle. "I'm with Die with Dignity. It's a euthanasia advocacy organization based in Florida."
Rhyme had heard of them.
"Have you ever considered assisted suicide?"
"Yes, some years ago. I decided not to kill myself."
"But you kept it as an option."
"Doesn't everybody, disabled or not?"
A nod. "True."
Rhyme said, "It's pretty clear that I'm not getting an award for picking the most efficient way of ending my life. So what can I do for you?"
"We need advocates. People like yourself, with some public recognition factor. Who might consider making the transition."
Transition. Now there's a euphemism for you.
"You could make a video on YouTube. Give some interviews. We were thinking that someday you might decide to take advantage of our services. . . ." He withdrew from his briefcase a brochure. It was subdued and printed on nice card stock and had flowers on the front. Not lilies or daisies, Rhyme noticed. Roses. The title above the flora was "Choices."
He set it on the table near Rhyme. "If you'd be interested in letting us use you as a celebrity sponsor we could not only provide you with our services for free, but there'd be some compensation, as well. Believe it or not, we do okay, for a small group."
And presumably they pay up front, Rhyme thought. "I really don't think I'm the man for you."
"All you'd have to do is talk a bit about how you've always considered the possibility of assisted suicide. We'd do some videos too. And--"
A voice from the doorway startled Rhyme. "Get the fuck out of here!" He noticed Kopeski jump at the sound.
Thom stormed into the room, as the doctor sat back, spilling coffee as he dropped the cup, which hit the floor and shattered. "Wait, I--"
The aide, usually the picture of control, was red-faced. His hands were shaking. "I said out."
Kopeski rose. He remained calm. "Look, I'm having a conversation with Detective Rhyme here," he said evenly. "There's no reason to get upset."
"Out! Now!"
"I won't be long."
"You'll leave now."
"Thom--" Rhyme began.
"Quiet," the aide muttered.
The look from the doctor said, You let your assistant talk to you like that?
"I'm not going to tell you again."
"I'll leave when I've finished." Kopeski eased closer to the aide. The doctor, like many medical people, was in good shape.
But Thom was a caregiver, which involved getting Rhyme's ass into and out of beds and chairs and exercise equipment all day long. A physical therapist too. He stepped right into Kopeski's face.
But the confrontation lasted only a few seconds. The doctor backed down. "All right, all right, all right." He held his hands up. "Jesus. No need to--"
Thom picked up the man's briefcase and shoved it into his chest and led him out the door. A moment later the criminalist heard the door slam. Pictures on the wall shook.
The aide appeared a moment later, evidently mortified. He cleaned up the broken china, mopped the coffee. "I'm sorry, Lincoln. I checked. It was a real organization . . . I thought." His voice cracked. He shook his head, the handsome face dark, hands shaking.
As Rhyme wheeled back toward the lab he said, "It's fine, Thom. Don't worry. . . . And there's a bonus."
The
man turned his troubled eyes toward Rhyme, to find his boss smiling.
"I don't have to waste time writing an acceptance speech for any goddamn award. I can get back to work."
Chapter 22
ELECTRICITY KEEPS US alive; the impulse from the brain to the heart and lungs is a current like any other.
And electricity kills too.
At 9 p.m., just nine and a half hours after the attack at Algonquin substation MH-10, the man in the dark-blue Algonquin Consolidated overalls surveyed the scene in front of him: his killing zone.
Electricity and death . . .
He was standing in a construction site, out in the open, but no one paid him any attention because he was a worker among fellow workers. Different uniforms, different hard hats, different companies. But one thing tied them all together: Those who made a living with their hands were looked down on by "real people," the ones who relied on their services, the rich, the comfortable, the ungrateful.
Safe in this invisibility, he was in the process of installing a much more powerful version of the device he'd tested earlier at the health club. In the nomenclature of electrical service, "high voltage" didn't begin until you hit 70,000v. For what he had planned, he needed to be sure all the systems could handle at least two or three times that much juice.
He looked over the site of tomorrow's attack one more time. As he did he couldn't help but think about voltage and amperage . . . and death.
There'd been a lot of misreporting about Ben Franklin and that insane key-in-the-thunderstorm thing. Actually Franklin had stayed completely off damp ground, in a barn, and was connected to the wet kite string with a dry silk ribbon. The kite itself was never actually struck by lightning; it simply picked up static discharge from a gathering storm. The result wasn't a real bolt but rather elegant blue sparks that danced from the back of Franklin's hand like fish feeding at the surface of a lake.
One European scientist duplicated the experiment not long afterward. He didn't survive.
From the earliest days of power generation, workers were constantly being burned to death or having their hearts switched off. The early grid took down a number of horses, thanks to metal shoes on wet cobblestones.