Rhyme looked around the parlor. "Where the hell's the rookie?" he grumbled. "That other case?"
"That's right." Sachs was nodding. But offered nothing more.
"Somebody just find this Gutierrez and shoot him, please."
For some reason Sachs smiled at this. Rhyme was not amused.
Sachs itemized the evidence. "Not much. Wire, electricians' tape on the circuit breaker panel. He rigged a lamp with this." She held up a plastic bag with a small electric circuit board inside. "When he triggered it, two wires in the lamp crossed and that blew the breaker. It was to get Mom downstairs to the box. Ambient trace. Naturally, no friction ridges or hairs other than mine or Mom's. Some fibers. He's wearing flesh-colored cotton gloves."
"You found copper bits earlier but now we have the actual wire," Cooper said.
It was eight-gauge, according to the American wire gauge standard, about 0.128 inch in diameter.
Rhyme said, "Can carry pretty high voltage. What, Mel? Forty amps?"
"That's right, at sixty degrees Celsius."
"What about the manufacturer?"
There were, Rhyme could see, letters on the black insulation.
Cooper looked up the initials. "Hendrix Cable. Popular brand. Sold a lot of places."
Rhyme scoffed. "Why don't perps shop at unique stores?... And he used a razor knife again to strip it?"
"Right."
"And electricians' tape?"
"Probably good quality," the tech said, touching part of it with a steel needle probe. "Good adhesive, strong. Cheaper tape tends to have uneven coverage and it's thin."
"Burn a bit. See if we can get a brand name."
After the gas chromatograph worked its magic, Cooper looked over the results and displayed them to the room on a monitor.
Archer said, "They seem generic. Aren't those ingredients found in every brand of electrical tape?"
"Quantity," Rhyme said. "Quantity is everything."
Cooper explained further, "I'm running the amounts of each of those substances through a database. Micrograms make all the difference. It should give us an answer in... Ah, here we go now. It's one of these."
On the screen:
Ludlum Tape and Adhesive
Conoco Industrial Products
Hammersmith Adhesives
"Good, good," Rhyme muttered.
Sachs was examining the bag she'd held up earlier. The remote relay that had shorted out Rose's lights. Cooper mounted the device on the reflecting stage of a low-power microscope. They examined the monitor. He said, "Antenna here." He pointed. "Signal comes in and closes the switch here. It's not an off-the-shelf switch. It's a component part of something else. See? The base? He fatigued through the circuit board. Got a code number on it," he announced. Rhyme hadn't been able to see it.
Keeping his eyes on the monitor, Cooper touch-typed as fast as falling marbles. A moment later they turned to the screen.
"Home-Safe Products Atlas garage door opener, extended-reach model. Opens the door from fifty yards. He took the switch out and threw the rest away, I'd guess."
The remaining trace revealed more walnut sawdust, some glass fragments from Rose's town house, more glue associated with adhesive from an earlier scene, but nothing else new.
"Put everything up on the boards."
CRIME SCENE: 4218 MARTIN STREET, BROOKLYN
- Offense: Attempted Assault.
- Suspect: Unsub 40.
- Victim: Rose Sachs, unharmed.
- Means of attack: Rigged circuit breaker box to electrocute.
- Evidence:
- No friction ridge, DNA.
- Insulation from Hendrix Cable.
- Additional adhesive, as from earlier scene.
- Walnut sawdust.
- Glass shards associated with earlier scene (this location).
- Unsub wore flesh-colored cotton gloves.
- Electricians tape from one of: - Ludlum Tape and Adhesive.
- Conoco Industrial Products.
- Hammersmith Adhesives.
- Home-Safe Atlas garage door opener.
"Everything common, Mel?" Rhyme asked.
"Yep. Sold in a hundred stores in the area. Not very helpful."
Two voices: "But he was improvising the attack at your mother's town house, Sachs." At the same time Archer said, "But he didn't plan your mother's attack ahead of time, Amelia."
Rhyme laughed at their tripping over each other's words yet again. He explained to Sachs, "The unsub's planned out all the other attacks against his victims ahead of time. But he made a last-minute decision to attack your mom. He hadn't figured you'd be so persistent, so much of a risk to him. Which means he bought the tape, the electric wire, the glass and glazing compound and the garage door opener around the same time. Likely some or all at the same place. It would have been smart to buy them separately over a period of days or weeks but he didn't have a choice. He had to stop you."
Archer looked over the chart. "Maybe the parts for the gas bomb that he used downtown too--to destroy Todd Williams's office."
"Very possibly," Rhyme said. "Let's start with the garage door opener, don't you think? Sachs?" He'd been speaking to her.
"What's that?" She'd been distracted, reading a text.
"The garage door opener. Get a list of retail locations, then canvass to see if anybody bought the other items there." Rhyme added, "Start with Queens. Expand from there."
Sachs called Major Cases and put together a canvass team to start searching for the purchases. She then disconnected and emailed them a list of the items Unsub 40 would have bought. Rhyme noted she looked out the window for a moment. Then turned and walked close to him.
"Rhyme. You have a minute?"
One of those useless expressions. Why not just say: I want to talk to you. Let's lose the bystanders. But of course he nodded. "Sure."
He wheeled toward her and together they headed into the parlor across the hallway. She remained silent for a moment. He knew her well. When someone is your lover and your professional partner little of her psyche remains hidden. She was not being dramatic. She was weighing what she wished to say the way one would carefully measure a drug found in a bust to most accurately determine the charges against the suspect. Sachs was certainly given to impulse in some things. But matters close to her heart were swathed in thick deliberation.
She sighed and turned. Then sat. "There's something I have to talk to you about."
"Yes. Go ahead."
"I could have told you a few days ago. I didn't. I'm not sure why I didn't. Nick is out."
"Carelli? Your friend."
"My friend, yes. He was released from prison. He contacted me."
"And he's well?"
"Pretty much. Physically. I'd think being inside would change you more." She shrugged and it was clear to Rhyme she didn't want to go down this path. "There's something I debated about telling you. I didn't. But now I have to."
"A preface like that, Sachs? Pray continue."
SUNDAY VI
... AND MATE
CHAPTER 47
At 11:30 a.m. the canvass team looking into the unsub's purchases for his improvised weapons, in the attempt on Rose Sachs's life, had a hit.
Rhyme was frustrated that it had taken so long but then they'd made the discovery about the garage door opener and the other purchases only late last night, when most of the hardware stores were closed. And few opened early today, Sunday morning.
"Fucking blue laws," he'd snapped.
Ron Pulaski, apparently on hiatus from the Gutierrez case, had said, "I don't think the Puritans've pushed through legislation about late opening times for hardware stores on the holy day, Lincoln. Salespeople probably just want to sleep in one day of the week."
"Well, they shouldn't do it when I. Need. Answers."
But then Sachs got a call from one of the officers on the canvass. She sat slightly more upright as she listened. "I'll put you on speaker."
A click. "Yes, hello? J
im Cavanaugh. Major Cases Support."
"Officer," Rhyme said, "this is Lincoln Rhyme."
"Detective Sachs told me you're working the case. An honor, sir."
"Okay, sure. Well, what do you have?"
"A store on Staten Island."
So, not Queens. Archer gave Rhyme a wry smile.
With two question marks...
"The manager said a man fitting the description of the unsub comes in two days ago, wanted a garage door opener that would work at a distance of about thirty-five feet, maybe more. Also bought glass, glazing compound, electricians' tape and some wire. All matching the products you mentioned."
Here's hoping... Rhyme asked, "Credit card?"
"Cash."
Of course.
"Did the manager know anything about him? Name, where he lives?"
"Not that, but he did find out a few things, Captain."
"'Lincoln' is fine. Go on."
"The unsub saw some tools the store had for sale and asked about them. They were specialized ones. Like the kind used for crafts."
Sachs asked, "Crafts? What sort of crafts?"
"Hobbies. Model airplanes, things like that. Razor knives and saws and very small sanders. He bought a set of miniature clamps. He'd been looking for ones like them. The store he usually shops at didn't have them in stock."
"Good. I like 'usually.' That means he's a regular. Did he mention the name?"
"No. Just said it was in Queens."
Rhyme shouted, "Somebody find me all the crafts stores in Queens. Now!"
"Thanks, Officer." Sachs disconnected the call.
A moment later a map was on the biggest of the monitors. There were sixteen crafts stores indicated in the borough of Queens.
"Which one?" Rhyme muttered.
Sachs leaned forward, her hand on the back of his chair. She pointed. "That one."
"How do you know?"
"Because it's three subway stops away from the MTA station near the White Castle in Queens, where he always went for lunch after shopping."
Crafts 4 Everyone didn't quite live up to its name.
No yarn, no floral art foam, no finger paints.
But if you wanted to build model ships or spacecraft or doll house furniture this was your emporium.
Fragrant with the smell of paint and wood and cleansers, the shop featured jam-packed shelves filled with supplies and tools. More Dremel power tools and balsa wood than Amelia Sachs had ever seen in one place. A lot of Star Wars characters, creatures and vehicles. Star Trek too.
She showed her gold shield to the young man behind the counter, good looking, more like an athlete than a, well, clerk in a nerd store.
"Yes?" His voice did, however, crack.
She explained she was trying to find someone for questioning in connection with a series of crimes. She described the unsub, asked if anyone had recently bought mahogany, walnut, Bond-Strong and Braden Rich-Cote varnish. Craft tools too.
"He'd be smart," Sachs said. "Well spoken." Thinking of the unsub's attempts to obscure his intelligence in his rants against consumerism.
"Well, you know," the clerk said, swallowed and continued, "there is somebody. But he's quiet, polite. I can't imagine he'd do anything wrong."
"What's his name?"
"I just know his first name. Vernon."
"He fits the description?"
"Tall and thin, yeah. Kind of weird."
"Any credit card receipts?"
"He always pays cash."
She then asked, "You have any idea where he lives?"
"Manhattan, I think in Chelsea. He mentioned that once."
"How often does he come in?"
"Every couple of weeks."
"No phone number he left for special orders?"
"No, sorry... Now you're asking me, he always seemed kind of paranoid, you know. Like he didn't want to give away too much."
She handed him a card and asked him to call her if this Vernon returned. No more 911 intermediaries. She walked around a father and son poring over a carve-your-own-Jedi display and left the store. Sachs dropped into the front passenger seat of the unmarked car that had accompanied her here. The detective from the local precinct, an attractive Latina, asked, "Success?"
"Yes, and no. The perp's name is Vernon. No other name yet. I want you to stay here on the chance he comes back. The kid--the clerk--was so nervous all Vernon would have to do was look at him and the killer would know something was up."
"Sure, Amelia."
She thought now about how to narrow down an address in the relatively large neighborhood of Chelsea. She spun the detective's computer around and typed real estate databases. No one with a first name Vernon owned property in Chelsea and those two people with that name on deed records were much older than the perp and both were married, a status that seemed extremely unlikely for this type of perp. So, if the kid was right about the name, their perp would be renting.
An idea occurred to her: She ran stats in Chelsea to see about recent crimes. Something interesting turned up. A homicide, just reported yesterday, on West 22nd Street. A man named Edwin Boyle, a printing company employee, had been killed and his body shoved into a storage cabinet in an abandoned warehouse. His wallet and cash were still in his possession. Only his phone was missing. The cause of death was "blunt force trauma."
She called the Medical Examiner's Office and got through right away. She identified herself.
"Hi, Detective," said the woman technician. "What do you need?"
"That homicide, Boyle? Yesterday. Chelsea. You have anything more on the blunt force? Type of weapon?"
"Hold on. I'll check. I didn't do the PM." A few moments later she came back on the line. "I have it here. Funny, it's similar to another PM we handled not long ago. Something you don't see very often."
Sachs said, "Murder weapon was a ball-peen hammer?"
The tech barked a laugh. "Sherlock Holmes. How'd you know that?"
"Can't tell, Detective. He's got shutters on the bedroom window. Metal, have to be. Can't read through them. K."
Near an ESU van parked up the street from the target apartment, Amelia Sachs spoke into her stalk mouthpiece in reply: "Any light getting through?"
The S&S officer was on the roof opposite, his sophisticated equipment aimed at the second-floor, two-bedroom apartment on West 22nd Street. "Negative, Detective. No thermal readings but with the shutters he could have a candlelit card game going on there, everybody smoking cigars and I couldn't tell you. K."
"Roger."
The unsub was no longer one. He was an Identified Subject.
Vernon Griffith, thirty-five, was a resident of New York. He'd owned a house on Long Island, which he'd inherited and recently sold. He'd been renting here in Chelsea for about a year. Some juvie offenses for schoolyard fights, but no rap sheet as an adult. And--curiously--no history of social activism, until he started using consumer products a few days ago to murder the good citizens of the city of New York as the People's Guardian.
Edwin Boyle had been his neighbor until, for reasons yet unknown, Griffith had hammered him to death a few blocks away, in the same inelegant manner as he had Todd Williams.
"We're locked down. The whole block."
This from Bo Haumann, head of the NYPD's Emergency Service Unit--the city's SWAT team. The lean, grizzled man, with an etched face, and Sachs looked over a layout of the apartment building on his laptop. The schematic had come from the Department of Buildings and was old, about ten years, but New York City apartments rarely underwent major internal renovation. Landlords wouldn't want to pay for that. Only when eyeing the gold mine of converting a building to co-ops or condominiums did the owners get out the checkbooks for structural improvement.
"Don't have much choice," Haumann said, meaning there was essentially only one strategy for entry to collar Griffith. There was a single entrance into the building from 22nd Street and one door in the back alley. Griffith's apartment itself had one door, opening onto the
living room. There were two bedrooms opposite the entry door and a small kitchen to the right.
Haumann called a half-dozen officers over. Like Sachs they were in tactical outfits--helmets, gloves, Kevlar vests.
Tapping the computer screen, he said, "Three friendlies in the back. Four-man entry through his front door."
"I'm one of them," Sachs said.
"Four-person entry through his front door," Haumann corrected, to smiles. "One breacher, other three in serially. One right, one left, one center, covering."
The weapons they'd be armed with were the same as the one that had been used to kill Osama bin Laden: H&K 416s. This model was the D14.5RS carbine, the numbers referring to the length, in inches, of the barrel.
They acknowledged the instructions blandly, as if their boss were giving them details of a new coffee break plan at the office. To them this was all in a day's work. For Sachs, though, she was alive. Completely attuned to the moment. Good at crime scene work, yes--she enjoyed the mind game of tricking evidence to life. But there was nothing like a dynamic entry. It was a high unlike anything else she'd experienced.
"Let's move," she said.
Haumann nodded in confirmation, and the teams formed up.
In five minutes they were sprinting along the sidewalk, motioning bystanders to leave the area. With a screw-end lock pop, one officer opened the front door of the building in a single deft pull and Sachs and the other three streamed inside. Through the lobby and corridor to Griffith's unit.
With hand signals, Sachs stopped the team fast. She pointed to the video camera above the suspect's door. All four officers moved back, out of view of the lens.
On the radio: "Team B, in position in alley. It's clear."
"Roger," said the Team A leader, a lean, dark-complected man whose name was Heller. He was beside Sachs. "He's got a camera above the door. We'll have to go in fast." The conversation occurred in whispers and was delivered through state-of-the-art headsets and microphones.
Normally they'd move silently up on their rubber-soled boots, then the breaching officer would wait while one cop slid a tiny camera on a cable under the door. But now--with the perp's surveillance of them a possibility--they'd have to race to the door and move in fast.
Heller pointed to Sachs and to the right. Then to another officer and aimed a thumb to left. Then to himself and moved his hand up and down, like a priest offering a blessing. Meaning he'd take the center.