The Bone Collector (18 page)

Monelle began to talk, a disjointed story about being in the laundry room of a residence hall in the East Village. He’d been hiding, waiting for her.

“What residence hall?” Sellitto asked.

“The Deutsche Haus. It’s, you know, mostly German expatriates and students.”

“What happened then?” Sellitto continued. Sachs noted that although the big detective appeared gruffer, more ornery than Rhyme, he was really the more compassionate of the two.

“He threwed me in the trunk of car and drove here.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

The woman closed her eyes. Sachs repeated the question and Monelle said she hadn’t; he was, as Rhyme had guessed, wearing a navy-blue ski mask.

“
Und
gloves.”

“Describe them.”

They were dark. She didn’t remember what color.

“Any unusual characteristics? The kidnapper?”

“No. He was white. I could tell that.”

“Did you see the license plate of the taxi?” Sellitto asked.

“Was?”
the girl asked, drifting into her native tongue.

“Did you see—”

Sachs jumped as Rhyme interrupted:
“Das Nummernschild.”

Thinking: How the hell does he
know
all this? She repeated the word and the girl shook her head no then squinted. “What you mean, taxi?”

“Wasn’t he driving a Yellow Cab?”

“Taxicab?
Nein.
No. It was regular car.”

“Hear that, Lincoln?”

“Yup. Our boy’s got another set of wheels. And he put her in the trunk so it’s not a station wagon or hatchback.”

Sachs repeated this. The girl nodded. “Like a sedan.”

“Any idea of the make or color?” Sellitto continued.

Monelle answered, “Light, I think. Maybe silver or gray. Or that, you know, what is it? Light brown.”

“Beige?”

She nodded.

“Maybe beige,” Sachs added for Rhyme’s benefit.

Sellitto asked, “Was there anything in the trunk? Anything at all? Tools, clothes, suitcases?”

Monelle said there wasn’t. It was empty.

Rhyme had a question. “What did it smell like? The trunk.”

Sachs relayed the query.

“I don’t know.”

“Oil and grease?”

“No. It smelled . . . clean.”

“So maybe a new car,” Rhyme reflected.

Monelle dissolved into tears for a moment. Then shook her head. Sachs took her hand and, finally, she continued. “We drove for long time.
Seemed
like long time.”

“You’re doing fine, honey,” Sachs said.

Rhyme’s voice interrupted. “Tell her to strip.”

“What?”

“Take her clothes off.”

“I will not.”

“Have the medics give her a robe. We need her clothes, Amelia.”

“But,” Sachs whispered, “she’s crying.”

“Please,” Rhyme said urgently. “It’s important.”

Sellitto nodded and Sachs, tight-lipped, explained to the girl about the clothes and was surprised when Monelle nodded. She was, it turned out, eager to get out of the bloody garments anyway. Giving her privacy, Sellitto walked away, to confer with Bo Haumann. Monelle put on a gown the medic offered her and one of the plain-clothes detectives covered her with his sportscoat. Sachs bagged the jeans and T-shirts.

“Got them,” Sachs said into the radio.

“Now she’s got to walk the scene with you,” Rhyme said.

“What?”

“But make sure she’s behind you. So she doesn’t contaminate any PE.”

Sachs looked at the young woman, huddling on a gurney beside the two EMS buses.

“She’s in no shape to do that. He cut her. All the way to the bone. So she’d bleed and the rats’d get her.”

“Is she mobile?”

“Probably. But you know what she’s just been through?”

“She can give you the route they walked. She can tell you where he stood.”

“She’s going to the ER. She lost a lot of blood.”

A hesitation. He said pleasantly, “Just ask her.”

But his joviality was fake and Sachs heard just impatience. She could tell that Rhyme was a man who wasn’t used to coddling people, who didn’t
have
to. He was someone used to having his own way.

He persisted, “Just once around the grid.”

You can go fuck yourself, Lincoln Rhyme.

“It’s—”

“Important. I know.”

Nothing from the other end of the line.

She was looking at Monelle. Then she heard a voice, no,
her
voice say to the girl, “I’m going down there to look for evidence. Will you come with me?”

The girl’s eyes nailed Sachs deep in her heart. Tears burst. “No, no, no. I am not doing that.
Bitte nicht, oh, bitte nicht
 . . .”

Sachs nodded, squeezed the woman’s arm. She began to speak into the mike, steeling herself for his reaction, but Rhyme surprised her by saying, “All right, Amelia. Let it go. Just ask her what happened when they arrived.”

The girl explained how she’d kicked him and escaped into an adjoining tunnel.

“I kick him again,” she said with some satisfaction. “Knock off his glove. Then he get all pissed and strangle me. He—”

“Without the glove on?” Rhyme blurted.

Sachs repeated the question and Monelle said, “Yes.”

“Prints, excellent!” Rhyme shouted, his voice
distorting in the mike. “When did it happen? How long ago?”

Monelle guessed about an hour and a half.

“Hell,” Rhyme muttered. “Prints on skin last an hour, ninety minutes, tops. Can you print skin, Amelia?”

“I never have before.”

“Well, you’re about to. But fast. In the CS suitcase there’ll be a packet labeled Kromekote. Pull out a card.”

She found a stack of glossy five-by-seven cards, similar to photographic paper.

“Got it. Do I dust her neck?”

“No. Press the card, glossy side down, against her skin where she thinks he touched her. Press for about three seconds.”

Sachs did this, as Monelle stoically gazed at the sky. Then, as Rhyme instructed, she dusted the card with metallic powder, using a puffy Magna-Brush.

“Well?” Rhyme asked eagerly.

“It’s no good. A shape of a finger. But no visible ridges. Should I pitch it?”

“Never throw away
anything
at a crime scene, Sachs,” he lectured sternly. “Bring it back. I want to see it anyway.”

“One thing, I am thinking I forget,” said Monelle. “He touch me.”

“You mean he molested you?” Sachs asked gently. “Rape?”

“No, no. Not in a sex way. He touch my shoulder, face, behind my ear. Elbow. He squeezed me. I don’t know why.”

“You hear that, Lincoln? He touched her. But it didn’t seem like he was getting off on it.”

“Yes.”

“
Und
 . . . And one thing I am forgetting,” Monelle said. “He spoke German. Not good. Like he only study it in school. And he call me Hanna.”

“Called her what?”

“Hanna,” Sachs repeated into the mike. “Do you know why?” she asked the girl.

“No. But that’s all he call me. He seemed to like saying the name.”

“Did you get that, Lincoln.”

“Yes, I did. Now do the scene. Time’s awasting.”

As Sachs stood, Monelle suddenly reached up and gripped her wrist.

“Miss . . . Sachs. You are German?”

She smiled and answered, “A long time ago. A couple generations.”

Monelle nodded. She pressed Sachs’s palm to her cheek. “
Vielen Dank.
Thank you, Miss Sachs.
Danke schön.
”

T
he three ESU halogens clicked to light, bringing an eerie tide of white glare to the grim tunnel.

Alone now at the scene Sachs gazed at the floor for a moment. Something had changed. What?

She drew her weapon again, dropped into a crouch. “He’s here,” she whispered, stepping behind one of the posts.

“What?” Rhyme asked.

“He’s come back. There were some dead rats here. They’re gone.”

She heard Rhyme’s laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“No, Amelia. Their friends took the bodies away.”

“Their friends?”

“Had a case up in Harlem once. Dismembered, decomposed body. A lot of the bones were hidden in a big circle around the torso. The skull was in an oil drum, toes underneath piles of leaves . . . Had the borough in an uproar. The press was talking about Satanists, serial killers. Guess who the perp turned out to be?”

“No idea,” she said stiffly.

“The vic himself. It was a suicide. Raccoons, rats and squirrels made off with the remains. Like trophies. Nobody knows why but they love their souvenirs. Now, where are you?”

“At the foot of the ramp.”

“What do you see?”

“A wide tunnel. Two side tunnels, narrower. Flat ceiling, supported by wooden posts. The posts’re all battered and nicked. The floor’s old concrete, covered with dirt.”

“And manure?”

“Looks like it. In the center, right in front of me’s the post she was tied to.”

“Windows?”

“None. No doors either.” She looked over the wide tunnel, the floor disappearing into a black universe a thousand miles away. She felt the crawl of hopelessness. “It’s too big! There’s too much space to cover.”

“Amelia, relax.”

“I’ll never find
anything
here.”

“I know it seems overwhelming. But just keep in mind that there’re only three types of PE that we’re concerned about. Objects, body materials and impressions. That’s all. It’s less daunting if you think of it that way.”

Easy for you to say.

“And the scene isn’t as big as it looks. Just concentrate on the places they walked. Go to the post.”

Sachs walked the path. Staring down.

The ESU lights were brilliant but they also made the shadows starker, revealing a dozen places the kidnapper could hide. A chill trickled down her spine. Stay close, Lincoln, she thought reluctantly. I’m pissed, sure, but I wanna hear you. Breathe or something.

She paused, shone the PoliLight over the ground.

“Is it all swept?” he asked.

“Yes. Just like before.”

The body armor chafed her breasts despite the sports bra and undershirt and as hot as it was outside it was unbearable down here. Her skin prickled and she felt a ravenous desire to scratch under her vest.

“I’m at the post.”

“Vacuum the area for trace.”

Sachs ran the Dustbuster. Hating the noise. It covered up any sound of approaching footsteps, guns cocking, knives being drawn. Involuntarily she looked behind her once, twice. Nearly dropped the vacuum as her hand strayed to her gun.

Sachs looked at the impression in the dust of where Monelle’s body had lain.
I’m him. I’m dragging her along. She kicks me. I stumble . . .

Monelle could have kicked in only one direction, away
from the ramp. The unsub didn’t fall, she’d said. Which meant he must’ve landed on his feet. Sachs walked a yard or two into the gloom.

“Bingo!” Sachs shouted.

“What? Tell me?”

“Footprints. He missed a spot sweeping up.”

“Not hers?”

“No. She was wearing running shoes. These are smooth soles. Like dress shoes. Two good prints. We’ll know what size feet he’s got.”

“No, they won’t tell us that. Soles can be larger or smaller than the uppers. But it may tell us something. In the CS bag there’s an electrostatic printer. It’s a small box with a wand on it. There’ll be some sheets of acetate next to it. Separate the paper, lay the acetate on the print and run the wand over it.”

She found the device and made two images of the prints. Carefully slipped them into a paper envelope.

Sachs returned to the post. “And here’s a bit of straw from the broom.”

“From?—”

“Sorry,” Sachs said quickly. “We don’t know where it’s from. A bit of straw. I’m picking it up and bagging it.”

Getting good with these pencils. Hey, Lincoln, you son of a bitch, know what I’m doing to celebrate my permanent retirement from crime scene detail? I’m going out for Chinese.

The ESU halogens didn’t reach into the side tunnel where Monelle had run. Sachs paused at the day–night line then plunged forward into the shadows. The flashlight beam swept the floor in front of her.

“Talk to me, Amelia.”

“There isn’t much to see. He swept up here too. Jesus, he thinks of everything.”

“What
do
you see?”

“Just marks in the dust.”

I tackle her, I bring her down. I’m mad. Furious. I try to strangle her.

Sachs stared at the ground.

“Here’s something—knee prints! When he was
strangling her he must have straddled her waist. He left knee prints and he missed them when he swept.”

“Electrostatic them.”

She did, quicker this time. Getting the hang of the equipment. She was slipping the print into the envelope when something caught her eye. Another mark in the dust.

What is that?

“Lincoln . . . I’m looking at the spot where . . . it looks like the glove fell here. When they were struggling.”

She clicked on the PoliLight. And couldn’t believe what she saw.

“A print. I’ve got a fingerprint!”

“What?” Rhyme asked, incredulous. “It’s not hers?”

“Nope, couldn’t be. I can see the dust where she was lying. Her hands were cuffed the whole time. It’s where he picked up the glove. He probably thought he’d swept here but missed it. It’s a big, fat beautiful one!”

“Stain it, light it and shoot the son of a bitch on the one-to-one.”

It took her only two tries to get a crisp Polaroid. She felt like she’d found a hundred-dollar bill in the street.

“Vacuum the area and then go back to the post. Walk the grid,” he told her.

She slowly walked the floor, back and forth. One foot at a time.

“Don’t forget to look up,” he reminded her. “I once caught an unsub because of a single hair on the ceiling. He’d loaded a .357 round in a true .38 and the blowback pasted a hair from his hand on the crown molding.”

“I’m looking. It’s a tile ceiling. Dirty. Nothing else. Nowhere to stash anything. No ledges or doorways.”

“Where’re the staged clues?” he asked.

“I don’t see anything.”

Back and forth. Five minutes passed. Six, seven.

“Maybe he didn’t leave any this time,” Sachs suggested. “Maybe Monelle’s the last.”

“No,” Rhyme said with certainty.

Then behind one of the wooden pillars a flash caught her eye.

“Here’s something in the corner . . . Yep. Here they are.”

“Shoot it ’fore you touch it.”

She took a photograph and then picked up a wad of white cloth with the pencils. “Women’s underwear. Wet.”

“Semen?”

“I don’t know,” she said. Wondering if he was going to ask her to smell it.

Rhyme ordered, “Try the PoliLight. Proteins will fluoresce.”

She fetched the light, turned it on. It illuminated the cloth but the liquid didn’t glow. “No.”

“Bag it. In plastic. What else?” he asked eagerly.

“A leaf. Long, thin, pointed at one end.”

It had been cut sometime ago and was dry and turning brown.

She heard Rhyme sigh in frustration. “There’re about eight thousand varieties of deciduous vegetation in Manhattan,” he explained. “Not very helpful. What’s underneath the leaf?”

Why does he think there’s anything there?

But there was. A scrap of newsprint. Blank on one side, the other was printed with a drawing of the phases of the moon.

“The moon?” Rhyme mused. “Any prints? Spray it with ninhydrin and scan it fast with the light.”

A blast of the PoliLight revealed nothing.

“That’s all.”

Silence for a moment. “What’re the clues sitting on?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“You
have
to know.”

“Well, the ground,” she answered testily. “Dirt.” What else would they be sitting on?

“Is it like all the rest of the dirt around there?”

“Yes.” Then she looked closely. Hell, it was different. “Well, not exactly. It’s a different color.”

Was he
always
right?

Rhyme instructed, “Bag it. In paper.”

As she scooped up the grains he said, “Amelia?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s not there,” Rhyme said reassuringly.

“I guess.”

“I heard something in your voice.”

“I’m fine,” she said shortly. “I’m smelling the air. I smell blood. Mold and mildew. And the aftershave again.”

“The same as before?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s it coming from?”

Sniffing the air, Sachs walked in a spiral, the Maypole again, until she came to another wooden post.

“Here. It’s strongest right here.”

“What’s ‘here,’ Amelia? You’re my legs
and
my eyes, remember.”

“One of these wooden columns. Like the kind she was tied to. About fifteen feet away.”

“So he might have rested against it. Any prints?”

She sprayed it with ninhydrin and shone the light on it.

“No. But the smell’s very strong.”

“Sample a portion of the post where it’s the strongest. There’s a MotoTool in the case. Black. A portable drill. Take a sampling bit—it’s like a hollow drill bit—and mount it in the tool. There’s something called a chuck. It’s a—”

“I own a drill press,” she said tersely.

“Oh,” Rhyme said.

She drilled a piece of the post out, then flicked sweat from her forehead. “Bag it in plastic?” she asked. He told her yes. She felt faint, lowered her head and caught her breath. No fucking air in here.

“Anything else?” Rhyme asked.

“Nothing that I can see.”

“I’m proud of you, Amelia. Come on back and bring your treasures with you.”