The Steel Kiss

“Those are some of the biggest screens I’ve ever seen.” Archer’s good cheer had returned in part. She murmured something into the headset and Rhyme saw the screen change as a search engine popped up. “I’ll get to work. First, everything I can find about the escalator itself.”

Mel Cooper called, “Do you want the model and serial number?”

“Model is MCE-Seventy-Seven,” Archer said absently, staring at the screen, “I’ve got the serial too. Memorized them from the manufacturer’s info plate when I came in just now.”

And she slowly recited the lengthy numbers into the microphone. The computer responded dutifully to her low, melodic voice.

CHAPTER 11

Still playing infrastructure paparazzo with his digital camera, Mel Cooper continued to prowl about within the scaffolding enshrouding the escalator.

“How did they get it in?” he called. “This thing is huge.”

“Removed the roof, cut holes in all the floors, lowered it in by helicopter. Or maybe it was angels or superheroes. I forget.”

“Legitimate question, Lincoln.”

“Irrelevant question. Therefore illegitimate. What are you seeing?”

“Give me a minute.”

Rhyme sighed.

Speed. They needed to move fast. To help Sandy Frommer, of course. But also, as Archer had thought and Whitmore had confirmed, to get a settlement before spurious plaintiffs appeared, hoping for a windfall. He had explained: “The other passengers on the escalator who leapt off. The injuries were minor—or nonexistent—but that doesn’t mean they won’t sue. And then,” the lawyer had added, “there’ll be those who claim emotional distress because they simply saw a gruesome accident and their lives will be changed forever. They’ll never get on an escalator again…  Nightmares. Eating disorders. Loss of income from taking workdays off. Yes, it’s true. Nonsense, but true. This is the world of personal injury law.”

Archer now called from the computer station she was parked in front of: “The city’s suspended the operation of all MCE-Seventy-Seven models pending inspection. Reading from the Times. There are fifty-six installed in New York City. No other reports of malfunctions.”

Interesting. Rhyme wondered if an inspection might find something beneficial to their case. He wondered how fast it would be concluded.

Finally Cooper joined Rhyme and slipped the SD memory card out of the Sony camera. He loaded it into a computer slot and called up the pictures on a high-def monitor. The screen was big enough that dozens of images fit side by side.

Rhyme moved closer.

“Here’re the parts that seem relevant.” The tech stepped to the screen and pointed. “The panel that popped up. It serves as both a step—the top, immobile step—and an access panel for maintenance and repairs. Hinged on the far side, away from the escalator stairs. I’d guess the weight about forty or so pounds.”

Archer called, “Forty-two.” She’d found specifications, she explained, in a Midwest Conveyance installation and maintenance manual.

Cooper continued, “And it’s assisted by a spring so when the catch is released the door pops up about sixteen inches.”

Consistent with Sachs’s observation and photos.

“A worker can lift it all the way from there and use a rod to keep it open—like the sort used to support car hoods.” Pointing, Cooper indicated images he’d taken. “To close the door workers lower it by pushing it down or, I’d guess, standing on it, until a triangular bracket on the bottom of the door meets a spring-fed pin on a fixed bar. Here. The bracket pushes the pin in until the panel’s all the way down and the pin snaps into a hole to lock it closed.”

“How is it released?” Rhyme asked.

“Push-button switch in a receptacle behind a locked cover on the side of the escalator. Here. Circuit runs to the servo motor here. It retracts the pin, releasing the access panel.”

“So,” Rhyme mused. “What could have caused it to pop? Ideas? Come on, think.”

Archer: “The latching bracket broke off.”

But an examination of Sachs’s pictures seemed to show that it was still attached to the bottom of the access panel.

“Maybe the pin snapped,” Rhyme said. “The de Havilland Comet. Nineteen fifties.”

Both Archer and Cooper looked his way.

He explained: “First commercial jetliner. Three of them exploded in midair because metal fatigue—a window failed at high altitude. Fatigue is one of the main mechanical failure modes. Other modes are buckling, corrosion, fouling, fracture, impact, stress, thermal shock, a few more. Fatigue occurs when a material—could be metal or anything else—is subject to cyclical loading.”

“The jetliner,” Archer offered. “Pressurization over and over.”

“That’s what happened. Right. In that case, there were square windows or doors where the stress was concentrated in the corners. The redesigned planes had round ports and windows. Less stress and fatigue. So the question here is, did the opening and closing of the access panel on the escalator lead to fatigue on the part of the latching pin?”