The Steel Kiss

Cooper began the chromatographic and spectromic analysis. As the machine ran and he noted results, Sachs continued, “But I was thinking of the MO—that he needed to see inside the place. To make sure there was a victim present.”

Archer added, “And remember Rodney’s comment about his being ‘a decent monster’; he might’ve wanted to make sure there were no children, say, who were visiting. Or he doesn’t want to hurt poorer people. The ones who don’t buy the expensive products.”

“Maybe,” Sachs said, though Rhyme could tell she was doubtful. He tended to side with Sachs on this one. Unsub 40 didn’t seem troubled by finely parsed ethical concerns. “I think it was more an issue to make sure he had a victim in his sights. I found the one spot where he could see clearly into the Benkoffs’ apartment. The roof across the street. A resident there saw a tall, slim man come out of the lobby just after the explosion. White male, had a backpack, dressed in overalls like a worker. And a baseball cap. I got some trace from where he probably stood.”

“Access?” Rhyme asked.

“He could’ve taken the fire escape, would have been less visible. But he went for the front door.”

“Lock on that apartment’s door?” Archer asked.

Again, stealing the question from Rhyme.

“Old building. Old lock. Easily jimmied. No broken windows. No tool marks to speak of. Took trace from the lobby but… ” She shrugged.

Archer said, “Lincoln’s book. Smart perps travel routes where there’s heavy foot traffic, and where, therefore, the likelihood of isolating usable trace diminishes logarithmically. That’s why he entered there.”

Stating the obvious, Rhyme thought, of his own observation. He’d always regretted putting that in the text. “So what do we have,” he asked impatiently, “from the roof?”

“For one thing, a piece of glass.” This was Archer’s observation. She’d wheeled close to the examination table and was staring at a clear plastic evidence bag, which appeared to contain dust only.

“Spread it out, Mel.”

The tech did.

“I still can’t see it,” Rhyme muttered.

“Them,” Archer corrected. “Two, no, three shards.”

“You have microscopic vision?”

Archer laughed. “God gave me good nails and twenty—twenty vision. That’s about it.”

No reference to what He was taking away.

With the help of magnifying goggles, Cooper found and extracted the shards of glass and put them under a microscope. The image was broadcast on the screen. Archer said, “Window glass, wouldn’t you think?”

“That’s right,” Rhyme said. He’d analyzed a thousand samples of glass in his years on crime scene detail—from splinters produced by bullets, falling bodies, rocks and auto crashes to shards intentionally and lovingly turned into knives. The fracture lines and the polished sides of the tiny pieces Sachs had collected left no doubt they were from windows. Not automotive—safety glass was very different—but residential. He mentioned this.

Cooper pointed out. “There, upper right-hand quadrant? Imperfection.”

It seemed to be a small bubble. Rhyme said, “Old. And cheap, I’d say.”

“That’s what I’d say. Seventy-five years? Older maybe.”

Modern window glass manufacturing produced a much closer to flawless.

“Compare them with the control samples. Where are they, Sachs?”

She pointed out several envelopes; they would contain trace samples from parts of the roof that were nowhere near the place the unsub had stood. Cooper went to work comparing the various items microscopically.

“Okay…  No other bits of glass.”

And there’d been none in Todd Williams’s office building—the unsub had broken in through the back door. And none downstairs here either. Where had he picked it up?

“Anything else, the trace?”

Cooper had to wait to run the samples through the GC/MS. He was still awaiting the results from the ash Sachs had collected. In a few minutes they were finished. He read the compiled data. “No accelerant.”

“So that tells us he most likely didn’t break in and pour gas or kerosene around the place.”

“It wasn’t likely anyway,” Archer said.

“Why do you say that?” Sachs asked

“Gut feel. Almost like he’s proud he’s using the controller as a murder weapon. It would be…  I don’t know, inelegant to have to add gasoline.”

“Maybe,” Sachs said.

Rhyme agreed with Archer but said nothing.

“Burn the other trace. From his vantage point on the roof.”

For a half hour or so, Cooper ran various samples through the machine, the chromatograph separating the components, the MS identifying them. Rhyme watched impatiently. Finally Cooper listed them:

Diesel fuel, no brand identified. Two soil samples, indigenous to shoreline Connecticut, Hudson River, New Jersey and Westchester County.

“Not Queens with two question marks?” Rhyme said wryly. Archer smiled his way. Sachs noted this, turned back to the whiteboard on which she was writing down their findings.