The Watchmaker’s Hand

Cooper, bent over the microscope again, called, “More trace from the mystery location. Fibers that have the cellular structure of horsehair. Like the rest of it, old.”

“The computer?” Rhyme asked. “It’s Gilligan’s for sure?”

Pulaski told him, “Yep. His name and number are on a label on the back. If found, please call et cetera. His prints too. Only his. And it’s his personal one, not PD issue.”

“How do you know?”

Pulaski said, “It’s a Core i7. With an Nvidia graphics card. Too expensive to be PD issue.”

“It’s got to have something we can use. Please tell me it’s not locked.”

A few keystrokes. “Nope. Password.”

Pulaski said, “And it doesn’t have a fingerprint key to unlock it.” Print readers on electronics don’t optically read the ridges, furrows and whorls. They sense conductance — electric charges — in the ridges. Conductance quickly decreases after death, though. The computer would remain locked for the time being.

“I’ve got him on the deli video,” Pulaski called.

Rhyme was looking at a fish-eye high-definition scene of the interior of a diner. He couldn’t help but be impressed. The kid — no, the young man — had gone the extra step to drive to the restaurant and get a copy of the recording. What was significant about this was that he was mixing crime scene work with field investigation. That was unusual — and, some would say, against protocol. Usually a forensic officer handed off findings to a detective, who would then follow up. This two-step process often resulted in delays. Pulaski wasn’t having any of that. He wanted crime scene leads followed up on immediately. And that meant doing it himself. He’d told Rhyme once about this theory he had — the forty-eight-minute rule in closing cases. The criminalist couldn’t disagree.

In the video they watched Andy Gilligan as he entered; the lighting was good. He was led to a table off to the side, where he sat with his back to the camera. He ordered a meal, a cup of coffee. He ate and drank quickly and made no calls and sent or received no texts.

“That’s odd,” Pulaski offered. “Nobody by themselves in a restaurant doesn’t hit the electronics. He’s just staring out the window.”

“Because he feels like a shit for what he did.” Rhyme added, “Or thinking of ways to spend whatever the shooter paid him.”

Then he fell silent and squinted. “There’s something...”

“What’s that, Linc?”

“I want to see it again. From the minute he enters. Regular speed.”

Pulaski manipulated the controls. “You have something?”

The answer was: not exactly. But the images had triggered a vague association.

A memory.

Was it the restaurant?

No, he’d never seen it before.

The view outside?

No, just any city street.

Maybe it was something about Gilligan himself...

After all, the man had spent some hours here in the parlor on the DSE break-in case. He’d been here just this morning.

But, no, it was in a context different from the crime scene work they’d done together in the town house.

Clothing?

No...

A mannerism?

Then: “Yes!”

All three men in the lab looked his way.

What was familiar was the man’s stride.

And Lincoln Rhyme knew where he’d seen it before.

“Mel! I want the security cam of the DSE break-in. Put it on the second monitor.”

Rhyme motored closer to that screen. Come on, he thought impatiently. Come on.

“I’m getting it.”

Apparently, he’d spoken out loud.

Soon, a security video was playing, a case number and date appeared, glowing yellow, on a black screen. The scene came to life and they were looking at what a subtitle explained was the west hallway, first floor, of the Department of Structures and Engineering building. Unsub 212 was walking away from the camera toward the exit, the stolen file folders tucked under his right arm.

“Look at Gilligan’s walk at the diner. Look at the thief’s walk at DSE.”

Sellitto was whispering, “The fuck? They’re the same.”

Many law enforcement agencies were using gait-profiling software to identify perps and witnesses. It wasn’t yet admissible at trial in most states, but comparing how a known individual walked with an unknown individual in security videos like this could help investigators tentatively ID the perp. Rhyme didn’t have a program for this in the lab, but he hardly needed one. The two men were clearly the same.

“And his ear,” Pulaski said.

Ah, yes. In both videos he lifted his left hand and compulsively tugged the lobe, a nervous habit.

There was no doubt. Andy Gilligan was Unsub 212.

Sellitto said, “The hell is this about? The detective running the DSE theft case is also the goddamn perp? Somebody explain that to me.”

At that moment, Mel Cooper’s voice came through the speaker clearly. Normally placid, he sounded energized. “Well, we have something here. Where the shooter’s shell casings landed in the field and he picked them up? Guess what I found in the trace?”

“Mel!” Rhyme exhaled noisily. He wasn’t in the mood for dramatic setups.

Unfazed, the tech turned to them with a smile. “Hydrofluoric acid.”