Lincoln Rhyme: The Kill Room Part 49

Trace on bullet: gla.s.s dust, fiber from Moreno's s.h.i.+rt and poisonwood tree leaf.

Crime Scene 2. No sniper's nest involved; bullets fired from drone. "Kill Room" is drone command center.

Crime Scene 2A. Apartment 3C, 182 Augusta Street, Na.s.sau, Bahamas.

May 15.

Victim: Annette Bodel.

COD: TBD, probably strangulation, asphyxiation.

Suspect: Determined to be Unsub 516.

Victim was probably tortured.

Trace: Sand a.s.sociated with sand found at Java Hut.

Docosahexaenoic acid-fish oil. Likely caviar or roe. Ingredient in dish from NY restaurant.

Two-stroke engine fuel.

C8H8O3, vanillin. Ingredient in dish from NY restaurant.

Crime Scene 3. Java Hut, Mott and Hester Streets.

May 16.

IED explosion, to destroy evidence of whistleblower.

Victims: No fatalities, minor injuries.

Suspect: Determined to be Unsub 516.

Military-style device, anti-personnel, shrapnel. Semtex explosive. Available on arms market.

Located customers in shop when whistleblower was present, canva.s.sing for info, pictures.

Trace: Sand from tropical region.

Crime Scene 4. Apartment 230, 1187 Third Avenue.

May 16.

Victim: Lydia Foster.

COD: Blood loss, shock from knife wounds.

Suspect: Determined to be Unsub 516.

Hair, brown and short (from Unsub 516), sent to CODIS for a.n.a.lysis.

Trace: Glycyrrhiza glabra-licorice. Ingredient in dish from NY restaurant.

Cynarine, chemical component of artichokes. Ingredient in dish from NY restaurant.

Evidence of torture.

All records of interpreting a.s.signment for Robert Moreno on May 1 stolen.

No cell phone or computer.

Receipt for Starbucks where Lydia waited during Moreno's private meeting on May 1.

Rumors of drug cartels behind the killings. Considered unlikely.

Supplemental Investigation. Determine ident.i.ty of Whistleblower. Unknown subject who leaked the Special Task Order.

Sent via anonymous email.

Traced through Taiwan to Romania to Sweden. Sent from New York area on public Wi-Fi, no government servers used.

Used an old computer, probably from ten years ago, iBook, either clamsh.e.l.l model, two tone with other bright colors (like green or tangerine). Or could be traditional model, graphite color, but much thicker than today's laptops.

Profile: Likely middle-aged male.

Uses Splenda sweetener.

Military background?

Wears inexpensive suit, in unusual blue shade.

Uses iBook.

Possibly suffers from stomach disorder, uses Zantac.

Individual in light-colored sedan following Det. A. Sachs. Make and model not determined.

Of course, of course...

"I think I've got it. I need to talk to Mychal Poitier again. And, Thom, bring the van around."

"The-"

"The van! We're going for a drive. Sachs, you're coming too. And you are armed, aren't you? Oh, and somebody call detention. Have Barry Shales released. The guy's been through enough."

CHAPTER 82.

THE SKINNY FIFTY-YEAR-OLD was a lifer in the Department of Corrections.

He was not, however, a prisoner but a guard and had been all his professional days. He actually liked the job, shepherding people through the Tombs.

The nickname of the venue-technically the Manhattan Detention Complex-suggested a place that was worse than the truth. The word went back to the 1800s and was appropriate for a prison modeled after an Egyptian mausoleum, built on an incompetently filled swamp (adding to the aroma and illness that pervaded the place) and situated in the notorious Five Points district of Manhattan-described as "the most dangerous place on earth" at that time.

In fact, the Tombs nowadays was just another lockup, although a d.a.m.n big one.

Calling into intercoms, using the code word for the day to open doors, the guard now strode down the hallway to a segregated set of cells reserved for special prisoners.

Like the man he was now going to see. Barry Shales.

Over his twenty-eight years as a guard here he had trained himself to have no opinion about his charges. Child killers and white-collar criminals who'd embezzled from people who probably should be embezzled from...it made no difference to him. His job was to keep order and make sure the system ran smoothly. And also to ease the difficult time these people were going through.

After all, this was not prison but temporary detention, where individuals stayed until bail or transfer to Rikers or, in more than a few cases, freedom forever. Everybody here was presumably innocent. That was how the country worked.

But the man whose cell he was now walking toward was different and the guard did have an opinion about him. It was an absolute tragedy that he'd been incarcerated here.

The guard didn't know a lot about Barry Shales's background. But he did know that he was a former air force flier who'd fought in the war in Iraq. And that he worked for the government now, the federal government.

And yet he'd been arrested for murder. But not for killing his wife or his wife's lover or anything like that. For killing some a.s.shole terrorist.

Arrested, even though he was a soldier, even though he was a hero.

And the guard knew why he was here: because of politics. He'd been arrested because the party that wasn't in power had to f.u.c.k over the one that was, by making an example of this poor guy.

The guard came to the cell and looked through the window.

Funny.

There was another prisoner in the cell, which the guard hadn't known about. It didn't make sense for him to be here. There was a second empty cell that the man should have been put into. The new prisoner was sitting off to the side, staring ahead blankly. The gaze made the guard feel uneasy. The eyes told you everything about the people here, much more than the c.r.a.p they said.

And what was with Shales? He was lying on his side on the bench, back to the door. He wasn't moving.

The guard punched in the code and with a buzz the door opened.

"Hey, Shales?"

No movement.

The second prisoner continued to stare at the wall. Scary f.u.c.ker, the guard thought, and he was a man who didn't use that phrase lightly.

"Shales?" The guard stepped closer.

Suddenly the flier stirred and sat up. He turned slowly. The guard saw that Shales was holding his hands to his eyes. He'd been crying.

No shame in that. Happened here all the time.

Shales wiped his face.

"On your feet, Shales. Got some news I think you're gonna like."

CHAPTER 83.

AT HIS DESK SHREVE METZGER HEARD the siren but thought nothing of it.

This was, after all, Manhattan. You always heard sirens. The same way you heard shouts, horns, the occasional scream, the caw of seagulls. Backfires...Well, staccato reports that were probably backfires.

Just the background tapestry of the city.

He hardly paid any mind, especially now, when he was trying to put out the raging forest fire that the Robert Moreno task order had become.

The chaos swirled around him, the tornado of flame: Barry Shales and the G.o.dd.a.m.n whistleblower and that b.i.t.c.h of a prosecutor and the people inside and outside the government who had put together the Special Task Order program.

Soon there'd be more tinder adding to the smolder: the press.

Then of course, hovering over it all, was the Wizard.

He wondered what the "budget conference" was deciding right at the moment.

Metzger realized the sirens had stopped.

And they'd stopped right outside his office.

He rose and looked down. At the gated parking lot, where the Ground Control Station sat.

All over with...

It sure was.

One unmarked car punctuated with flas.h.i.+ng blue lights, one NYPD squad car, one van-maybe SWAT. The doors were open. The police were nowhere to be seen.

Shreve Metzger knew where they were, though. No doubt of that, of course.

A detail that was confirmed a moment later when the guard from downstairs called him on the security line and asked in an uncertain voice, "Director?" He cleared his throat and continued, "There are some police officers here to see you."