She searched for ten minutes, climbing up to the ceiling, and with the powerful light she illuminated spots that perhaps hadn't been lit in fifty years. "No, I don't see a thing."
"Go back to the door. Hurry."
She hesitated and returned.
"Okay, I'm here."
"Now. Close your eyes. What do you smell?"
"Smell? Did you say smell?" Was he crazy?
"Always smell the air at a crime scene. It can tell you a hundred things."
She kept her eyes wide and breathed in. She said, "Well, I don't know what I smell."
"That's not an acceptable answer."
She exhaled in exasperation and hoped the hiss was coming through his telephone loud and clear. She jammed her lids closed, inhaled, fought the nausea again. "Mold, mustiness. The smell of hot water from the steam."
"You don't know where it's from. Just describe it."
"Hot water. The woman's perfume."
"Are you sure it's hers?"
"Well, no."
"Are you wearing any?"
"No."
"How 'bout aftershave? The medic? The ESU officer?"
"I don't think so. No."
"Describe it."
"Dry. Like gin."
"Take a guess, man's aftershave or woman's perfume."
What had Nick worn? Arrid Extra Dry.
"I don't know," she said. "Man's."
"Walk to the body."
She glanced once at the pipe then down to the floor.
"I--"
"Do it," Lincoln Rhyme said.
She did. The peeling skin was like black-and-red birch.
"Smell her neck."
"It's all . . . I mean, there isn't much skin left."