The Bone Collector (Lincoln Rhyme 1)

Sachs looked at the young woman, huddling on a gurney beside the two EMS buses.

"She's in no shape to do that. He cut her. All the way to the bone. So she'd bleed and the rats'd get her."

"Is she mobile?"

"Probably. But you know what she's just been through?"

"She can give you the route they walked. She can tell you where he stood."

"She's going to the ER. She lost a lot of blood."

A hesitation. He said pleasantly, "Just ask her."

But his joviality was fake and Sachs heard just impatience. She could tell that Rhyme was a man who wasn't used to coddling people, who didn't have to. He was someone used to having his own way.

He persisted, "Just once around the grid."

You can go fuck yourself, Lincoln Rhyme.

"It's--"

"Important. I know."

Nothing from the other end of the line.

She was looking at Monelle. Then she heard a voice, no, her voice say to the girl, "I'm going down there to look for evidence. Will you come with me?"

The girl's eyes nailed Sachs deep in her heart. Tears burst. "No, no, no. I am not doing that. Bitte nicht, oh, bitte nicht . . ."

Sachs nodded, squeezed the woman's arm. She began to speak into the mike, steeling herself for his reaction, but Rhyme surprised her by saying, "All right, Amelia. Let it go. Just ask her what happened when they arrived."

The girl explained how she'd kicked him and escaped into an adjoining tunnel.

"I kick him again," she said with some satisfaction. "Knock off his glove. Then he get all pissed and strangle me. He--"

"Without the glove on?" Rhyme blurted.

Sachs repeated the question and Monelle said, "Yes."

"Prints, excellent!" Rhyme shouted, his voice distorting in the mike. "When did it happen? How long ago?"

Monelle guessed about an hour and a half.

"Hell," Rhyme muttered. "Prints on skin last an hour, ninety minutes, tops. Can you print skin, Amelia?"

"I never have before."

"Well, you're about to. But fast. In the CS suitcase there'll be a packet labeled Kromekote. Pull out a card."

She found a stack of glossy five-by-seven cards, similar to photographic paper.

"Got it. Do I dust her neck?"

"No. Press the card, glossy side down, against her skin where she thinks he touched her. Press for about three seconds."

Sachs did this, as Monelle stoically gazed at the sky. Then, as Rhyme instructed, she dusted the card with metallic powder, using a puffy Magna-Brush.

"Well?" Rhyme asked eagerly.