The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

"It's a Craftsman model, top of the line, sold in every Sears around the country. And you can pick them up in garage sales and junkyards for a couple bucks."

Rhyme wheezed in disgust. He gazed at the clippers for a moment then asked, "Tool marks?"

Cooper looked at him curiously. Tool marks are distinctive impressions left at crime scenes by the tools criminals used--screwdrivers, pliers, lock picks, crowbars, slim jims, and the like. Rhyme had once linked a burglar to a crime scene solely on the basis of a tiny V notch on a brass lock plate. The notch matched an imperfection in a chisel found on the man's workbench. Here, though, they had the tool, not any marks it might have made. Cooper didn't understand what tool marks Rhyme might be referring to.

"I'm talking about marks on the blade," he said impatiently. "Maybe the Dancer's been cutting something distinctive, something that might tell us where he's holing up."

"Oh." Cooper examined it closely. "It's nicked, but take a look . . . Do you see anything unusual?"

Rhyme didn't. "Scrape the blade and handle. See if there's any residue."

Cooper ran the scrapings through the gas-chromatograph.

"Phew," he muttered as he read the results. "Listen to this. Residue of RDX, asphalt, and rayon."

"Detonating cord," Rhyme said.

"He cut it with clippers?" Sachs asked. "You can do that?"

"Oh, it's stable as clothesline," Rhyme said absently, picturing what a thousand gallons of flaming gasoline would do to the neighborhood around the Twentieth Precinct.

I should've made them leave, he was thinking, Percey and Brit Hale. Put them into protective custody and sent them to Montana until the grand jury. This is damn nuts what I'm doing, this trap idea.

"Lincoln?" Sellitto asked. "We've got to find that truck."

"We've got a little time," Rhyme said. "He's not going to try to get in until the morning. He needs the cover story of a delivery. Anything else, Mel? Anything in the trace?"

Cooper scanned the vacuum filter. "Dirt and brick. Wait . . . here're some fibers. Should I GC them?"

"Yes."

The tech hunched over the screen as the results came up. "Okay, okay, it's vegetable fiber. Consistent with paper. And I'm reading a compound . . . NH four OH."

"Ammonium hydroxide," Rhyme said.

"Ammonia?" Sellitto asked. "Maybe you're wrong about the fertilizer bomb."

"Any oil?" Rhyme asked.

"None."

Rhyme asked, "The fiber with the ammonia--was it from the handle of the clipper?"

"No. It was on the clothes of the guard he beat up."

Ammonia? Rhyme wondered. He asked Cooper to look at one of the fibers through the scanning electron microscope. "High magnification. How's the ammonia attached?"

The screen clicked on. The strand of fiber appeared like a tree trunk.

"Heat fused, I'd guess."

Another mystery. Paper and ammonia . . .

Rhyme looked at the clock. It was 2:40 A.M.

Suddenly he realized Sellitto had asked him a question. He cocked his head.

"I said," the detective repeated, "should we start evacuating everybody around the precinct? I mean, better now than wait till it's closer to the time he might attack."