The Deliveryman (Lincoln Rhyme 11.50)

"Ah, ah, ah," he whimpered.

Looking for wires to cut--she carried her very sharp and very illegal switchblade knife in her back pocket--but there were none visible. How the hell can you make a machine like this and not have an off switch? Jesus. Furious at the incompetence.

"My wife," the man whispered.

"Shhh," Sachs soothed. "It'll be all right." Though she knew it wouldn't be all right. His body was a bloody mess. Even if he survived, he'd never be the same.

"My wife. She's...go see her. My son. Tell them I loved them."

"You're going to tell 'em that yourself."

"You're a cop." Gasping.

"That's right. And there'll be medics here--"

"Give me your gun."

"Give you--"

More screaming. Tears down his face.

"Please, give me your gun! How do I shoot it? Tell me!"

"I can't do that, sir." She put her hand on his arm. With her other palm she wiped sweat.

"It hurts so much... I can't take it." A scream louder than the others.

She had never seen such a hopeless look in anyone's eyes.

"Please, for Christ's sake, your gun!"

Amelia Sachs reached down quickly and drew her Glock from her belt.

"The answer is there."

A pause as the words echoed off the glossy, scuffed walls, their color academic green.

"The answer. It may be obvious, like a bloody knife containing the perp's fingerprints, DNA and initials. Or less so, like three ligands--and what is a ligand?"

"Olfactory molecules, sir." A shaky male voice.

Lincoln Rhyme continued, "Less obvious, I was saying. The answer may be in three olfactory molecules. But it is there. The connection between the killer and killee that can lead us to his door and lead the jury to relocate him to a new home for twenty to thirty years. Someone give me Locard's Principle."

A woman in the front row called out, "With every crime there is a transfer of material between the scene or the victim. Locard used the word 'dust' but 'material' is generally accepted. Trace evidence, in other words. Fingerprints too. Footprints." He knew her name was Juliette Archer. He was aware of a few other students' names. Hers he'd learned first.

Lincoln Rhyme gave no response. Correct answers might be acknowledged but never praised, which was reserved for an insight that transcended the baseline. He was impressed nonetheless, as he had not yet assigned any reading material that discussed the great French criminalist; that was on the syllabus for two weeks hence. He gazed out at the faces, as if perplexed. "Did you all write that down? It appears some of you did not write it down."

Pens began to skitter; laptop keyboards began to click.

It was only the second class session of Introduction to Crime Scene Analysis and protocols had yet to be established. The students' memories would be supple and in good form but not infallible. Besides, recording means possessing, not just comprehending.

"The answer is there," he repeated, well, professorially. "In criminalistics--forensic science--there is not a single crime that cannot be solved. The only question is one of resource, ingenuity and effort. How far are you willing to go to identify the perp?"

"Captain Rhyme?" From a young man in the back of the classroom, which contained about thirty people, ranging from early twenties to forties, skewed toward the younger. Despite the stylish, spiky hipster hair, the man had police in him. While the college catalog bio--not to mention the tens of thousands of Google references--offered up Rhyme's official rank at the time of retirement. It was unlikely that anyone unconnected with the NYPD would use it.

With a genteel move of his right hand, the professor turned his wheelchair to face the student. Rhyme was quadriplegic, largely paralyzed from the neck down; his left ring finger and, now, after some surgery, right arm and hand were the only southern extremities working.

"Yes?"