The tech was nodding. "So, I deduce that the escalator was going up at the time and just as the victim got to the top floor panel it popped up. How far open was it?"
"Amelia said about fourteen inches."
"She ran the scene?"
"No, she just happened to be there at the time, tracking an unsub. She lost him when the accident happened and she tried to save the vic. Couldn't."
"And the perp got away?"
"Yes."
"She wouldn't have been happy about that."
"She went to see the widow and found out she's in a pretty bad way. Had the idea to hook her up with a lawyer. That's how it all ended up in our laps."
"So, the access panel pops up--yes, I see it's on a spring. Must be heavy. The vic gets dragged underneath and then falls onto the motor and gears."
"Right. The teeth on the front edge of the panel cut him too. That's all the blood on the walls in the pictures."
"I see."
"Now I want you to get inside, poke around, find out how the damn thing works. How the access panel at the top opens, switches, levers, hinges, safety mechanisms. Everything. Get pictures. And we'll try to piece together what happened."
Cooper looked around. "The place hasn't changed much since you resigned."
"Then you know where the camera equipment's located," Rhyme said, his voice taut with impatience.
The tech chuckled. "And you haven't changed much either." He went to the shelves on a back wall of the parlor and selected a camera and flashlight with a headband. "Coal miner's son," he joked, mounting it on his forehead.
"Shoot away. Go!"
Cooper climbed up inside the mockup. Silent flashes began to flare.
The doorbell sounded.
Who could this be? The stiff attorney, Evers Whitmore, was back in his office talking to friends and family of Greg Frommer. He was trying to marshal evidence to prove that, although presently underemployed, Frommer would have gone back to being a successful marketing manager in the near future, allowing the damage claim to be much higher than one based on his recent income.
Was the visitor one of his doctors? Rhyme's quadriplegic condition necessitated regular exams by neuro specialists, as well as physical therapists, but he had no sessions scheduled.
He wheeled to the closed-circuit security camera screen to see who it might be.
Oh, hell.
Rhyme typically was irritated when people arrived unannounced (or announced, for that matter).
But today the dismay was far more intense than usual.
"Yes, yes," the man was assuring Amelia Sachs, "I know who you're talking about. Quiet guy."
She was speaking to the manager of the Queens White Castle hamburger joint in Astoria.
"Very tall, very skinny. White. Pale."
The manager was, in contrast, an olive-skinned man, with a round, cheerful face. They were at the front window. He had been cleaning it himself, seemingly proud of the establishment in his care. The smell of Windex was strong, as was the aroma of onions. Appealing too, the latter. Sachs's last meal was supper yesterday.
"Do you know his name?"
"I don't, no. But..." He looked up. "Char?"