'How could she see the victim?' Rhyme asked. He'd overheard the conversation. 'I thought I could see spotlights there now, from the medics. But wasn't it dark then?'
Sachs relayed the question. But the crime scene officer didn't know. 'All the manager said was that she could see inside.'
Rhyme said, 'Well, we'll find out.'
Eagleston added, 'The only other people at the kill site were one responding uniform and one medic. But they backed out as soon as they confirmed death. To wait for us. I've got samples of their shoes, so we can eliminate any footprints. They tell me they didn't touch anything other than the vic, to check on her condition. And the EMT was gloved.'
So contamination of the scene - the introduction of evidence unrelated to the crime itself or the perp - would be minimal. That was one advantage of a murder in a hellhole like this. A crime on the street could have dozens of contaminants, from blowing dust, pouring rain and fierce sleet (like today) to passersby and even souvenir seekers. One of the worst contaminants was fellow officers, especially brass grandstanding if reporters were present and eager to grab a video bite to slap on the twenty-four-hour news cycle.
One more glance at the circular coffin.
Okay, Amelia Sachs thought: Knuckle time ...
A phrase of her father's. The man had also been a cop, a beat patrolman working the Deuce - Midtown South; back then Times Square was like Deadwood in the 1800s. Knuckle time meant referring to those moments when you have to go up against your worst fears.
Breadbasket ...
Sachs returned to the access door and climbed through it and down into the utility room below the cellar. Then she took the evidence collection gear bag from the other officer. Sachs said, 'You search the basement, Jean?'
'I'll do it now,' Eagleston said. 'And then get everything into the RRV.'
They'd done a fast examination of the cellar. But it was apparent that the perp had spent minimal time there. He'd grabbed Chloe, subdued her somehow and dragged her to the access door; her heel marks were visible.
Sachs set the heavy bag on the floor and opened it. She photographed and gathered evidence from the utility room, although, as with the basement, the perp and the victim would have spent little time here; he'd've wanted to get her out of sight as soon as possible. She bagged and tagged the trace and set the plastic and paper containers on the floor in the cellar for the other crime scene officers to cart to the RRV.
Then Sachs turned to the tiny shaft's opening, eyeing it the way one would glance at the muzzle of a pistol in the hand of a desperate perp.
Breadbasket ...
She didn't move. Heard her heart thudding.
'Sachs.' Rhyme's voice sounded in her ear.
She didn't respond.
He said softly, 'I understand. But.'
Meaning: Get your ass going.
Fair enough.
'Got it, Rhyme. No worries.'
Knuckle time ...
It's not that long, she reassured herself. Twenty three feet. That's nothing. Though, for some inexplicable reason, Sachs found herself passionately resenting that extra yard past twenty. As she approached, her palms began to sweat fiercely; her scalp too, which itched more than normally. She wanted to scratch, dig her nails into her skin, her cuticles. A nervous habit. The urge rose when she was unable to move - in all senses, physically, emotionally, mentally.
Static: How she hated that state.
Her breath came in short intervals and shallow gulps.
Orienting, she touched her Glock 17, which was strapped to her hip. A slight risk of contamination from the weapon, even if she didn't blow anyone away, but there was that security issue again. And if any perp had a good scenario for hurting a crime scene officer, it would be here.
She hooked a nylon tie-down to her evidence collection gear bag and the other end to her weapon belt, to drag it behind her.
Moving forward. Pausing before the opening. Then on her hands and knees. And into the shaft. Sachs wanted to leave the headlamp off - seeing the tunnel would be more troubling than concentrating on the goal at the end of it - but she was afraid she'd miss some evidence.
Click.