The Bomb Squad had cleared the room - no booby traps; in fact not much of anything left. The terrorists had traveled light. Sachs was presently running the scene there.
Lincoln Rhyme was now scrolling through his iPad, reading reports sent to him over the past half hour from the FBI based in St Louis, the closest field office to the Southern Illinois home of the Stantons and the AFFC. The group had been on the Bureau's and the Illinois State Police's radar - members were suspected in attacks on gays and minorities and of other hate crimes but nothing could ever be proven. Mostly, it was felt, they were bluster.
Surprise.
The authorities in the Midwest had already arrested three others within the AFFC for possession of explosives and machine guns without federal licenses. And the search there continued.
No longer in her crime scene coveralls, Amelia Sachs joined him.
'Anything left behind?' He looked at the milk crate she carried. It was filled with a half-dozen paper and plastic bags.
'Not much. Lot of bottled water.'
Rhyme grunted a laugh. 'Let's see if our friends'll be willing to have a tete-a-tete.' A nod toward a linen room, where the Stantons were being held until the FBI showed up; the feds were taking point on this one.
They walked and wheeled into the room, where the prisoners sat handcuffed and shackled. The parents and son - their only child, Rhyme had learned - gazed back with a hesitant resolution. They were flanked by three NYPD officers.
If the Stantons were curious as to how Rhyme had figured out they were the associates of the unsub and that this was their hotel, they didn't express any desire to learn the answer. And that answer was almost embarrassingly mundane, involving no subtle analysis of the evidence whatsoever. Unsub 11-5's backpack, recovered beside his body near the water main pipe, contained a notebook called The Modification, a detailed list of steps in the plot to get poison into the New York drinking water. Inside that was a slip of paper with the address of the hotel. They knew the Stantons were staying there; Harriet had told Sachs this fact. So the couple and the unsub knew each other. The 'attack' at the hospital wasn't that at all. The unsub had probably gone there to visit his ailing colleague, Matthew Stanton, in the hospital's cardiac care ward.
On reflection, there were clues they'd discovered that might have led to the conclusion that the Stantons were connected. For instance, the writing on the bag at the Belvedere holding the implants said No. 3, suggesting that the attack on Braden Alexander was the third one. But if the assault on Harriet Stanton had been legitimate, the bag notation would have read No. 4.
Similarly, they'd found trace evidence of Harriet's cosmetics in places where the unsub had been. Yes, he'd grabbed her in the hospital and there might have been some transfer of the substance, but it would have been minimal. More likely he'd picked the trace up by spending time in her company. Also, Rhyme recalled the back and forth of the bootied footprints at the crime scenes; that suggested that an accomplice had brought the lights and batteries in after the tattoo killings. A check with the hotel here revealed that the Stantons had been accompanied by their son, Josh, a young, muscular man who could easily have carted the heavy equipment in after his cousin had finished his lethal inking.
But sometimes fate short-circuits.
A slip of damn paper with an address - found in the perp's possession.
'You know your rights?' Sachs asked.
The officer behind Harriet Stanton nodded.
His long face pale and with a matte texture, Matthew Stanton said, 'We don't recognize any rights. The government has no authority to grant us anything.'
'Then,' Rhyme countered, 'you won't have any problem talking to us.' He thought this logic was impeccable. 'The only thing we need at this point is the ID of your colleague. The one with the poison.'
Harriet's face brightened. 'So he got away.'
Rhyme and Sachs shared a glance. 'Got away?' Rhyme asked.
'No, he didn't escape,' Sachs told the Stantons. 'But he didn't have any ID on him and his fingerprints came back negative. We're hoping you'll cooperate and--'
Her smile vanished. 'But then you arrested him?'
'I thought you knew. He's dead. He was killed by the stream of water after he drilled the hole. Because the pressure was never shut off.'
Absolute silence descended. It was shattered only a few seconds later when Harriet Stanton began to scream uncontrollably.
CHAPTER 68
'It's over,' Pam Willoughby said, practically leaping into Seth McGuinn's arms.
He was at the front door of her apartment building in Brooklyn Heights. He stumbled back, laughing. They kissed long. The sky finally was clear and the incisive sunlight, ruddy from the afternoon angle, poured onto the facade of the building. The temperature, though, was even colder than in the past few days, when sleet pelted from the gray sky.
They stepped inside the hallway and then walked into her apartment on the first floor, to the right. Even a glance at the basement stairs, at the bottom of which Seth had nearly been killed, didn't dampen her joy.
She was buoyant. Her shoulders were no longer knots, her belly no longer tight as a spring. The ordeal was over. She could return home, at last, without worries that that terrible man who'd attacked Seth would come back. According to Lincoln Rhyme's message, the unsub was dead and his colleagues had been arrested.
Pam had noted immediately that Amelia wasn't the on