And, most of all, think. Be analytical. How would a computer, confronted with a problem, analyze the data?
Think. Now, how could They have found out?
One block, two blocks, three blocks, four . . .
No answers. Only the conclusion: They're good. And another question: Who exactly are They? I suppose--
I'm struck with a terrible thought. Please, no . . . I stop and dig through my backpack. No, no, no, it's gone! The Post-it, stuck to the evidence bag, and I forgot to pull it off before I threw everything out. The address of my favorite sixteen: 3694-8938-5330-2498, my pet--known to the world as Dr. Robert Jorgensen. I'd just found where he'd fled to, trying to hide, and jotted it on a Post-it. I'm furious I didn't memorize it and throw away the note.
I hate myself, hate everything. How could I be so careless?
I want to cry, to scream.
My Robert 3694! For two years he's been my guinea pig, my human experiment. Public records, identity theft, credit cards . . .
But, most of all, ruining him was a huge high. Orgasmic, indescribable. Like coke or heroin. Taking a perfectly normal, happy family man, a good, caring doctor, and destroying him.
Well, I can't take any chances. I have to assume someone will find the note and call him. He'll flee . . . and I'll have to let him go.
Something else has been taken away from me today. I can't describe how I feel when that happens. It's pain like fire, it's fear like blind panic, it's falling and knowing you'll collide with
the blurring earth at any moment but not . . . quite . . . yet.
I blunder through the herds of antelope, these sixteens roaming on their day of rest. My happiness is destroyed, my comfort gone. Whereas just hours ago I looked at everyone with benign curiosity or lust, but now I simply want to storm up to someone and slice his pale flesh, thin as tomato skin, with one of my eighty-nine straight razors.
Maybe my Krusius Brothers model from the late 1800s. It has an extra-long blade, a fine stag's horn handle and is the pride of my collection.
*
"Evidence, Mel. Let's look it over."
Rhyme was referring to what had been collected in the trash can near DeLeon Williams's house.
"Friction ridges?"
The first items Cooper examined for fingerprints were the plastic bags--the one holding the evidence 522 had presumably intended to plant and the bags inside, containing some still-wet blood and a bloody paper towel. But there were no prints on the plastic--a disappointment, since it preserves them so well. (Often they're visible, not latent, and can be observed without any special chemicals or lighting.) Cooper did find indications that the UNSUB had touched the bags with cotton gloves--the sort experienced criminals prefer to latex gloves, which retain the perp's prints inside the fingers very efficiently.
Using various sprays and alternative light sources, Mel Cooper examined the rest of the items and found no prints on these either.
Rhyme realized that this case, like the others he suspected 522 was behind, was different from most in that it presented two categories of evidence. First, false evidence that the killer intended to plant to implicate DeLeon Williams; he'd undoubtedly made sure that none of this would lead back to himself personally. Second, real evidence that he'd left accidentally and that could very well lead to his home--such as the tobacco and the doll's hair.
The bloody paper towel and wet blood were in the first category, intended to be left. Similarly the duct tape, meant to be slipped into Williams's garage or car, would undoubtedly match strips used to gag or bind Myra Weinburg. But it would have been kept carefully protected from 522's dwelling so it didn't pick up any trace.
The size-13 Sure-Track running shoe probably wasn't going to be stashed at Williams's house but it was still "planted" evidence in the sense that 522 had undoubtedly used it to leave a print of a shoe similar to one of Williams's. Mel Cooper tested the shoe anyway and found some trace: beer on the tread. According to the database of fermented beverage ingredients, created for the NYPD by Rhyme years ago, it was most likely Miller brand. That could be in either category--planted or real. They'd have to see what Pulaski recovered from the Myra Weinburg crime scene to know for sure.
The bag also contained a computer printout of Myra's photo, probably included to suggest Williams had been stalking her online; it was therefore meant to be planted as well. Still, Rhyme had Cooper check it carefully but a ninhydrin test revealed no fingerprints. Microscopic and chemical analyses revealed generic, untraceable paper, printed with Hewlett-Packard laser toner, also untraceable beyond the brand name.
But they did make a discovery that might prove helpful. Rhyme and Cooper found something embedded in the paper: traces of Stachybotrys Chartarum mold. This was the infamous "sick building" mold. Since the amounts found in the paper were so small, it was unlikely that 522 meant it to be planted. More likely it came from the killer's residence or place of work. The presence of this mold, which was found indoors almost exclusively, meant that at least part of his home or workplace would be dark and humid. Mold can't grow in a dry location.
The Post-it note, also probably not intended to be planted, was a 3M brand, not the cheaper generic but still impossible to source. Cooper had found no trace in the note other than a few more spores of the mold, which at least told them that the Post-it's source probably was 522. The ink was from a disposable pen sold in countless stores around the country.
And that was it for the evidence, though as Cooper was jotting the results, a tech from the outside lab Rhyme used for expedited medical analysis called and reported that the preliminary test confirmed the blood found in the bags was that of Myra Weinburg.
Sellitto took a phone call, had a brief conversation then hung up. "Zip . . . The DEA traced the call about Amelia to a pay phone. Nobody saw the caller. And nobody on the expressway saw anyone running. The canvass at the two closest subway stations didn't turn up anything suspicious around the time he got away."
"Well, he's not going to do anything suspicious, now, is he? What did the canvassers think? An escaping murderer would jump a turnstile or strip his clothes off and change into a superhero outfit?"
"Just telling you what they said, Linc."