The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

"Wait." Cooper blinked. "That's one of the explosive rounds?"

Sachs said, "Right, but it didn't go off."

He gingerly set the bag on the table and stepped back, pulling Sachs--two inches taller than he was--along with him.

"What's the matter?"

"Explosive bullets're very unstable. Powder grains could be smoldering right now . . . It could go off at any minute. A piece of shrapnel could kill you."

"You saw the fragments of the other ones, Mel," Rhyme said. "How's it made?"

"It's nasty, Lincoln," the tech said uneasily, his bald crown dotted with sweat. "A PETN filling, smokeless powder as the primary. That makes it unstable."

Sachs asked, "Why didn't it go off?"

"The dirt'd be soft impact. And he makes them himself. Maybe his quality control wasn't so good for that one."

"He makes them himself?" Rhyme asked. "How?"

Eye fixed on the plastic bag, the tech said, "Well, the usual way is to tap a hole from the point almost through the base. Drop in a BB and some black or smokeless powder. You roll a thread of plastic and feed it inside. Then seal it up again--in his case with a ceramic nose cone. When it hits, the BB slams into the powder. That sets off the PETN."

"Rolls the plastic?" Rhyme asked. "Between his fingers?"

"Usually."

Rhyme looked at Sachs and for a moment the rift between them vanished. They smiled and said simultaneously, "Fingerprints!"

Mel Cooper said, "Maybe. But how're you going to find out? You'd have to take it apart."

"Then," Sachs said, "we'll take it apart."

"No, no, no, Sachs," Rhyme said curtly. "Not you. We'll wait for the bomb squad."

"We don't have time."

She bent over the bag, started to open it.

"Sachs, what the hell're you trying to prove?"

"Not trying to prove anything," she responded coolly. "I'm trying to catch the killer."

Cooper stood by helplessly.

"Are you trying to save Jerry Banks? Well, it's too late for that. Give him up. Get on with your job."

"This is my job."

"Sachs, it wasn't your fault!" Rhyme shouted. "Forget it. Give up the dead. I've told you that a dozen times."

Calmly she said, "I'll put my vest on top of it, work from behind it." She stripped her blouse off and ripped the Velcro straps of her American Body Armor vest. She set this up like a tent over the plastic bag containing the bullet.

Cooper said, "You're behind the armor but your hands won't be."

"Bomb suits don't have hand protection either," she pointed out, and pulled her shooting earplugs from her pocket, screwed them into her ears. "You'll have to shout," she said to Cooper. "What do I do?"

No, Sachs, no, Rhyme thought.

"If you don't tell me I'll just cut it apart." She picked up a forensic razor saw. The blade hovered over the bag. She paused.