The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

"You talking to yourself, hon--Officer?"

Sachs studied the poor man's body. She guessed the hands had been removed just after he'd died, or as he was dying, because of the copious amount of blood. She pulled on her latex examining gloves.

"It's strange, Rhyme. Why's he only partially ID-proofed?"

If killers don't have time to dispose of a body completely they ID-proof it by removing the main points of identification: the hands and the teeth.

"I don't know," the criminalist responded. "It's not like the Dancer to be careless, even if he was in a hurry. What's he wearing?"

"Just skivvies. No clothes or other ID found at the scene."

"Why," Rhyme mused, "did the Dancer pick him?"

"If it was the Dancer did this."

"How many bodies turn up like that in Westchester?"

"To hear the locals tell it," she said ruefully, "every other day."

"Tell me about the corpse. COD?"

"You determine the cause of death?" she called to chubby Earl.

"Strangled," the tech said.

But Sachs noticed right away there were no petechial hemorrhages on the inner surface of the eyelids. No damage to the tongue either. Most strangulation victims bite their tongue at some point during the attack.

"I don't think so."

Earl cast another glance at Jim and snorted. "Sure, he was. Lookit that red line on his neck. We call that a ligature mark, honey. You know, we can't keep him here forever. They start going ripe, days like this. Now, that's a smell you haven't lived till you smelled."

Sachs frowned. "He wasn't strangled."

They double-teamed her. "Hon--Officer, that's a ligature mark," Jim, the trooper, said. "I seen hundreds of 'em."

"No, no," she said. "The perp just ripped a chain off him."

Rhyme broke in. "That's probably it, Sachs. First thing you do when you're ID-proofing a corpse, get rid of the jewelry. It was probably a Saint Christopher, maybe inscribed. Who's there with you?"

"A pair of cretins," she said.

"Oh. Well, what is the COD?"

After a brief search she found the wound. "Ice pick or narrow-bladed knife in the back of the skull."

The medic's round form eased into the doorway. "We woulda found that," he said defensively. "I mean, we were in such an all-fire hurry to get here, thanks to you folks."

Rhyme said to Sachs, "Describe him."

"He's overweight, big gut. Lotta flab."

"Tan or sunburn?"

"On his arms and torso only. Not legs. He's got untrimmed toenails and a cheap earring--steel posts, not gold. His briefs are Sears and they've got holes in them."

"Okay, he's looking blue collar," Rhyme said. "Workman, deliveryman. We're closing in. Check his throat."

"What?"