A Textbook Case

me,” Rhyme said.
    “I’ll know soon,” she gasped, her feet thudding on the concrete.
    She was at the building in two minutes. Sellitto joined her. They met the patrol officer who’d called it in, a round Latina, on the stairs in front. The woman was visibly shaken.
    “Vic down in the laundry room. There’s gas fumes all over the place. I was going for her, but I was afraid I’d set off the device.”
    “What kind of gas?” Rhyme asked, having heard her through Sachs’s microphone.
    She repeated the question for the patrolwoman.
    “Gasoline. He—”
    “I’m going in,” Sachs said.
    “Sachs, wait—”
    “It could blow at any minute,” the patrolwoman said. “I’d wait for the Bomb Squad.”
    Sellitto said, “I’ve called them. They’ll be here in five minutes.” The squad was based in the Sixth Precinct.
    But five minutes was too long. Sachs said, “I’m taking off the headset, Rhyme. I don’t know if it could spark or not, but I’m not taking the chance.”
    “Sachs, wait—”
    “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
    “Amelia,” Sellitto began.
    She ignored him, too. She was debating the Tyvek suit. At the moment she had to assume the vic was still alive and could be burned to death at any minute. Forget the suit. There was no time to wait. She said to Sellitto, “If anything happens.” She glanced toward Marko, who was running toward the brownstone. “Have him run the scene. He’s good.”
    “Amelia,” Sellitto barked. “Let the Bomb Squad handle it.”
    “Can’t, Lon. We’re out of time.”
    Sachs looked down at her clothes. A wool jacket. Did that create more static sparks than any other cloth? Or less? She didn’t know but took it off anyway. “Where’s the vic?” she asked the Latina officer.
    “In the back there’s a stairway. The laundry room’s in the basement off the hallway to the right. But—”
    Sachs sprinted into the building, calling, “Everybody back fifty feet.”
    Then she was in the dim recesses of the old building and starting down the stairs, which, unlike those at the other scene, were relatively clean, though the bulbs in the stairwell overheads were broken as well.
    Her hand on her Glock, she surveyed the narrow corridor, off which were two doors: one, the laundry room where the victim was, and the other straight ahead, leading to a storeroom or the alley behind the building, Sachs guessed.
    Normally she would have cleared the entire basement first, but the smell of gasoline was overwhelming—and the risk of fire imminent. She had to move fast.
    Into the laundry room quickly, swinging her weapon back and forth. In the back, ducttaped to a water pipe, was a woman in her thirties, wearing sweats, the shoulders of which were covered with blood, from some wound to her head. Strands of her dark blond hair were clotted crimson. Her face was red from crying and her eyes wide with terror.
    Unsub 26 had planned another prolonged killing. In this case, terror first and then pain… of dying from being burned to death.
    On a high shelf against the wall, over her, was a plastic pail. A hole had been cut in the side and gasoline trickled out, running down the wall and pooling on the floor. The puddle was making its way to the door. And was just about to reach the hot water heater. Sachs noted it was a gas model, which meant that it had a pilot light. Any minute the gas would flow beneath it and the fumes would ignite. The resulting fireball would ignite everything and melt the plastic pail; the five or so gallons of inflamed gasoline would flow throughout the room.
    She eased forward slowly. Shuffle or not? Would that create a static spark? She couldn’t worry about it. She hurried to the water heater. Surveying the system, she reached up carefully and slowly. The taped woman shook her head and gave an unearthly scream. But Sachs ignored her and pulled the gas cutoff lever down.
    There was a hiss and a quiet plop.
    The pilot was out.
    Sachs thought about removing the bucket of gas, but it was big and heavy. Moving it would surely spill some of the liquid, which might slosh onto a part of the water heater that was hot enough to ignite it.
    The immediate threat was gone.
    Still, though, the victim’s head was shaking madly. Her eyes were wide and from her throat came high-pitched sounds, half screams, half words.
    With her switchblade Sachs carefully cut the tape binding the woman to the pipe. She turned her around to look at the nasty wound on