The Bone Collector

mind of Lincoln Rhyme.
    “It’s Dr. Berger,” Thom announced over the intercom.
    At last. At long last.
    “Well, I’m sorry, Lon. I’ll have to ask you to leave. It was good seeing you again.” A smile. “Interesting case, this one is.”
    Sellitto hesitated then rose. “But will you read through the report, Lincoln? Tell us what you think?”
    Rhyme said, “You bet,” then leaned his head back against the pillow. Quads like Rhyme, who had full head-and-neck movement, could activate a dozen controls just by three-dimensional movements of the head. But Rhyme shunned headrests. There were so few sensuous pleasures left to him that he was unwilling to abdicate the comfort of nestling his head against his two-hundred-dollar down pillow. The visitors had tired him out. Not even noon, and all he wanted to do was sleep. His neck muscles throbbed in agony.
    When Sellitto and Banks were at the door Rhyme said, “Lon, wait.”
    The detective turned.
    “One thing you should know. You’ve only found half the crime scene. The important one is the other one—the primary scene. His house. That’s where he’ll be. And it’ll be hard as hell to find.”
    “Why do you think there’s another scene?”
    “Because he didn’t shoot the vic at the grave. He shot him there—at the primary scene. And that’s probably where he’s got the woman. It’ll be underground or in a very deserted part of the city. Or both . . . Because, Banks”—Rhyme preempted the young detective’s question—“he wouldn’t risk shooting someone and holding a captive there unless it was quiet and private.”
    “Maybe he used a silencer.”
    “No traces of rubber or cotton baffling on the slug,” Rhyme snapped.
    “But how could the man’ve been shot there?” Banks countered. “I mean, there wasn’t any blood spatter at the scene.”
    “I assume the victim was shot in the face,” Rhyme announced.
    “Well, yes,” Banks answered, putting a stupid smile on his own. “How’d you know?”
    “Very painful, very incapacitating, very little blood with a .32. Rarely lethal if you miss the brain. With the vic in that shape the unsub could lead him around wherever he wanted. I say unsub singular because there’s only one of them.”
    A pause. “But . . . there were two sets of prints,” Banks nearly whispered, as if he were defusing a land mine.
    Rhyme sighed. “The soles’re identical. They were left by the same man making the trip twice. To fool us. And the prints going north are the same depth as the prints going south. So he wasn’t carrying a two-hundred-pound load one way and not the other. Was the vic barefoot?”
    Banks flipped through his notes. “Socks.”
    “Okay, then the perp was wearing the vic’s shoes for his clever little stroll to the ladder and back.”
    “If he didn’t come down the ladder how did he get to the grave?”
    “He led the man along the train tracks themselves. Probably from the north.”
    “There’re no other ladders to the roadbed for blocks in either direction.”
    “But there are tunnels running parallel to the tracks,” Rhyme continued. “They hook up with the basements of some of the old warehouses along Eleventh Avenue. A gangster during Prohibition—Owney Madden—had them dug so he could slip shipments of bootleg whisky onto New York Central trains going up to Albany and Bridgeport.”
    “But why not just bury the vic near the tunnel? Why risk being seen schlepping the guy all the way to the overpass?”
    Impatient now. “You do get what he’s telling us, don’t you?”
    Banks started to speak then shook his head.
    “He had to put the body where it’d be seen,” Rhyme said. “He needed someone to find it. That’s why he left the hand in the air. He’s waving at us. To get our attention. Sorry, you may have only one unsub but he’s plenty smart enough for two. There’s an access door to a tunnel somewhere nearby. Get down there and dust it for prints. There won’t be any. But you’ll have to do it just the same. The press, you know. When the story starts coming out . . . Well, good luck, gentlemen. Now, you’ll have to excuse me. Lon?”
    “Yes?”
    “Don’t forget about the primary crime scene. Whatever happens, you’ll have to find it. And fast.”
    “Thanks, Linc. Just read the report.”
    Rhyme said of course he would and observed that they believed the lie. Completely.

THREE
    H e had the best bedside manner Rhyme had ever encountered. And if