The Bone Collector

fell from the joists.
    The soaring voices were cut off in mid-passage. A moment later they started singing again.
    Carole banged with her feet but the floor was concrete, the walls brick. She tried to scream but the sound was swallowed by the gag. The rehearsal continued, the solemn, vigorous music rattling through the basement.
    After ten minutes Carole collapsed on the floor in exhaustion. Her eyes were drawn back to the bomb again. Now the light was better and she could see the timer clearly.
    Carole squinted. The timer!
    It wasn’t a dud at all. The arrow was set for 6:15 a.m. The dial showed the time was now 5:30.
    Squirming her way farther behind the filing cabinet, Carole began to kick the metal sides with her knee. But whatever faint noises the blows made immediately vanished in the booming, mournful rendition of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” filling the church basement from above.

IV
DOWN TO
THE BONE
    This only is denied the Gods: the power to remake the past.
    —ARISTOTLE

TWENTY-SEVEN
    Sunday, 5:45 a.m., to Monday, 7:00 p.m.
     
    H e awoke to a scent. As he often did.
    And—as on many mornings—he didn’t at first open his eyes but just remained in his half-seated position, trying to figure out what the unfamiliar smell might be:
    The gassy scent of dawn air? The dew on the oil-slick streets? Damp plaster? He tried to detect the scent of Amelia Sachs but could not.
    His thoughts skipped over her and continued. What was it?
    Cleanser? No.
    A chemical from Cooper’s impromptu lab?
    No, he recognized all of those.
    It was . . . Ah, yes . . . marking pen.
    Now he could open his eyes and—after a glance at sleeping Sachs to make certain she hadn’t deserted him—found himself gazing at the Monet poster on the wall. That’s where the smell was coming from. The hot, humid air of this August morning had wilted the paper and brought the scent out.
knows CS proc.
possibly has record
knows FR prints
gun = .32 Colt
Ties vics w/ unusual knots
“Old” appeals to him
Called one vic “Hanna”
Knows basic German
Underground appeals to him

    The wall clock’s pale numbers glowed: 5:45 a.m. His eyes returned to the poster. He couldn’t see it clearly, just a ghostly pattern of pure white against a lesser white. But there was enough light from the dawn sky to make out most of the words.
Dual personalities
Maybe priest, soc. worker, counselor
Unusual wear on shoes, reads a lot?
Listened as he broke vic’s finger
Left snake as slap at investigators
    The falcons were waking. He was aware of a flutter at the window. Rhyme’s eyes skipped over the chart again. In his office at IRD he’d nailed up a dozen erasable marker boards and on them he’d keep a tally of the characteristics of the unsubs in major cases. He remembered: pacing, staring at them, wondering about the people they described.
    Molecules of paint, mud, pollen, leaf . . .
Old building, pink marble
    Thinking about a clever jewel thief he and Lon had collared ten years ago. At Central Booking the perp had coyly said they’d never find the loot from the prior jobs but if they’d consider a plea he’d tell them where he’d hidden it. Rhyme had responded, “Well, we have been having some trouble figuring out where it is.”
    “I’m sure you have,” the snide crook said.
    “See,” Rhyme continued, “we’ve narrowed it down to the stone wall in the coal bin of a Colonial farmhouse on the Connecticut River. About five miles north of Long Island Sound. I just can’t tell whether the house is on the east bank or the west bank of the river.”
    When the story made the rounds the phrase everybody used to describe the expression on the perp’s face was: You had to fucking be there.
    Maybe it is magic, Sachs, he thought.
At least 100 years old, prob. mansion or institutional
    He scanned the poster once again and closed his eyes, leaning back into his glorious pillow. It was then that he felt the jolt. Almost like a slap on his face. The shock rose to his scalp like spreading fire. Eyes wide, locked onto the poster.
“Old” appeals to him
    “Sachs!” he cried. “Wake up!”
    She stirred and sat up. “What? What’s. . . ?”
    Old, old, old . . .
    “I made a mistake,” he said tersely. “There’s a problem.”
    She thought at first it was something medical and she leapt from the couch, reaching for Thom’s medical bag.
    “No, the clues, Sachs, the clues  . . . I got it wrong.” His breathing was rapid and he ground his