The Bone Collector

grid?”
    “Yes.”
    “How?”
    She bristled. “I don’t need to be tested.”
    “Ah, humor me. How?”
    “Back and forth in one direction, then back and forth in the perpendicular direction.”
    “Each step, no more than one foot in length.”
    She hadn’t known that. “I know,” she said.
    “Go ahead.”
    The PoliLight flashed on with an eerie, otherworldy glow. She knew it was something called an ALS—alternative light source—and that it made fingerprints andsemen and blood and some shoeprints fluoresce. The brilliant bile-green light made shadows dance and jump and more than once she nearly drew down on a dark form that turned out to be a mere phantom of darkness.
    “Amelia?” Rhyme’s voice was sharp. She jumped again.
    “Yes? What?”
    “Do you see any footprints?”
    She continued to stare at the floor. “I, uh, no. I see streaks in the dust. Or something.” She cringed at the careless word. But Rhyme, unlike Peretti that morning, paid no attention. He said, “So. He swept up afterwards.”
    She was surprised. “Yeah, that’s it! Broom marks. How’d you know?”
    Rhyme laughed—a jarring sound to Sachs in this rank tomb—and he said, “He was smart enough to cover his tracks this morning; no reason to stop now. Oh, he’s good, this boy is. But we’re good too. Keep going.”
    Sachs bent over, her joints on fire, and began the search. She covered every square foot of the floor. “Nothing here. Nothing at all.”
    He picked up on the note of finality in her voice. “You’ve only just started, Amelia. Crime scenes are three-dimensional. Remember that. What you mean is there’s nothing on the floor. Now search the walls. Start with the spot farthest away from the steam and cover every inch.”
    She slowly circled the horrible marionette in the center of the room. She thought of a Maypole game she’d played at some Brooklyn street feast when she was six or seven, as her father proudly took home movies. Circling slowly. It was an empty room and yet there were a thousand different places to search.
    Hopeless . . . Impossible.
    But it wasn’t. On a ledge, about six feet above the floor, she found the next set of clues. She barked a fast laugh. “Got something here.”
    “In a cluster?”
    “Yes. A big splinter of dark wood.”
    “Chopsticks.”
    “What?” she asked.
    “The pencils. Use them to pick it up. Is it wet?”
    “Everything in here’s wet.”
    “Sure, it would be. The steam. Put it in a paper evidence bag. Plastic keeps the moisture in and in this heat bacteria’ll destroy the trace evidence. What else is there?” he asked eagerly.
    “It’s, I don’t know, hairs, I think. Short, trimmed. A little pile of them.”
    “Loose or attached to skin?”
    “Loose.”
    “There’s a role of two-inch tape in the suitcase. 3M. Pick them up with that.”
    Sachs lifted most of the hairs, placed them in a paper envelope. She studied the ledge around the hairs. “I see some stains. Looks like rust or blood.” She thought to hit the spot with the PoliLight. “They’re fluorescing.”
    “Can you do a presumptive blood test?”
    “No.”
    “Let’s just assume it’s blood. Could it be the victim’s?”
    “Doesn’t seem to be. It’s too far away and there’s no trail to her body.”
    “Does it lead anywhere?”
    “Looks like it. To a brick in the wall. It’s loose. No prints on it. I’m going to move it aside. I—oh, Jesus!” Sachs gasped and stumbled back a foot or two, nearly fell.
    “What?” Rhyme asked.
    She eased forward, staring in disbelief.
    “Amelia. Talk to me.”
    “It’s a bone. A bloody bone.”
    “Human?”
    “I don’t know,” she answered. “How would I . . . ? I don’t know.”
    “Recent kill?”
    “Looks like it. About two inches long and two in diameter. There’s blood and flesh on it. It’s been sawn off. Jesus. Who the fuck’d do something—”
    “Don’t get rattled.”
    “What if he got it from another victim?”
    “Then we better find ’im pretty damn soon, Amelia. Bag it. Plastic for the bone.”
    As she did this, he asked, “Any other staged clues?” He sounded concerned.
    “No.”
    “That’s all? Hairs, a bone and a splinter of wood. He’s not making it very easy, is he?”
    “Should I bring it back to your . . . office?”
    Rhyme was laughing. “He’d like us to call it quits. But no. We’re not through yet. Let’s find out a little more about Unsub 823.”
    “But there’s nothing