The Bone Collector

wand over it.”
    She found the device and made two images of the prints. Carefully slipped them into a paper envelope.
    Sachs returned to the post. “And here’s a bit of straw from the broom.”
    “From?—”
    “Sorry,” Sachs said quickly. “We don’t know where it’s from. A bit of straw. I’m picking it up and bagging it.”
    Getting good with these pencils. Hey, Lincoln, you son of a bitch, know what I’m doing to celebrate my permanent retirement from crime scene detail? I’m going out for Chinese.
    The ESU halogens didn’t reach into the side tunnel where Monelle had run. Sachs paused at the day–night line then plunged forward into the shadows. The flashlight beam swept the floor in front of her.
    “Talk to me, Amelia.”
    “There isn’t much to see. He swept up here too. Jesus, he thinks of everything.”
    “What do you see?”
    “Just marks in the dust.”
    I tackle her, I bring her down. I’m mad. Furious. I try to strangle her.
    Sachs stared at the ground.
    “Here’s something—knee prints! When he wasstrangling her he must have straddled her waist. He left knee prints and he missed them when he swept.”
    “Electrostatic them.”
    She did, quicker this time. Getting the hang of the equipment. She was slipping the print into the envelope when something caught her eye. Another mark in the dust.
    What is that?
    “Lincoln . . . I’m looking at the spot where . . . it looks like the glove fell here. When they were struggling.”
    She clicked on the PoliLight. And couldn’t believe what she saw.
    “A print. I’ve got a fingerprint!”
    “What?” Rhyme asked, incredulous. “It’s not hers?”
    “Nope, couldn’t be. I can see the dust where she was lying. Her hands were cuffed the whole time. It’s where he picked up the glove. He probably thought he’d swept here but missed it. It’s a big, fat beautiful one!”
    “Stain it, light it and shoot the son of a bitch on the one-to-one.”
    It took her only two tries to get a crisp Polaroid. She felt like she’d found a hundred-dollar bill in the street.
    “Vacuum the area and then go back to the post. Walk the grid,” he told her.
    She slowly walked the floor, back and forth. One foot at a time.
    “Don’t forget to look up,” he reminded her. “I once caught an unsub because of a single hair on the ceiling. He’d loaded a .357 round in a true .38 and the blowback pasted a hair from his hand on the crown molding.”
    “I’m looking. It’s a tile ceiling. Dirty. Nothing else. Nowhere to stash anything. No ledges or doorways.”
    “Where’re the staged clues?” he asked.
    “I don’t see anything.”
    Back and forth. Five minutes passed. Six, seven.
    “Maybe he didn’t leave any this time,” Sachs suggested. “Maybe Monelle’s the last.”
    “No,” Rhyme said with certainty.
    Then behind one of the wooden pillars a flash caught her eye.
    “Here’s something in the corner . . . Yep. Here they are.”
    “Shoot it ’fore you touch it.”
    She took a photograph and then picked up a wad of white cloth with the pencils. “Women’s underwear. Wet.”
    “Semen?”
    “I don’t know,” she said. Wondering if he was going to ask her to smell it.
    Rhyme ordered, “Try the PoliLight. Proteins will fluoresce.”
    She fetched the light, turned it on. It illuminated the cloth but the liquid didn’t glow. “No.”
    “Bag it. In plastic. What else?” he asked eagerly.
    “A leaf. Long, thin, pointed at one end.”
    It had been cut sometime ago and was dry and turning brown.
    She heard Rhyme sigh in frustration. “There’re about eight thousand varieties of deciduous vegetation in Manhattan,” he explained. “Not very helpful. What’s underneath the leaf?”
    Why does he think there’s anything there?
    But there was. A scrap of newsprint. Blank on one side, the other was printed with a drawing of the phases of the moon.
    “The moon?” Rhyme mused. “Any prints? Spray it with ninhydrin and scan it fast with the light.”
    A blast of the PoliLight revealed nothing.
    “That’s all.”
    Silence for a moment. “What’re the clues sitting on?”
    “Oh, I don’t know.”
    “You have to know.”
    “Well, the ground,” she answered testily. “Dirt.” What else would they be sitting on?
    “Is it like all the rest of the dirt around there?”
    “Yes.” Then she looked closely. Hell, it was different. “Well, not exactly. It’s a different color.”
    Was he always right?
    Rhyme